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At
last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine
then surprised by the General’s proposal of her taking his place in his
son’s curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he
was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”
The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for
her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry
in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial
convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;
the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it
was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget
its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have
been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the General chosen to have his own
carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a
minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making any disturbance, without
parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! and
then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat
looked so becomingly important! to be driven by him, next to being
dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her
own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her
kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real
friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he
said, was uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and,
in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
companion at all. “But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”
“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my
father’s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”
“How sorry you must be for that!”
“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”
“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the
abbey! after being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”
He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the
abbey.”
“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one
reads about?”
“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such
as ‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves
fit for sliding panels and tapestry?”
“Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been
uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back
to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”
“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread
our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)
introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart
from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end
of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient
housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,
into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about
twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not
your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too
lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp
to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as
large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,
presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within
you?”
“Oh! but this will not happen to me, I am sure.”
“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! and
what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a
ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the
portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so
incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your
eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,
gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that
the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs
you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this
parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her
receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,
with increased alarm, that it has no lock.”
“Oh! mr. Tilney, how frightful! this is just like a book! but it cannot
really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?”
“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your _unconquerable_ horror of the bed, you will retire to
rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at
farthest the _third_ night after your arrival, you will probably have a
violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice
to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains—and during
the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging
more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your
curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will
instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to
examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a
division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the
minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately
appear—which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you
will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in
your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.”
“What! not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a
secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the
chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off. Could you shrink from so
simple an adventure? | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted
room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything
very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in
another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some
instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the
common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return
towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted
room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large,
old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly
examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by
an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock
its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time
without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a
considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret
spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you
seize it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the
precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been
able to decipher ‘Oh thou, whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands
these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly
expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”
“Oh, no, no; do not say so. Well, go on.”
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able
to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of
subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy
in the perusal of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew
ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her
attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really
meeting with what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never
put her into such a chamber as he had described! she was not at all
afraid.”
As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight
of the abbey—for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects
very different—returned in full force, and every bend in the road was
expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey
stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of
the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But
so low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through
the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger,
without having discerned even an antique chimney. She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a
something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not
expected. To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find
herself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven
so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle,
alarm, or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long at leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden
scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to
observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of
her new straw bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was
springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the
shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her
friend and the General were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one
awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment’s suspicion
of any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The
breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had
wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a
good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common
drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was. An abbey! yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! but she
doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was
in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where
she had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times,
was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome
marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The
windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from having
heard the General talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with
reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be
sure, the pointed arch was preserved—the form of them was Gothic—they
might be even casements—but every pane was so large, so clear, so
light! to an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions,
and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the
difference was very distressing. The General, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where
everything, being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc. ;
flattering himself, however, that there were some apartments in the
Abbey not unworthy her notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly
gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped
short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! this
seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away
by Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest
punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger. Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many
landing-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it
had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which
Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before
Miss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope
she would find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that
she would make as little alteration as possible in her dress. CHAPTER 21
A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was
carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those
of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest
fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on
this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of
anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the General by any delay. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had
conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on
a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the
fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything
else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts
crossed her:
“This is strange indeed! i did not expect such a sight as this! an
immense heavy chest! what can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! i will look into
it—cost me what it may, I will look into it—and directly too—by
daylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out.” She advanced
and examined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some
darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved
stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at
each end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken
perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the
lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it
intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with
certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe
the last letter to be a _T;_ and yet that it should be anything else in
that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of
astonishment. If not originally theirs, by what strange events could it
have fallen into the Tilney family? Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards
to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for
something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few
inches; but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room
made her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming
violence. This ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her
mistress to be of use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately
dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense of what she ought to be
doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this
mystery, to proceed in her dressing without further delay. Her progress
was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the
object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared
not waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many
paces from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into
her gown, her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of
her curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be
spared; and, so desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that,
unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be
thrown back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence
did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave
to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly
folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the
rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd
expectation, was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a
search. “That is a curious old chest, is not it?” said Miss Tilney, as
Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to the glass. “It is
impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to
be first put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved,
because I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and
bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her
gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they
ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General
Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,
on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,
ordered “Dinner to be on table _directly!_”
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale
and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and
detesting old chests; and the General, recovering his politeness as he
looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for
so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath
from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the
world: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress of
having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the
General’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored
her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its
dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use,
and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on
the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she
spoke aloud her admiration; and the General, with a very gracious
countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room,
and further confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most
people, he did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the
necessaries of life; he supposed, however, “that she must have been
used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen’s?”
“No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s
dining-parlour was not more than half as large,” and she had never seen
so large a room as this in her life. The General’s good humour
increased. Why, as he _had_ such rooms, he thought it would be simple
not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might
be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen’s house, he
was sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness. The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue
from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them. The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained
violently. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of
the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt
for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were
characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless
variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within
walls so solemn! _She_ had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or
drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had
told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she
could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom
as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely
fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled,
especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from
her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits
were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. “How
much better is this,” said she, as she walked to the fender—“how much
better to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the
cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been
obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one
by coming in with a faggot! how glad I am that Northanger is what it
is! if it had been like some other places, I do not know that, in such
a night as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be
sure, there is nothing to alarm one.”
She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the
divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare
her, and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest
conviction of the wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as she
turned away from this examination, was not without its use; she scorned
the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy
indifference to prepare herself for bed. “She should take her time; she
should not hurry herself; she did not care if she were the last person
up in the house. But she would not make up her fire; _that_ would seem
cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she were
in bed.” The fire therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the
best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of
stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she
was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet,
which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her
notice before. Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet
which was to escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across
her; and though there could be nothing really in it, there was
something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not
absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of
the handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very
much the effect of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange
fancy to look into it; not, however, with the smallest expectation of
finding anything, but it was so very odd, after what Henry had said. In
short, she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the
candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a very
tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her utmost
strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a
bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely
mysterious! the door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the
awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on
such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the
consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate
vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key, and after
moving it in every possible way for some instants with the determined
celerity of hope’s last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand:
her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown
open each folding door, the second being secured only by bolts of less
wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye could not
discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers appeared in
view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in the centre,
a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in all
probability a cavity of importance. Catherine’s heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a
cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers
grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely
empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a
third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched,
and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a
treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The
place in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had
“never from the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any
part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill
success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly
while she was about it.” It was some time however before she could
unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of
this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not
vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a
roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were
indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks
grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript,
for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while
she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of
what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before
she attempted to rest. The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet
some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty
in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might
occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
it was snuffed and extinguished
in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done
completely; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the
rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to
the moment. Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which
succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant
door struck on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some
suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close
her eyes in sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the
question. With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every
way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too
abroad so dreadful! she had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but
now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript
so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning’s
prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What could it contain? To
whom could it relate? By what means could it have been so long
concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to her lot to
discover it! till she had made herself mistress of its contents,
however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s
first rays she was determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious
hours which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed,
and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were
the noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals
on her startled ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment
in motion, and at another the lock of her door was agitated, as if by
the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along
the gallery, and more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of
distant moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine
had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the
tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell fast asleep. CHAPTER 22
The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had
succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the
manuscript; and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s
going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst
from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the
luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she
must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of
what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist
entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling
size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first. Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An
inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that
was before her! if the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a
washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same
articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth
presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced
her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure
scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and
breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest,
seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s
bill! such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could
then suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence she
had taken them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and
robbed her of half her night’s rest! she felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner
of it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment
against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her
recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back
could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so
habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of
unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all! How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry
Tilney should ever know her folly! and it was in a great measure his
own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with
his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the
smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those
detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and
folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before,
returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty
wish that no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to
disgrace her even with herself. Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the
door’s having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its
fastener, darted into her head, and cost her another blush. She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed
to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss
Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate
hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch
reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather
distressing. For the world would she not have her weakness suspected,
and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to
acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. “But we have a
charming morning after it,” she added, desiring to get rid of the
subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! i have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”
“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”
“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Mrs. Allen used to take
pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I
saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent
about flowers.”
“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new
source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon
happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable
in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you
to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the
love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment
once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?”
“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The
pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in
fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never
within.”
“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a
hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has
my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
entrance of the General, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did
not advance her composure. The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice
when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the General’s
choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it
to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of
his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as
well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden
or Sêve. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. The
manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some
beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly
without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new
set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of
selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only
one of the party who did not understand him. Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business
required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the
hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the
breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
another glimpse of his figure. “This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
brother’s fortitude,” observed the General to Eleanor. “Woodston will
make but a sombre appearance to-day.”
“Is it a pretty place?” asked Catherine. “What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell
the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it
would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many
recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the
south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the
walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago,
for the benefit of my son. It is a family living, Miss Morland; and the
property in the place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take care
that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry’s income depend solely on
this living, he would not be ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd,
that with only two younger children, I should think any profession
necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all
wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not
exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss
Morland, would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give every
young man some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an object,
but employment is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see,
who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
private man in the county, has his profession.”
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable. Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the
house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though
Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it
was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any
circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already
eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The
netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste,
and she was ready to attend him in a moment. “And when they had gone
over the house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure of
accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden.” She curtsied her
acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make
those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his
daughter think would most accord with her fair friend’s wishes? But he
thought he could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland’s eyes
a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But
when did she judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He
yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a
moment.” He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious
face, began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be taking them
out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of
pleasing her; but she was stopped by Miss Tilney’s saying, with a
little confusion, “I believe it will be wisest to take the morning
while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he
always walks out at this time of day.”
Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was
Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
General’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should _always_ take his walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very
provoking. She was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely
any curiosity about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such
were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet
in patient discontent. She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the
abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole
building enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich
in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was
shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the
steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful
even in the leafless month of March. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Catherine had seen nothing to
compare with it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that
without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in
wonder and praise. The General listened with assenting gratitude; and
it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed
till that hour. The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent
of all Mr. Allen’s, as well as her father’s, including church-yard and
orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a
village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to
be at work within the enclosure. The General was flattered by her looks
of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to
tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to
them before; and he then modestly owned that, “without any ambition of
that sort himself—without any solicitude about it—he did believe them
to be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was
_that_. He loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of
eating, he loved good fruit—or if he did not, his friends and children
did. There were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as
his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he
supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself.”
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never
went into it.”
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the General wished he
could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in
some way or other, by its falling short of his plan. “How were Mr. Allen’s succession-houses worked?” describing the nature
of his own as they entered them. “Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use
of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.”
“He is a happy man!” said the General, with a look of very happy
contempt. Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall,
till she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the
girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then
expressing his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations
about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their
walk, if Miss Morland were not tired. “But where are you going,
Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland
will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”
“This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always
think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;
and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,
could not, even by the General’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping
forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea
of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He
excused himself, however, from attending them: “The rays of the sun
were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another
course.” He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her
spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less
real than the relief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with
easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired. “I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh. “It was my mother’s favourite walk.”
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,
and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself
directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with
which she waited for something more. “I used to walk here so often with her!” added Eleanor; “though I never
loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to
wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it not,” reflected Catherine, “to endear it to her husband? Yet the General would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she
ventured to say, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing one,” replied the other, in a low voice. “I was
only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as
strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then
know what a loss it was.” She stopped for a moment, and then added,
with great firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though
Henry—though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great
deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to
be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a
constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”
“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture
of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was
it from dejection of spirits?”—were questions now eagerly poured forth;
the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were
passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney
augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of her
unhappiness in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General certainly had
been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore
have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something
in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well to
her. “Her picture, I suppose,” blushing at the consummate art of her own
question, “hangs in your father’s room?”
“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was
dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon
after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my
bed-chamber—where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.”
Here was another proof. A portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not
valued by the husband! he must have been dreadfully cruel to her! Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously
excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute
aversion. Yes, aversion! his cruelty to such a charming woman made him
odious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which
Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was
proof positive of the contrary. She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
directly upon the General; and in spite of all her virtuous
indignation, she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen
to him, and even to smile when he smiled. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Being no longer able,
however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon
began to walk with lassitude; the General perceived it, and with a
concern for her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of
him, was most urgent for returning with his daughter to the house. He
would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted—but
Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge
against taking her friend round the abbey till his return. This second
instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck
Catherine as very remarkable. CHAPTER 23
An hour passed away before the General came in, spent, on the part of
his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character. “This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind
at ease, or a conscience void of reproach.” At length he appeared; and,
whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still
smile with _them_. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s
curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father
being, contrary to Catherine’s expectations, unprovided with any
pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to
order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready
to escort them. They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which
caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read
Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common
drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both
in size and furniture—the real drawing-room, used only with company of
consequence. It was very noble—very grand—very charming!—was all that
Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned
the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise that
had much meaning, was supplied by the General: the costliness or
elegance of any room’s fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared
for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When
the General had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of
every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an
apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection
of books, on which an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than
before—gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge,
by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as
was the building, she had already visited the greatest part; though, on
being told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven
rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could
scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many
chambers secreted. It was some relief, however, that they were to
return to the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less
importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional passages,
not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides; and she was
further soothed in her progress by being told that she was treading
what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and
observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to
her—by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the
General’s private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or
being able to turn aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing
through a dark little room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with
his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats. From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
seen at five o’clock, the General could not forgo the pleasure of
pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss
Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded
by quick communication to the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the
convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the
stoves and hot closets of the present. The General’s improving hand had
not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of
the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and,
when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the
perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any time
have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent. With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,
been removed by the General’s father, and the present erected in its
place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not
only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and
enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been
thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had
swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for
the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been
spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the
General allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement
of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss
Morland’s, a view of the accommodations and comforts by which the
labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he
should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of
all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their
multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few
shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at
Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious
and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike
her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some
pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked
off. Yet this was an abbey! how inexpressibly different in these
domestic arrangements from such as she had read about—from abbeys and
castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the
dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at
the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs.
Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began to be
amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,
and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be
pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite
direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered
one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
She was here
shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their
dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything
that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to
apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the
last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally
pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As
they were surveying the last, the General, after slightly naming a few
of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been
honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured
to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be “our
friends from Fullerton.” She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply
regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point
of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach
of gallery, when the General, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,
as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whither she were
going?—And what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already
seen all that could be worth her notice?—And did she not suppose her
friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss
Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the
mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond
them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a
winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of
something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the
gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the
house than see all the finery of all the rest. The General’s evident
desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had
trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what
that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed
the General at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out: “I was
going to take you into what was my mother’s room—the room in which she
died—” were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of
intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the General should
shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room
in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had
passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings
of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of
being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the
house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should
have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the General must be
watched from home, before that room could be entered. “It remains as it
was, I suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling. “Yes, entirely.”
“And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”
“She has been dead these nine years.” And nine years, Catherine knew,
was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the
death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. “You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”
“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home. Her
illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”
Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry’s father—? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
suspicions! and, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with
her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in
silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt
secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and
attitude of a Montoni! what could more plainly speak the gloomy
workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its
fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! and the
anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so
repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice. “My father,” she
whispered, “often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing
unusual.”
“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of
a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and
boded nothing good. After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made
her peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among them, she was
heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the General
not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit his master’s candle, however, he was
forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. “I have many pamphlets
to finish,” said he to Catherine, “before I can close my eyes, and
perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after
you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? _My_ eyes
will be blinding for the good of others, and _yours_ preparing by rest
for future mischief.”
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could
win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must
occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,
after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could
be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.
Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the
pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the
conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was
at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural
course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her
reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other
children, at the time—all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be
unravelled. In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her
as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very
spot of this unfortunate woman’s confinement—might have been within a
few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what
part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which
yet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage,
paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she
well remembered the doors of which the General had given no account. To
what might not those doors lead? | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
In support of the plausibility of this
conjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in
which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as
certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected
range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of
which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret
means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous
proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been
conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility! Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and
sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible. The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to
be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it
struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the
General’s lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to
the prison of his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she
stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery,
to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too
early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the servants
must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to
watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet,
she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once
more. The clock struck twelve—and Catherine had been half an hour
asleep. CHAPTER 24
The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of
the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between
morning and afternoon service was required by the General in exercise
abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine’s
curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after
dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven
o’clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a
treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to
interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to
the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By
that her eye was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of
the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her
by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other
her destroyer, affected her even to tears. That the General, having erected such a monument, should be able to
face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so
boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so
fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed
wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings
equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember
dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime
to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of
humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement
closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could
not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s actual
decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes
were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they
were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine
had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a
waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried
on. The succeeding morning promised something better. The General’s early
walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and
when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss
Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige
her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their
first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It
represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,
justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were
not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting
with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,
the very image, if not of Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of
which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal
resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for
generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study
for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this
drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,
would have left it unwillingly. Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s
countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her
inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again
she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the
important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to
close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded
figure of the General himself at the further end of the gallery, stood
before her! the name of “Eleanor” at the same moment, in his loudest
tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first
intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An
attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on
perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye;
and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by
her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own
room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have
courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the
greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend,
and expecting a summons herself from the angry General to attend him in
his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing
a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and
meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay
with company; and she was named to them by the General as the friend of
his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his
resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of life for the
present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to
her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying to
her, “My father only wanted me to answer a note,” she began to hope
that she had either been unseen by the General, or that from some
consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the
company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it. In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution
of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be
much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the
matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court
her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the
office of a friend. The General’s utmost anger could not be to herself
what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the
examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any
companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions,
from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily
exempt; nor could she therefore, in _her_ presence, search for those
proofs of the General’s cruelty, which however they might yet have
escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in
the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of
the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as she
wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expected on the
morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage
high; at four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and
it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual. It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before
the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she
hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding
doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the
one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no
sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the
room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance
another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every
feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome
dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright
Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the
warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they
were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly
succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She
could not be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in
everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! this
apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so
awful, proved to be one end of what the General’s father had built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into
dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the
veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she
had last read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the General’s crimes, he had certainly too
much wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and
desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy
to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she
had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where,
made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would
be unpleasant; but by the General (and he seemed always at hand when
least wanted), much worse! she listened—the sound had ceased; and
resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed
with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet
to pass before she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the
staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view. “Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He
looked astonished too. “Good God!” she continued, not attending to his
address. “How came you here? How came you up that staircase?”
“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because
it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
should I not come up it?”
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which
her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I
not, in my turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask
how _you_ came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road
from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be
from the stables to mine.”
“I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s
room.”
“My mother’s room! is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”
“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till
to-morrow.”
“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but
three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You
look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those
stairs. Perhaps you did not know—you were not aware of their leading
from the offices in common use?”
“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”
“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms
in the house by yourself?”
“Oh no! she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were
coming here to these rooms—but only,” dropping her voice, “your father
was with us.”
“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have
you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”
“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”
“It is only a quarter past four,” showing his watch; “and you are not now
in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at
Northanger must be enough.”
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be
detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first
time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up
the gallery. “Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”
“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to
write directly.”
“Promised so faithfully! a faithful promise! that puzzles me. I have
heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of
promising! it is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can
deceive and pain you. My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house,
and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She
sent you to look at it, I suppose?”
“No.”
“It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
After a
short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As
there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must
have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character,
as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I
believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can
boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a
person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating
tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose,
has talked of her a great deal?”
“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very
interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was
spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I
thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her.”
“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on
hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of some
negligence—some”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of
something still less pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more
fully than she had ever done before. “My mother’s illness,” he
continued, “the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The
malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious
fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short,
as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very
respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great
confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in
the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and
twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her
disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly;
and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received
every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those
about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor
was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother
in her coffin.”
“But your father,” said Catherine, “was _he_ afflicted?”
“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached
to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for
him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of
disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she
might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured
her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not
permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”
“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very
shocking!”
“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror
as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful
nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been
judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own
understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of
what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such
atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated
without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary
intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a
neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay
everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been
admitting?”
They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she
ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several
disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most
bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was
sunk—but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all
exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her
imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he
ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could
they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had—she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning,
shown something like affection for her. But now—in short, she made
herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when
the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an
intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well. The
formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more
attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he
looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did
not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope
that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her
Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what
she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly
be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created
delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an
imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one
purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving
to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared
for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been
created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it
seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of
reading which she had there indulged. Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human
nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked
for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,
they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the
south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western
extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some
security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of
the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated,
servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be
procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and
Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
But
in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their
hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good
and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in
Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter
appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some
actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared
from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have
entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not
perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness
of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects,
indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention
of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she did not love the sight of
japan in any shape: but even _she_ could allow that an occasional
memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James
had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and
Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! this made it
so particularly strange! For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the
tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
letter, held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as if he had written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as
she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to
this purpose:
“Dear Catherine,
“Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it
my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss
Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you
more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where
lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything
but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank
God! i am undeceived in time! but it is a heavy blow! after my
father’s consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She
has made me miserable forever! let me soon hear from you, dear
Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I
wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney
makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my
father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last,
if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me
as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I
bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved,
I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at,
for there could be no need of my being played off to make her
secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me
had we never met! i can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart. “Believe me,” &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her
to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her
through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it
began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his
father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could
hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her
cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her
lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she
did. The General, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no
leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally
visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her
own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to
come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but
Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that
moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg
their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the
others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of
being of use or comfort to her. After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine
felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her
distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if
particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly
hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,
after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I
hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are
none of them ill?”
“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
My
letter was from my brother at Oxford.”
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter
again!”
“I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I
had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should
have given it with very different feelings.”
“It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! poor James is
so unhappy! you will soon know why.”
“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry
warmly, “must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
give me notice of it, that I may go away.”
“Our brother! frederick!”
“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney.”
Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips. “How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its
ending so. Isabella—no wonder _now_ I have not heard from her—Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! could you have believed
there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
bad in the world?”
“I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he
has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s
disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that
anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
“It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay—There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line. “Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
my brother?”
“No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that
she had blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.”
He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say
that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has
chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy
his situation, either as a lover or a son.”
Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise,
and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire
into Miss Thorpe’s connections and fortune. “Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer. “What was her father?”
“A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.”
“Are they a wealthy family?”
“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to
promote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked
at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be
to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must
be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And
how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! a girl who, before his
eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another
man! is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his
heart so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to
suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was
secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! he is a deceased
man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! open, candid, artless,
guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise.”
“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a
smile. “But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by
our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the
man she likes, she may be constant.”
“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be
very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
arrivals.”
“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she
first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite
disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s
character in my life before.”
“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.”
“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”
“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You
feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you
feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is
becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to
share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You
would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that
you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on
whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any
difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?”
“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought.”
“You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human
nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know
themselves.”
Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
produced it. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
CHAPTER 26
From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young
friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of
consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the
way of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the General
would, upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might
be raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her
feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as
insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir
of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself,
at what point of interest were the demands of his younger brother to
rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought led could only
be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular
partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well
as his actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite
in the General; and by a recollection of some most generous and
disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more
than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his
disposition in such matters misunderstood by his children. They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not
have the courage to apply in person for his father’s consent, and so
repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely
to come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her
mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her
own. But as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he
made his application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella’s
conduct, it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay
the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the General by
that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his
objections on a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She
proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so
eagerly as she had expected. “No,” said he, “my father’s hands need not
be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be
forestalled. He must tell his own story.”
“But he will tell only half of it.”
“A quarter would be enough.”
A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to
them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected
engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it. The
General, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick’s
remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and
had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland’s time
at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on
this head, feared the sameness of every day’s society and employments
would disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in
the country, talked every now and then of having a large party to
dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the number of young
dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time
of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the
country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning
that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise
there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was
greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with
the scheme. “And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this
pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting,
and shall probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”
“Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is
no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I
can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s
table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come
on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor
from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot
in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my
acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the
country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me,
Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small
sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very
worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I
dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of
the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and
we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two
hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall
be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday,
you may look for us.”
A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this
little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with
Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about
an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she
and Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very
moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are
always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great
disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the
future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on
Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I
must go away directly, two days before I intended it.”
“Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?”
“Why! how can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and
prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”
“Oh! not seriously!”
“Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”
“But how can you think of such a thing, after what the General said? When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
because _anything_ would do.”
Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your
sister’s account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the General
made such a point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if
he had not said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent
dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could
not signify.”
“I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
As
to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.”
He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to
Catherine to doubt her own judgment than Henry’s, she was very soon
obliged to give him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her
his going. But the inexplicability of the General’s conduct dwelt much
on her thoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by
her own unassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should
say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most
unaccountable! how were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but
Henry could have been aware of what his father was at? From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney’s
letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very
sure would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in
gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and
Eleanor’s spirits always affected by Henry’s absence! what was there to
interest or amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the
shrubberies—always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no
more to her now than any other house. The painful remembrance of the
folly it had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which
could spring from a consideration of the building. What a revolution in
her ideas! she, who had so longed to be in an abbey! now, there was
nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a
well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better:
Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday
should ever come! It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
came—it was fine—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise
and four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable
drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and
populous village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed
to say how pretty she thought it, as the General seemed to think an
apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the
village; but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever
been at, and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the
rank of a cottage, and at all the little chandler’s shops which they
passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged
from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone
house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove
up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large
Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and
make much of them. Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either
to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the General
for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which
she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment
that it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too
guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him. “We are not calling it a good house,” said he. “We are not comparing it
with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere
parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so
good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say
otherwise; and anything in reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though,
between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
it is a patched-on bow.”
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and
supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments
was introduced by his servant, the General was shortly restored to his
complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits. The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to
walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,
belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually
tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the
drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the General. It was a
prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view
from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed
her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which
she felt it. “Oh! why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a
pity not to have it fitted up! it is the prettiest room I ever saw; it
is the prettiest room in the world!”
“I trust,” said the General, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will
very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”
“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! what a
sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! it is
the prettiest cottage!”
“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember
that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the General for her
choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like
an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of
fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating
these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow,
on which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was
sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground
she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher
than the green bench in the corner. A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a
visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game
of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them
to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At
four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never
had any day passed so quickly! She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
to create the smallest astonishment in the General; nay, that he was
even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His
son and daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had
seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never
before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being
oiled. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
At six o’clock, the General having taken his coffee, the carriage again
received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject
of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the
wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little
anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it. CHAPTER 27
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:
_Bath, April_
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and
have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I
really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place
one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to
begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but
have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray
write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave
this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no
pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares
for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the
rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did
or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring
fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can
imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family
you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against
those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice
to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly
abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must
mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly
disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards
he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have
been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the
fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and
I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days
he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste,
but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street,
and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I
would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards;
but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a
contrast between him and your brother! pray send me some news of
the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his
spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in
my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or,
if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a
call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have
not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in
last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they
teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut
myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the
Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but
now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it
the week before at the Concert, but made wretched work of it—it
happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me
so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last
man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know
I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in
writing to him and to me,
Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the
very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her
excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her
behalf! no, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her
again.”
On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she
cried, “and for all our intimacy! she must think me an idiot, or she
could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and
I wish I had never known her.”
“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry. “There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
then fly off himself?”
“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe
them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet
injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him
with you, we had better not seek after the cause.”
“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never did.”
“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
Henry bowed his assent. “Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has
turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,
there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any
heart to lose. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
But, suppose he had made her very much in love with
him?”
“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment.”
“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”
“And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by
the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the
cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”
Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more
of it. CHAPTER 28
Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to go to London for
a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and
anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his
children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave
Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be
sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every
employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease
and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their
hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her
thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the General’s presence had
imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such
ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and
more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming
expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally
beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been
perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit;
before the General came home, the fourth week would be turned, and
perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was
a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of
such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor
about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by
the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult
to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first
opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s
being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to
start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and
declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her
company for a much longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes)
to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised—and could not but
think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to
her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her
return.” Catherine explained: “Oh! as to _that_, Papa and Mamma were in
no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
satisfied.”
“Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?”
“Oh! because she had been there so long.”
“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you
think it long—”
“Oh! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
long again.” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her
leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of
uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise
weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing
her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was
determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left
her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do
comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved
her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished
her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties
were merely sportive irritations. Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly
at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in
London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave
them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it
had been while the General was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but
did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation,
and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the
time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at
the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s
departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a
carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the
idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation
of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven! what can be the
matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother,
whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and
accordingly she hurried down to welcome him. Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she
could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and
the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of
her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as
would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never
speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of
the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as
all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave
to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it
was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him,
and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his
arrival, and Eleanor did not come up. At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,
had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something
moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was
touching the very doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the
lock proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the
idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be
again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised
imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
and only Eleanor, stood there. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Catherine’s spirits, however, were
tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and
her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when
there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s
account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged
her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender water, and hung over
her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not—you
must not indeed—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite
well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such
an errand!”
“Errand! to me!”
“How shall I tell you! oh! how shall I tell you!”
A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her
friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”
“You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.”
Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she
mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to
make Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed
there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes
still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think
the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a
most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately
been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to
your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I
tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and that the
happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I
must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My
father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away
on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a
fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot
attempt either.”
“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way
to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so
suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my
visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can
you, when you return from this lord’s, come to Fullerton?”
“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”
“Come when you can, then.”
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something
more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday—so soon
as Monday; and you _all_ go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to
take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father
and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The
General will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then
I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.”
“Ah, Catherine! were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But—how can I tell you?—to-morrow morning is
fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your
choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven
o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.”
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you
can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I
myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! that I could suggest
anything in extenuation! good God! what will your father and mother
say! after courting you from the protection of real friends to
this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of
the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! dear,
dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty
myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must
have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal
mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”
“Have I offended the General?” said Catherine in a faltering voice. “Alas! for my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I
answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He
certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him
more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to
ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly
suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?”
It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for
Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very
sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly
have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know,
must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I
might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.”
“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;
but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,
appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,
the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;
a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be
taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!”
“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can
be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Eleanor saw that she
wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should
avoid any further conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in
the morning.”
Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence
friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner
was she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house,
and in such a way! without any reason that could justify, any apology
that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence
of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every
hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say
how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by
such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore
so particularly fond of her! it was as incomprehensible as it was
mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
The manner in
which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any
reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance
of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the
earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might
not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an
intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the
misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so
painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any
injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it. Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully
superior in reality and substance! her anxiety had foundation in fact,
her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the
contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,
were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the
wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout
the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without
curiosity or terror. Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or
give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be
done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her
packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so
natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And
she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology
might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been
useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between
them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and
trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more
goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything
was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute
behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where
breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from
the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but she had
no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between
this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four
and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but
in circumstances how different! with what cheerful ease, what happy,
though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying
everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going
to Woodston for a day! happy, happy breakfast! for Henry had been
there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep
in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first
thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s
colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was
treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made
her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
impelled into resolution and speech. “You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear
from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I
shall not have an hour’s comfort. For _one_ letter, at all risks, all
hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then,
till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not
expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under
cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home
safe.”
Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at
a distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying
it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly
said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.”
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to
be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till
that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon
announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each
other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by
either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent
friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could
with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door. CHAPTER 29
Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage,
in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the
walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of
ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was
capable of turning her eyes towards it. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily
passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles,
every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects
on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every
mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and
when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to
it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and
agitation were excessive. The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the General had
made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so
spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his
actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated
her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by his too
significant reference! and now—what had she done, or what had she
omitted to do, to merit such a change? The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by
any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of
what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and
injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his
indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification
so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power. Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her
being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the General, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to
Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her? In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one
article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose,
the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she
looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from
noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of
Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and
though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she
found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by
another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion;
for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the
pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence
such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would
not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own
grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and
perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill
will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt
it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against
them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s
account, it would cut her to the heart. With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view
of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles
of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger;
but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for
the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great
had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to
distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay
procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could
require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about
eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven
o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton. A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a
countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall
her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups,
and speedy shall be her descent from it. But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
carriage—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a
rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to
brighten every eye and occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for
by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four
years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy
the glance that first distinguished Catherine! happy the voice that
proclaimed the discovery! but whether such happiness were the lawful
property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood. Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the
door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as
she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond
anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed,
she was even happy! | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
in the joyfulness of family love everything for a
short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at
first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the
tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor
traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before
any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to
her. Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at
all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden
return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,
for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and
lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might
have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what
they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on
such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as
Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;
and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange
business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all
their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the
sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with
youthful ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless
trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not
at all worth understanding.”
“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”
“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;
Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I
am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all
over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young
people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear
Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but
now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much
changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you
have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.”
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s
next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her
ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal
to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her
friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having
never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The
strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing
Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to
her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile
regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a
letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above
all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see,
was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and,
after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that
she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money
therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than
grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate
heart. “This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the
letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens
so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and
you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! poor James! well,
we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will
be better worth keeping.”
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor.”
“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do
not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in
the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of
meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him
with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget
her; and in that case, to meet—! her eyes filled with tears as she
pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as
another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on
Mrs. Allen. The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they
walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score
of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but
otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could
not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not
the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without
fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of
her. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not
last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,
for the foolishness of his first choice.”
This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and
made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and
spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not
three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run
backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay,
and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed,
and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being
did she return! She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her
unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally
call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,
on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it
was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She
travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till
Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all
of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out
of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd
man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! and it is a great
comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift
very well for herself.”
Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession
hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not
patience with the General”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I
really have not patience with the General,” was uttered twice after Mr.
Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately
added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent
in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath
is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above
half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to
us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”
“Yes, but _that_ did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes
brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her
existence there. “Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I
put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you
know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that
evening?”
“Do I! oh! perfectly.”
“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a
notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
favourite gown on.”
Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
Mrs. Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the
General! such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! i do not
suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His
lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no
wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.
and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but
there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has
very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every
position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while
Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting
that _now_ Henry must have arrived at Northanger; _now_ he must have
heard of her departure; and _now_, perhaps, they were all setting off
for Hereford. CHAPTER 30
Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be
greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for
ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and
again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she
could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time
in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In
her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of
herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all
that she had been before. For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but
when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,
improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination
for needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of,
“My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do
not know when poor Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend
but you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for
everything—a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have
had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that
“her head did not run upon Bath—much.”
“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of
you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never
fret about trifles.” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you
are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as
Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at
home, because there you must spend the most of your time. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I did not
quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French
bread at Northanger.”
“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
I eat.”
“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by
great acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some
day or other, because I am sure it will do you good.”
Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to
her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it
herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of
cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
time before she could find what she looked for; and other family
matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere
she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created
herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a
young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect,
he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious
daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real
sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging
that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at
Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s
having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He
did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far
from comprehending him or his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs.
Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly,
pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of
unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her
daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always
welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in
silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather
and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside
the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an
hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken
silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her
mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her
perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his
respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would
have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this
window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her
mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that
he might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which
it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine,
would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their
walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in
wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give;
but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think
it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection;
and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty
equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now
sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the
excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must
confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude,
or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new
circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an
heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a
wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in the contemplation
of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed
them to the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was
suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned
by parental authority in his present application. On his return from
Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his
impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland’s
departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The
affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution
with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious
rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and
as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his
father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
delight. The General had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay
to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a
deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride
would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich
than he had supposed her to be. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Under a mistaken persuasion of her
possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his
daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The General, perceiving his son one
night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss
Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her
than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of
General Tilney’s importance, had been joyfully and proudly
communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of
Morland’s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon
marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the
family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him
believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected,
his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as
his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their
fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the
first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been
gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the
grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount
of Mr. Morland’s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a
rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the
whole family to the General in a most respectable light. For Catherine,
however, the peculiar object of the General’s curiosity, and his own
speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or
fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a
pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s estate. Her intimacy there had made him
seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to
speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of
Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the General had
proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe’s interest in the family, by his sister’s approaching connection
with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of
which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient
vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of
the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland’s being under
their care, and—as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge—of
their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon
formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the
countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he
almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be
more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and
Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their
father’s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness,
continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from
some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son
of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of
his father’s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not
till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea
of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were
false, the General had learnt from the very person who had suggested
them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town,
and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by
Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent
endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella,
convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship
which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that
he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands—confessed himself
to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and
character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his
father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the
two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming
eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the
families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to
the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to
acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent
support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too,
almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own
neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of
discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not
warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a
forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he
believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on
whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The General needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the
next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader’s sagacity to determine how much of all this it
was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how
much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own
conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be
told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they
must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that
in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his
wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his
cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as
pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the
narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation
between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry’s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on
comprehending his father’s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in
them, had been open and bold. The General, accustomed on every ordinary
occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but
of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in
words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the
sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in
such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate
Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss
Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been
directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no
reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or
influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his
hand. The General was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours
were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,
and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to
Fullerton. CHAPTER 31
Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for
their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an
attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more
natural than Catherine’s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it
with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they
alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having
never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could
be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
needed no attestation. “Catherine would make a sad, heedless young
housekeeper to be sure,” was her mother’s foreboding remark; but quick
was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that
one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the
engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady,
and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could
not allow themselves to encourage it. That the General should come
forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily
approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading
stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and
that once obtained—and their own hearts made them trust that it could
not be very long denied—their willing approbation was instantly to
follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more
inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable
fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his
present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under
every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
daughter. The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They
felt and they deplored—but they could not resent it; and they parted,
endeavouring to hope that such a change in the General, as each
believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them
again in the fulness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what
was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend
his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked
anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether
the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence,
let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did—they had been too
kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter,
as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another
way. The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the
portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its
final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who
will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we
are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which
their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable
circumstance could work upon a temper like the General’s? The
circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter
with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course
of the summer—an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good
humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained
his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him “to be a fool if
he liked it!”
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such
a home as Northanger had been made by Henry’s banishment, to the home
of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to
give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy
felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from
addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had
removed all his difficulties; and never had the General loved his
daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and
patient endurance as when he first hailed her “Your Ladyship!” Her
husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his
wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming
young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be
unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question,
therefore, I have only to add—aware that the rules of composition
forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable—that
this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him
that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at
Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most
alarming adventures. The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their brother’s behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
which, as soon as the General would allow himself to be informed, they
were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more
misled by Thorpe’s first boast of the family wealth than by his
subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were
they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand
pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that
it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no
means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at
some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the
disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
On the strength of this, the General, soon after Eleanor’s marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the
bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty
professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon
followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and
everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the
first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
delays occasioned by the General’s cruelty, that they were essentially
hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself
moreover convinced that the General’s unjust interference, so far from
being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive
to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength
to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may
concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend
parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience. A NOTE ON THE TEXT
Northanger Abbey was written in 1797–98 under a different title. The
manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,
Crosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text is
based on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in
1818—the year following Miss Austen’s death. Spelling and punctuation | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny
LA GRANDE BRETECHE
(Sequel to "Another Study of Woman.") By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell
LA GRANDE BRETECHE
"Ah! madame," replied the doctor, "I have some appalling stories in my
collection. But each one has its proper hour in a conversation--you know
the pretty jest recorded by Chamfort, and said to the Duc de Fronsac:
'Between your sally and the present moment lie ten bottles of
champagne.'" "But it is two in the morning, and the story of Rosina has prepared us,"
said the mistress of the house. "Tell us, Monsieur Bianchon!" was the cry on every side. The obliging doctor bowed, and silence reigned. "At about a hundred paces from Vendome, on the banks of the Loir," said
he, "stands an old brown house, crowned with very high roofs, and so
completely isolated that there is nothing near it, not even a fetid
tannery or a squalid tavern, such as are commonly seen outside small
towns. In front of this house is a garden down to the river, where the
box shrubs, formerly clipped close to edge the walks, now straggle
at their own will. A few willows, rooted in the stream, have grown
up quickly like an enclosing fence, and half hide the house. The
wild plants we call weeds have clothed the bank with their beautiful
luxuriance. The fruit-trees, neglected for these ten years past,
no longer bear a crop, and their suckers have formed a thicket. The
espaliers are like a copse. The paths, once graveled, are overgrown with
purslane; but, to be accurate there is no trace of a path. "Looking down from the hilltop, to which cling the ruins of the old
castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot whence the eye can
see into this enclosure, we think that at a time, difficult now to
determine, this spot of earth must have been the joy of some country
gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but
above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather
the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely
destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the
negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we
divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his
tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the
soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely
Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.' "The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters
are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the
doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones
of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter,
summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled
off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats,
polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each
other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.' "If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the
street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children
have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been
blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see
that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side
towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline
the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the
blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The
stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts
broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree
has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was
France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles
crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a
vast enigma of which the answer is known to none. "It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La
Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me
in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became
one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain
memories of indisputable authenticity attach themselves to a ruin; but
this house, still standing, though being slowly destroyed by an avenging
hand, contained a secret, an unrevealed thought. At the very least,
it testified to a caprice. More than once in the evening I boarded the
hedge, run wild, which surrounded the enclosure. I braved scratches, I
got into this ownerless garden, this plot which was no longer public or
private; I lingered there for hours gazing at the disorder. I would not,
as the price of the story to which this strange scene no doubt was due,
have asked a single question of any gossiping native. On that spot I
wove delightful romances, and abandoned myself to little debauches of
melancholy which enchanted me. If I had known the reason--perhaps quite
commonplace--of this neglect, I should have lost the unwritten poetry
which intoxicated me. To me this refuge represented the most various
phases of human life, shadowed by misfortune; sometimes the peace of the
graveyard without the dead, who speak in the language of epitaphs; one
day I saw in it the home of lepers; another, the house of the Atridae;
but, above all, I found there provincial life, with its contemplative
ideas, its hour-glass existence. I often wept there, I never laughed. "More than once I felt involuntary terrors as I heard overhead the dull
hum of the wings of some hurrying wood-pigeon. The earth is dank; you
must be on the watch for lizards, vipers, and frogs, wandering about
with the wild freedom of nature; above all, you must have no fear
of cold, for in a few moments you feel an icy cloak settle on your
shoulders, like the Commendatore's hand on Don Giovanni's neck. "One evening I felt a shudder; the wind had turned an old rusty
weathercock, and the creaking sounded like a cry from the house, at
the very moment when I was finishing a gloomy drama to account for
this monumental embodiment of woe. I returned to my inn, lost in gloomy
thoughts. When I had supped, the hostess came into my room with an air
of mystery, and said, 'Monsieur, here is Monsieur Regnault.' "'Who is Monsieur Regnault?' "'What, sir, do you not know Monsieur Regnault?--Well, that's odd,' said
she, leaving the room. "On a sudden I saw a man appear, tall, slim, dressed in black, hat
in hand, who came in like a ram ready to butt his opponent, showing a
receding forehead, a small pointed head, and a colorless face of the hue
of a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him for an usher. The
stranger wore an old coat, much worn at the seams; but he had a diamond
in his shirt frill, and gold rings in his ears. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'whom have I the honor of addressing?' | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
--He took a
chair, placed himself in front of my fire, put his hat on my table,
and answered while he rubbed his hands: 'Dear me, it is very
cold.--Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' "I was encouraging myself by saying to myself, '_Il bondo cani!_ Seek!' "'I am,' he went on, 'notary at Vendome.' "'I am delighted to hear it, monsieur,' I exclaimed. 'But I am not in a
position to make a will for reasons best known to myself.' "'One moment!' said he, holding up his hand as though to gain silence. 'Allow me, monsieur, allow me! I am informed that you sometimes go to
walk in the garden of la Grande Breteche.' "'Yes, monsieur.' "'One moment!' said he, repeating his gesture. 'That constitutes a
misdemeanor. Monsieur, as executor under the will of the late Comtesse
de Merret, I come in her name to beg you to discontinue the practice. One moment! I am not a Turk, and do not wish to make a crime of it. And
besides, you are free to be ignorant of the circumstances which
compel me to leave the finest mansion in Vendome to fall into ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, you must be a man of education, and you should
know that the laws forbid, under heavy penalties, any trespass on
enclosed property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But, the state in
which the place is left may be an excuse for your curiosity. For my
part, I should be quite content to make you free to come and go in the
house; but being bound to respect the will of the testatrix, I have
the honor, monsieur, to beg that you will go into the garden no more. I myself, monsieur, since the will was read, have never set foot in the
house, which, as I had the honor of informing you, is part of the estate
of the late Madame de Merret. We have done nothing there but verify the
number of doors and windows to assess the taxes I have to pay annually
out of the funds left for that purpose by the late Madame de Merret. Ah! my dear sir, her will made a great commotion in the town.' "The good man paused to blow his nose. I respected his volubility,
perfectly understanding that the administration of Madame de Merret's
estate had been the most important event of his life, his reputation,
his glory, his Restoration. As I was forced to bid farewell to my
beautiful reveries and romances, I was to reject learning the truth on
official authority. "'Monsieur,' said I, 'would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you the
reasons for such eccentricity?' "At these words an expression, which revealed all the pleasure which
men feel who are accustomed to ride a hobby, overspread the lawyer's
countenance. He pulled up the collar of his shirt with an air, took out
his snuffbox, opened it, and offered me a pinch; on my refusing, he took
a large one. He was happy! A man who has no hobby does not know all
the good to be got out of life. A hobby is the happy medium between a
passion and a monomania. At this moment I understood the whole bearing
of Sterne's charming passion, and had a perfect idea of the delight with
which my uncle Toby, encouraged by Trim, bestrode his hobby-horse. "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was head-clerk in Monsieur
Roguin's office, in Paris. A first-rate house, which you may have heard
mentioned? No! An unfortunate bankruptcy made it famous.--Not having
money enough to purchase a practice in Paris at the price to which they
were run up in 1816, I came here and bought my predecessor's business. I had relations in Vendome; among others, a wealthy aunt, who allowed
me to marry her daughter.--Monsieur,' he went on after a little pause,
'three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals, one
evening, as I was going to bed--it was before my marriage--I was sent
for by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, to her Chateau of Merret. Her maid,
a good girl, who is now a servant in this inn, was waiting at my door
with the Countess' own carriage. Ah! one moment! I ought to tell you
that Monsieur le Comte de Merret had gone to Paris to die two months
before I came here. He came to a miserable end, flinging himself into
every kind of dissipation. You understand? "'On the day when he left, Madame la Comtesse had quitted la Grand
Breteche, having dismantled it. Some people even say that she had
burnt all the furniture, the hangings--in short, all the chattels and
furniture whatever used in furnishing the premises now let by the
said M.--(Dear, what am I saying? I beg your pardon, I thought I was
dictating a lease.) --In short, that she burnt everything in the meadow
at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur?--No,' said he, answering
himself, 'Ah, it is a very fine place.' "'For about three months previously,' he went on, with a jerk of his
head, 'the Count and Countess had lived in a very eccentric way; they
admitted no visitors; Madame lived on the ground-floor, and Monsieur on
the first floor. When the Countess was left alone, she was never seen
excepting at church. Subsequently, at home, at the chateau, she refused
to see the friends, whether gentlemen or ladies, who went to call on
her. She was already very much altered when she left la Grande Breteche
to go to Merret. That dear lady--I say dear lady, for it was she who
gave me this diamond, but indeed I saw her but once--that kind lady was
very ill; she had, no doubt, given up all hope, for she died without
choosing to send for a doctor; indeed, many of our ladies fancied she
was not quite right in her head. Well, sir, my curiosity was strangely
excited by hearing that Madame de Merret had need of my services. Nor
was I the only person who took an interest in the affair. That very
night, though it was already late, all the town knew that I was going to
Merret. "'The waiting-woman replied but vaguely to the questions I asked her on
the way; nevertheless, she told me that her mistress had received the
Sacrament in the course of the day at the hands of the Cure of Merret,
and seemed unlikely to live through the night. It was about eleven when
I reached the chateau. I went up the great staircase. After crossing
some large, lofty, dark rooms, diabolically cold and damp, I reached the
state bedroom where the Countess lay. From the rumors that were current
concerning this lady (monsieur, I should never end if I were to repeat
all the tales that were told about her), I had imagined her a coquette. Imagine, then, that I had great difficulty in seeing her in the great
bed where she was lying. To be sure, to light this enormous room, with
old-fashioned heavy cornices, and so thick with dust that merely to see
it was enough to make you sneeze, she had only an old Argand lamp. Ah! but you have not been to Merret. Well, the bed is one of those old world
beds, with a high tester hung with flowered chintz. A small table stood
by the bed, on which I saw an "Imitation of Christ," which, by the
way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There were also a deep
armchair for her confidential maid, and two small chairs. There was no
fire. | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
That was all the furniture, not enough to fill ten lines in an
inventory. "'My dear sir, if you had seen, as I then saw, that vast room, papered
and hung with brown, you would have felt yourself transported into a
scene of a romance. It was icy, nay more, funereal,' and he lifted his
hand with a theatrical gesture and paused. "'By dint of seeking, as I approached the bed, at last I saw Madame de
Merret, under the glimmer of the lamp, which fell on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and as narrow as two folded hands. The
Countess had a lace cap showing her abundant hair, but as white as linen
thread. She was sitting up in bed, and seemed to keep upright with
great difficulty. Her large black eyes, dimmed by fever, no doubt,
and half-dead already, hardly moved under the bony arch of her
eyebrows.--There,' he added, pointing to his own brow. 'Her forehead was
clammy; her fleshless hands were like bones covered with soft skin;
the veins and muscles were perfectly visible. She must have been very
handsome; but at this moment I was startled into an indescribable
emotion at the sight. Never, said those who wrapped her in her shroud,
had any living creature been so emaciated and lived. In short, it was
awful to behold! Sickness so consumed that woman, that she was no more
than a phantom. Her lips, which were pale violet, seemed to me not to
move when she spoke to me. "'Though my profession has familiarized me with such spectacles, by
calling me not infrequently to the bedside of the dying to record their
last wishes, I confess that families in tears and the agonies I have
seen were as nothing in comparison with this lonely and silent woman in
her vast chateau. I heard not the least sound, I did not perceive the
movement which the sufferer's breathing ought to have given to the
sheets that covered her, and I stood motionless, absorbed in looking at
her in a sort of stupor. In fancy I am there still. At last her large
eyes moved; she tried to raise her right hand, but it fell back on the
bed, and she uttered these words, which came like a breath, for her
voice was no longer a voice: "I have waited for you with the greatest
impatience." A bright flush rose to her cheeks. It was a great effort to
her to speak. "'"Madame," I began. She signed to me to be silent. At that moment
the old housekeeper rose and said in my ear, "Do not speak; Madame la
Comtesse is not in a state to bear the slightest noise, and what you say
might agitate her." "'I sat down. A few instants after, Madame de Merret collected all her
remaining strength to move her right hand, and slipped it, not without
infinite difficulty, under the bolster; she then paused a moment. With
a last effort she withdrew her hand; and when she brought out a sealed
paper, drops of perspiration rolled from her brow. "I place my will in
your hands--Oh! God! Oh!" and that was all. She clutched a crucifix that
lay on the bed, lifted it hastily to her lips, and died. "'The expression of her eyes still makes me shudder as I think of it. She must have suffered much! There was joy in her last glance, and it
remained stamped on her dead eyes. "'I brought away the will, and when it was opened I found that Madame de
Merret had appointed me her executor. She left the whole of her property
to the hospital at Vendome excepting a few legacies. But these were her
instructions as relating to la Grande Breteche: She ordered me to leave
the place, for fifty years counting from the day of her death, in the
state in which it might be at the time of her death, forbidding any one,
whoever he might be, to enter the apartments, prohibiting any repairs
whatever, and even settling a salary to pay watchmen if it were needful
to secure the absolute fulfilment of her intentions. At the expiration
of that term, if the will of the testatrix has been duly carried out,
the house is to become the property of my heirs, for, as you know, a
notary cannot take a bequest. Otherwise la Grande Breteche reverts to
the heirs-at-law, but on condition of fulfilling certain conditions
set forth in a codicil to the will, which is not to be opened till
the expiration of the said term of fifty years. The will has not been
disputed, so----' And without finishing his sentence, the lanky notary
looked at me with an air of triumph; I made him quite happy by offering
him my congratulations. "'Monsieur,' I said in conclusion, 'you have so vividly impressed
me that I fancy I see the dying woman whiter than her sheets; her
glittering eyes frighten me; I shall dream of her to-night.--But you
must have formed some idea as to the instructions contained in that
extraordinary will.' "'Monsieur,' said he, with comical reticence, 'I never allow myself
to criticise the conduct of a person who honors me with the gift of a
diamond.' "However, I soon loosened the tongue of the discreet notary of Vendome,
who communicated to me, not without long digressions, the opinions of
the deep politicians of both sexes whose judgments are law in Vendome. But these opinions were so contradictory, so diffuse, that I was
near falling asleep in spite of the interest I felt in this authentic
history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent, accustomed
no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened to by his
clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity. Happily, he
soon went away. "'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons would
be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!' and he
laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a cunning
look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as that--as
long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.' "I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last
speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my
armchair, with my feet on the fire-dogs. I had lost myself in a romance
_a la_ Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur
Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman's cautious hand, turned on
the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always
good-humored, who had missed her calling in life. She was a Fleming, who
ought to have seen the light in a picture by Teniers. "'Well, monsieur,' said she, 'Monsieur Regnault has no doubt been giving
you his history of la Grande Breteche?' "'Yes, Madame Lepas.' "'And what did he tell you?' "I repeated in a few words the creepy and sinister story of Madame de
Merret. At each sentence my hostess put her head forward, looking at
me with an innkeeper's keen scrutiny, a happy compromise between the
instinct of a police constable, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning
of a dealer. "'My good Madame Lepas,' said I as I ended, 'you seem to know more about
it. Heh? If not, why have you come up to me?' "'On my word, as an honest woman----'
"'Do not swear; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de
Merret; what sort of man was he?' | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
"'Monsieur de Merret--well, you see he was a man you never could see
the top of, he was so tall! A very good gentleman, from Picardy, and who
had, as we say, his head close to his cap. He paid for everything down,
so as never to have difficulties with any one. He was hot-tempered, you
see! All our ladies liked him very much.' "'Because he was hot-tempered?' I asked her. "'Well, may be,' said she; 'and you may suppose, sir, that a man had to
have something to show for a figurehead before he could marry Madame de
Merret, who, without any reflection on others, was the handsomest and
richest heiress in our parts. She had about twenty thousand francs
a year. All the town was at the wedding; the bride was pretty and
sweet-looking, quite a gem of a woman. Oh, they were a handsome couple
in their day!' "'And were they happy together?' "'Hm, hm! so-so--so far as can be guessed, for, as you may suppose, we
of the common sort were not hail-fellow-well-met with them.--Madame de
Merret was a kind woman and very pleasant, who had no doubt sometimes to
put up with her husband's tantrums. But though he was rather haughty, we
were fond of him. After all, it was his place to behave so. When a man
is a born nobleman, you see----'
"'Still, there must have been some catastrophe for Monsieur and Madame
de Merret to part so violently?' "'I did not say there was any catastrophe, sir. I know nothing about
it.' "'Indeed. Well, now, I am sure you know everything.' "'Well, sir, I will tell you the whole story.--When I saw Monsieur
Regnault go up to see you, it struck me that he would speak to you about
Madame de Merret as having to do with la Grande Breteche. That put it
into my head to ask your advice, sir, seeming to me that you are a
man of good judgment and incapable of playing a poor woman like me
false--for I never did any one a wrong, and yet I am tormented by my
conscience. Up to now I have never dared to say a word to the people of
these parts; they are all chatter-mags, with tongues like knives. And
never till now, sir, have I had any traveler here who stayed so long in
the inn as you have, and to whom I could tell the history of the fifteen
thousand francs----'
"'My dear Madame Lepas, if there is anything in your story of a nature
to compromise me,' I said, interrupting the flow of her words, 'I would
not hear it for all the world.' "'You need have no fears,' said she; 'you will see.' "Her eagerness made me suspect that I was not the only person to whom
my worthy landlady had communicated the secret of which I was to be the
sole possessor, but I listened. "'Monsieur,' said she, 'when the Emperor sent the Spaniards here,
prisoners of war and others, I was required to lodge at the charge
of the Government a young Spaniard sent to Vendome on parole. Notwithstanding his parole, he had to show himself every day to the
sub-prefect. He was a Spanish grandee--neither more nor less. He had
a name in _os_ and _dia_, something like Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his
name down in my books, and you may see it if you like. Ah! he was a
handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who are all ugly they say. He was
not more than five feet two or three in height, but so well made; and he
had little hands that he kept so beautifully! Ah! you should have
seen them. He had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for her
toilet. He had thick, black hair, a flame in his eye, a somewhat coppery
complexion, but which I admired all the same. He wore the finest linen
I have ever seen, though I have had princesses to lodge here, and, among
others, General Bertrand, the Duc and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur
Descazes, and the King of Spain. He did not eat much, but he had such
polite and amiable ways that it was impossible to owe him a grudge for
that. Oh! I was very fond of him, though he did not say four words to me
in a day, and it was impossible to have the least bit of talk with him;
if he was spoken to, he did not answer; it is a way, a mania they all
have, it would seem. "'He read his breviary like a priest, and went to mass and all the
services quite regularly. And where did he post himself?--we found this
out later.--Within two yards of Madame de Merret's chapel. As he took
that place the very first time he entered the church, no one imagined
that there was any purpose in it. Besides, he never raised his nose
above his book, poor young man! And then, monsieur, of an evening he
went for a walk on the hill among the ruins of the old castle. It was
his only amusement, poor man; it reminded him of his native land. They
say that Spain is all hills! "'One evening, a few days after he was sent here, he was out very late. I was rather uneasy when he did not come in till just on the stroke of
midnight; but we all got used to his whims; he took the key of the door,
and we never sat up for him. He lived in a house belonging to us in the
Rue des Casernes. Well, then, one of our stable-boys told us one evening
that, going down to wash the horses in the river, he fancied he had seen
the Spanish Grandee swimming some little way off, just like a fish. When
he came in, I told him to be careful of the weeds, and he seemed put out
at having been seen in the water. "'At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find
him in his room; he had not come back. By hunting through his things, I
found a written paper in the drawer of his table, with fifty pieces of
Spanish gold of the kind they call doubloons, worth about five thousand
francs; and in a little sealed box ten thousand francs worth of
diamonds. The paper said that in case he should not return, he left us
this money and these diamonds in trust to found masses to thank God for
his escape and for his salvation. "'At that time I still had my husband, who ran off in search of him. And this is the queer part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's
clothes, which he had found under a big stone on a sort of breakwater
along the river bank, nearly opposite la Grande Breteche. My husband
went so early that no one saw him. After reading the letter, he burnt
the clothes, and, in obedience to Count Feredia's wish, we announced
that he had escaped. "'The sub-prefect set all the constabulary at his heels; but, pshaw! he
was never caught. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, have never thought so; I believe, on the contrary, that he had
something to do with the business about Madame de Merret, seeing that
Rosalie told me that the crucifix her mistress was so fond of that she
had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now in the early
days of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of ebony and silver
which I never saw later.--And now, monsieur, do not you say that I need
have no remorse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs? Are they
not really and truly mine?' "'Certainly.--But have you never tried to question Rosalie?' said I. "'Oh, to be sure I have, sir. But what is to be done? That girl is like
a wall. | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
She knows something, but it is impossible to make her talk.' "After chatting with me for a few minutes, my hostess left me a prey
to vague and sinister thoughts, to romantic curiosity, and a religious
dread, not unlike the deep emotion which comes upon us when we go into a
dark church at night and discern a feeble light glimmering under a lofty
vault--a dim figure glides across--the sweep of a gown or of a priest's
cassock is audible--and we shiver! La Grande Breteche, with its rank
grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty iron-work, its locked doors,
its deserted rooms, suddenly rose before me in fantastic vividness. I
tried to get into the mysterious dwelling to search out the heart of
this solemn story, this drama which had killed three persons. "Rosalie became in my eyes the most interesting being in Vendome. As
I studied her, I detected signs of an inmost thought, in spite of the
blooming health that glowed in her dimpled face. There was in her soul
some element of ruth or of hope; her manner suggested a secret, like
the expression of devout souls who pray in excess, or of a girl who has
killed her child and for ever hears its last cry. Nevertheless, she was
simple and clumsy in her ways; her vacant smile had nothing criminal
in it, and you would have pronounced her innocent only from seeing the
large red and blue checked kerchief that covered her stalwart bust,
tucked into the tight-laced bodice of a lilac- and white-striped gown. 'No,' said I to myself, 'I will not quit Vendome without knowing the
whole history of la Grande Breteche. To achieve this end, I will make
love to Rosalie if it proves necessary.' "'Rosalie!' said I one evening. "'Your servant, sir?' "'You are not married?' She started a little. "'Oh! there is no lack of men if ever I take a fancy to be miserable!' she replied, laughing. She got over her agitation at once; for every
woman, from the highest lady to the inn-servant inclusive, has a native
presence of mind. "'Yes; you are fresh and good-looking enough never to lack lovers! But
tell me, Rosalie, why did you become an inn-servant on leaving Madame de
Merret? Did she not leave you some little annuity?' "'Oh yes, sir. But my place here is the best in all the town of
Vendome.' "This reply was such an one as judges and attorneys call evasive. Rosalie, as it seemed to me, held in this romantic affair the place of
the middle square of the chess-board: she was at the very centre of the
interest and of the truth; she appeared to me to be tied into the knot
of it. It was not a case for ordinary love-making; this girl contained
the last chapter of a romance, and from that moment all my attentions
were devoted to Rosalie. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in
her, as in every woman whom we make our ruling thought, a variety of
good qualities; she was clean and neat; she was handsome, I need not
say; she soon was possessed of every charm that desire can lend to a
woman in whatever rank of life. A fortnight after the notary's visit,
one evening, or rather one morning, in the small hours, I said to
Rosalie:
"'Come, tell me all you know about Madame de Merret.' "'Oh!' she said, 'I will tell you; but keep the secret carefully.' "'All right, my child; I will keep all your secrets with a thief's
honor, which is the most loyal known.' "'If it is all the same to you,' said she, 'I would rather it should be
with your own.' "Thereupon she set her head-kerchief straight, and settled herself to
tell the tale; for there is no doubt a particular attitude of confidence
and security is necessary to the telling of a narrative. The best tales
are told at a certain hour--just as we are all here at table. No one
ever told a story well standing up, or fasting. "If I were to reproduce exactly Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole
volume would scarcely contain it. Now, as the event of which she gave me
a confused account stands exactly midway between the notary's gossip and
that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the middle term of a rule-of-three
sum stands between the first and third, I have only to relate it in as
few words as may be. I shall therefore be brief. "The room at la Grande Breteche in which Madame de Merret slept was on
the ground floor; a little cupboard in the wall, about four feet deep,
served her to hang her dresses in. Three months before the evening of
which I have to relate the events, Madame de Merret had been seriously
ailing, so much so that her husband had left her to herself, and had his
own bedroom on the first floor. By one of those accidents which it is
impossible to foresee, he came in that evening two hours later than
usual from the club, where he went to read the papers and talk politics
with the residents in the neighborhood. His wife supposed him to have
come in, to be in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had been
the subject of a very animated discussion; the game of billiards had
waxed vehement; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome,
where everybody is thrifty, and where social habits are restrained
within the bounds of a simplicity worthy of all praise, and the
foundation perhaps of a form of true happiness which no Parisian would
care for. "For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie
whether his wife was in bed; on the girl's replying always in the
affirmative, he at once went to his own room, with the good faith that
comes of habit and confidence. But this evening, on coming in, he took
it into his head to go to see Madame de Merret, to tell her of his
ill-luck, and perhaps to find consolation. During dinner he had observed
that his wife was very becomingly dressed; he reflected as he came
home from the club that his wife was certainly much better, that
convalescence had improved her beauty, discovering it, as husbands
discover everything, a little too late. Instead of calling Rosalie,
who was in the kitchen at the moment watching the cook and the coachman
playing a puzzling hand at cards, Monsieur de Merret made his way to his
wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he set down at the lowest
step of the stairs. His step, easy to recognize, rang under the vaulted
passage. "At the instant when the gentleman turned the key to enter his wife's
room, he fancied he heard the door shut of the closet of which I have
spoken; but when he went in, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in
front of the fireplace. The unsuspecting husband fancied that Rosalie
was in the cupboard; nevertheless, a doubt, ringing in his ears like a
peal of bells, put him on his guard; he looked at his wife, and read in
her eyes an indescribably anxious and haunted expression. "'You are very late,' said she.--Her voice, usually so clear and sweet,
struck him as being slightly husky. "Monsieur de Merret made no reply, for at this moment Rosalie came in. This was like a thunder-clap. He walked up and down the room, going from
one window to another at a regular pace, his arms folded. | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
"'Have you had bad news, or are you ill?' his wife asked him timidly,
while Rosalie helped her to undress. He made no reply. "'You can go, Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret to her maid; 'I can put in
my curl-papers myself.' --She scented disaster at the mere aspect of her
husband's face, and wished to be alone with him. As soon as Rosalie
was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she lingered a few minutes in the
passage, Monsieur de Merret came and stood facing his wife, and said
coldly, 'Madame, there is some one in your cupboard!' She looked at her
husband calmly, and replied quite simply, 'No, monsieur.' "This 'No' wrung Monsieur de Merret's heart; he did not believe it; and
yet his wife had never appeared purer or more saintly than she seemed
to be at this moment. He rose to go and open the closet door. Madame de
Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him sadly, and said in a
voice of strange emotion, 'Remember, if you should find no one there,
everything must be at an end between you and me.' "The extraordinary dignity of his wife's attitude filled him with deep
esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those resolves which need
only a grander stage to become immortal. "'No, Josephine,' he said, 'I will not open it. In either event we
should be parted for ever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, I
know you lead a saintly life, and would not commit a deadly sin to save
your life.' --At these words Madame de Merret looked at her husband with
a haggard stare.--'See, here is your crucifix,' he went on. 'Swear to
me before God that there is no one in there; I will believe you--I will
never open that door.' "Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, 'I swear it.' "'Louder,' said her husband; 'and repeat: "I swear before God that there
is nobody in that closet."' She repeated the words without flinching. "'That will do,' said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's
silence: 'You have there a fine piece of work which I never saw before,'
said he, examining the crucifix of ebony and silver, very artistically
wrought. "'I found it at Duvivier's; last year when that troop of Spanish
prisoners came through Vendome, he bought it of a Spanish monk.' "'Indeed,' said Monsieur de Merret, hanging the crucifix on its nail;
and he rang the bell. "He had to wait for Rosalie. Monsieur de Merret went forward quickly
to meet her, led her into the bay of the window that looked on to the
garden, and said to her in an undertone:
"'I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents
your setting up house, and that you told him you would not be his wife
till he found means to become a master mason.--Well, go and fetch him;
tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Contrive to wake no one
in his house but himself. His reward will be beyond your wishes. Above
all, go out without saying a word--or else!' and he frowned. "Rosalie was going, and he called her back. 'Here, take my latch-key,'
said he. "'Jean!' Monsieur de Merret called in a voice of thunder down the
passage. Jean, who was both coachman and confidential servant, left his
cards and came. "'Go to bed, all of you,' said his master, beckoning him to come close;
and the gentleman added in a whisper, 'When they are all asleep--mind,
_asleep_--you understand?--come down and tell me.' "Monsieur de Merret, who had never lost sight of his wife while giving
his orders, quietly came back to her at the fireside, and began to tell
her the details of the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret conversing
amiably. "Not long before this Monsieur de Merret had had new ceilings made to
all the reception-rooms on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce at
Vendome; the price is enhanced by the cost of carriage; the gentleman
had therefore had a considerable quantity delivered to him, knowing
that he could always find purchasers for what might be left. It was this
circumstance which suggested the plan he carried out. "'Gorenflot is here, sir,' said Rosalie in a whisper. "'Tell him to come in,' said her master aloud. "Madame de Merret turned paler when she saw the mason. "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'go and fetch some bricks from the
coach-house; bring enough to wall up the door of this cupboard; you can
use the plaster that is left for cement.' Then, dragging Rosalie and the
workman close to him--'Listen, Gorenflot,' said he, in a low voice,
'you are to sleep here to-night; but to-morrow morning you shall have a
passport to take you abroad to a place I will tell you of. I will give
you six thousand francs for your journey. You must live in that town for
ten years; if you find you do not like it, you may settle in another,
but it must be in the same country. Go through Paris and wait there till
I join you. I will there give you an agreement for six thousand francs
more, to be paid to you on your return, provided you have carried out
the conditions of the bargain. For that price you are to keep perfect
silence as to what you have to do this night. To you, Rosalie, I will
secure ten thousand francs, which will not be paid to you till your
wedding day, and on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but, to get
married, you must hold your tongue. If not, no wedding gift!' "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and brush my hair.' "Her husband quietly walked up and down the room, keeping an eye on the
door, on the mason, and on his wife, but without any insulting display
of suspicion. Gorenflot could not help making some noise. Madame de
Merret seized a moment when he was unloading some bricks, and when her
husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: 'My dear
child, I will give you a thousand francs a year if only you will tell
Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom.' Then she added aloud quite
coolly: 'You had better help him.' "Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time while Gorenflot
was walling up the door. This silence was intentional on the husband's
part; he did not wish to give his wife the opportunity of saying
anything with a double meaning. On Madame de Merret's side it was pride
or prudence. When the wall was half built up the cunning mason took
advantage of his master's back being turned to break one of the two
panes in the top of the door with a blow of his pick. By this Madame de
Merret understood that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. They all three
then saw the face of a dark, gloomy-looking man, with black hair and
flaming eyes. "Before her husband turned round again the poor woman had nodded to the
stranger, to whom the signal was meant to convey, 'Hope.' "At four o'clock, as the day was dawning, for it was the month of
September, the work was done. The mason was placed in charge of Jean,
and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's room. "Next morning when he got up he said with apparent carelessness, 'Oh,
by the way, I must go to the Maire for the passport.' | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
He put on his hat,
took two or three steps towards the door, paused, and took the crucifix. His wife was trembling with joy. "'He will go to Duvivier's,' thought she. "As soon as he had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie, and then in
a terrible voice she cried: 'The pick! Bring the pick! and set to work. I saw how Gorenflot did it yesterday; we shall have time to make a gap
and build it up again.' "In an instant Rosalie had brought her mistress a sort of cleaver; she,
with a vehemence of which no words can give an idea, set to work to
demolish the wall. She had already got out a few bricks, when, turning
to deal a stronger blow than before, she saw behind her Monsieur de
Merret. She fainted away. "'Lay madame on her bed,' said he coldly. "Foreseeing what would certainly happen in his absence, he had laid
this trap for his wife; he had merely written to the Maire and sent for
Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as the disorder in the room had been
repaired. "'Duvivier,' asked Monsieur de Merret, 'did not you buy some crucifixes
of the Spaniards who passed through the town?' "'No, monsieur.' "'Very good; thank you,' said he, flashing a tiger's glare at his wife. 'Jean,' he added, turning to his confidential valet, 'you can serve my
meals here in Madame de Merret's room. She is ill, and I shall not leave
her till she recovers.' "The cruel man remained in his wife's room for twenty days. During
the earlier time, when there was some little noise in the closet,
and Josephine wanted to intercede for the dying man, he said, without
allowing her to utter a word, 'You swore on the Cross that there was no
one there.'" After this story all the ladies rose from table, and thus the spell
under which Bianchon had held them was broken. But there were some among
them who had almost shivered at the last words. ADDENDUM
The following personage appears in other stories of the Human Comedy. Bianchon, Horace
Father Goriot
The Atheist's Mass
Cesar Birotteau
The Commission in Lunacy
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor's Establishment
The Secrets of a Princess
The Government Clerks
Pierrette
A Study of Woman
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
Honorine
The Seamy Side of History
The Magic Skin
A Second Home
A Prince of Bohemia
Letters of Two Brides
The Muse of the Department
The Imaginary Mistress
The Middle Classes
Cousin Betty
The Country Parson
In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: | Balzac, Honoré de - La Grande Breteche |
THE ROOM IN THE TOWER
AND OTHER STORIES
THE MORNING POST says: “Messrs Mills & Boon seem to have acquired a
monopoly in clever first novels.” THE PALL MALL GAZETTE says: “We have
come to expect good work from the publishers of ‘In Different Keys’
(Mills & Boon).” THE GLOBE says: “One has almost come to regard Messrs
Mills & Boon as the publishers of the unexpected. Alike in fiction and
in more serious works, they introduce us to writers of exceptional
ability, and to subjects of uncommon interest.” THE NEW YORK HERALD
says: “They have long ago acquired the reputation for the production of
original books.”
Mills & Boon’s New Novels
_Crown 8vo, 6s. each_
THE LURE. E. S. STEVENS. THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA. I. A. R. WYLIE. THE ROOM IN THE TOWER. E. F. BENSON. A BACHELOR’S COMEDY. J. E. BUCKROSE. THE PALACE OF LOGS. ROBERT BARR. WHEN GOD LAUGHS. JACK LONDON. ASHES OF INCENSE. By the AUTHOR OF “MASTERING FLAME.”
HIS FIRST OFFENCE. J. STORER CLOUSTON. THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE. HUGH WALPOLE. THE BATTLE. CLAUDE FARRERE. STORIES WITHOUT TEARS. BARRY PAIN. THE FRONTIER. MAURICE LEBLANC. THE MARK. Mrs PHILIP CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY. THE GIRL WITH THE BLUE EYES. Lady TROUBRIDGE. SONS OF STATE. WINIFRED GRAHAM. ENTER BRIDGET. THOMAS COBB. THE THORNBUSH NEAR THE DOOR. SOPHIE COLE. MEN AND DREAMS. MARY E. MANN. THE WRITTEN LAW. FRANCES G. KNOWLES-FOSTER. RUTH OF THE ROWLDRICH. Mrs STANLEY WRENCH. THE PRINCE. T. METCALFE. THE SILVER MEDALLION. PERCY J. BREBNER. THE PRINCE AND BETTY. P. G. WODEHOUSE. ALIENS NEAR OF KIN. N. VERNON. THE
ROOM IN THE TOWER
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
E. F. BENSON
AUTHOR OF
“THE ANGEL OF PAIN,” “SHEAVES”
SECOND EDITION
MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON W.
_Published 1912_
_Copyright in the United States of America, 1912, by E. F. Benson_
PREFACE
These stories have been written in the hopes of giving some pleasant
qualms to their reader, so that, if by chance, anyone may be occupying
in their perusal a leisure half-hour before he goes to bed when the
night and the house are still, he may perhaps cast an occasional glance
into the corners and dark places of the room where he sits, to make sure
that nothing unusual lurks in the shadow. For this is the avowed object
of ghost-stories and such tales as deal with the dim unseen forces which
occasionally and perturbingly make themselves manifest. The author
therefore fervently wishes his readers a few uncomfortable moments. Some of those tales have appeared before in various magazines; the
remainder are new. One, the story of “The Man who went too Far,” is the
germ of what subsequently developed into a book called “The Angel of
Pain.”
E. F. BENSON. CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ROOM IN THE TOWER 1
THE DUST-CLOUD 22
GAVON’S EVE 44
THE CONFESSION OF CHARLES LINKWORTH 62
AT ABDUL ALI’S GRAVE 87
THE SHOOTINGS OF ACHNALEISH 107
HOW FEAR DEPARTED FROM THE LONG GALLERY 131
CATERPILLARS 155
THE CAT 169
THE BUS-CONDUCTOR 192
THE MAN WHO WENT TOO FAR 206
BETWEEN THE LIGHTS 241
OUTSIDE THE DOOR 260
THE TERROR BY NIGHT 273
THE OTHER BED 285
THE THING IN THE HALL 302
THE HOUSE WITH THE BRICK-KILN 321
THE ROOM IN THE TOWER
It is probable that everybody who is at all a constant dreamer has had
at least one experience of an event or a sequence of circumstances which
have come to his mind in sleep being subsequently realised in the
material world. But, in my opinion, so far from this being a strange
thing, it would be far odder if this fulfilment did not occasionally
happen, since our dreams are, as a rule, concerned with people whom we
know and places with which we are familiar, such as might very naturally
occur in the awake and day-lit world. True, these dreams are often
broken into by some absurd and fantastic incident, which puts them out
of court in regard to their subsequent fulfilment, but on the mere
calculation of chances, it does not appear in the least unlikely that a
dream imagined by anyone who dreams constantly should occasionally come
true. Not long ago, for instance, I experienced such a fulfilment of a
dream which seems to me in no way remarkable and to have no kind of
psychical significance. The manner of it was as follows. A certain friend of mine, living abroad, is amiable enough to write to
me about once in a fortnight. Thus, when fourteen days or thereabouts
have elapsed since I last heard from him, my mind, probably, either
consciously or subconsciously, is expectant of a letter from him. One
night last week I dreamed that as I was going upstairs to dress for
dinner I heard, as I often heard, the sound of the postman’s knock on my
front door, and diverted my direction downstairs instead. There, among
other correspondence, was a letter from him. Thereafter the fantastic
entered, for on opening it I found inside the ace of diamonds, and
scribbled across it in his well-known handwriting, “I am sending you
this for safe custody, as you know it is running an unreasonable risk to
keep aces in Italy.” The next evening I was just preparing to go
upstairs to dress when I heard the postman’s knock, and did precisely as
I had done in my dream. There, among other letters, was one from my
friend. Only it did not contain the ace of diamonds. Had it done so, I
should have attached more weight to the matter, which, as it stands,
seems to me a perfectly ordinary coincidence. No doubt I consciously or
subconsciously expected a letter from him, and this suggested to me my
dream. Similarly, the fact that my friend had not written to me for a
fortnight suggested to him that he should do so. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But occasionally it is
not so easy to find such an explanation, and for the following story I
can find no explanation at all. It came out of the dark, and into the
dark it has gone again. All my life I have been a habitual dreamer: the nights are few, that is
to say, when I do not find on awaking in the morning that some mental
experience has been mine, and sometimes, all night long, apparently, a
series of the most dazzling adventures befall me. Almost without
exception these adventures are pleasant, though often merely trivial. It
is of an exception that I am going to speak. It was when I was about sixteen that a certain dream first came to me,
and this is how it befell. It opened with my being set down at the door
of a big red-brick house, where, I understood, I was going to stay. The
servant who opened the door told me that tea was going on in the garden,
and led me through a low dark-panelled hall, with a large open
fireplace, on to a cheerful green lawn set round with flower beds. There
were grouped about the tea-table a small party of people, but they were
all strangers to me except one, who was a school-fellow called Jack
Stone, clearly the son of the house, and he introduced me to his mother
and father and a couple of sisters. I was, I remember, somewhat
astonished to find myself here, for the boy in question was scarcely
known to me, and I rather disliked what I knew of him: moreover, he had
left school nearly a year before. The afternoon was very hot, and an
intolerable oppression reigned. On the far side of the lawn ran a
red-brick wall, with an iron gate in its centre, outside which stood a
walnut tree. We sat in the shadow of the house opposite a row of long
windows, inside which I could see a table with cloth laid, glimmering
with glass and silver. This garden front of the house was very long, and
at one end of it stood a tower of three stories, which looked to me much
older than the rest of the building. Before long, Mrs Stone, who, like the rest of the party, had sat in
absolute silence, said to me, “Jack will show you your room: I have
given you the room in the tower.”
Quite inexplicably my heart sank at her words. I felt as if I had known
that I should have the room in the tower, and that it contained
something dreadful and significant. Jack instantly got up, and I
understood that I had to follow him. In silence we passed through the
hall, and mounted a great oak staircase with many corners, and arrived
at a small landing with two doors set in it. He pushed one of these open
for me to enter, and without coming in himself, closed it behind me. Then I knew that my conjecture had been right: there was something awful
in the room, and with the terror of nightmare growing swiftly and
enveloping me, I awoke in a spasm of terror. Now that dream or variations on it occurred to me intermittently for
fifteen years. Most often it came in exactly this form, the arrival, the
tea laid out on the lawn, the deadly silence succeeded by that one
deadly sentence, the mounting with Jack Stone up to the room in the
tower where horror dwelt, and it always came to a close in the nightmare
of terror at that which was in the room, though I never saw what it was. At other times I experienced variations on this same theme. Occasionally, for instance, we would be sitting at dinner in the
dining-room, into the windows of which I had looked on the first night
when the dream of this house visited me, but wherever we were, there was
the same silence, the same sense of dreadful oppression and foreboding. And the silence I knew would always be broken by Mrs Stone saying to me,
“Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower.”
Upon which (this was invariable) I had to follow him up the oak
staircase with many corners, and enter the place that I dreaded more and
more each time that I visited it in sleep. Or, again, I would find
myself playing cards still in silence in a drawing-room lit with immense
chandeliers, that gave a blinding illumination. What the game was I have
no idea; what I remember, with a sense of miserable anticipation, was
that soon Mrs Stone would get up and say to me, “Jack will show you your
room: I have given you the room in the tower.” This drawing-room where
we played cards was next to the dining-room, and, as I have said, was
always brilliantly illuminated, whereas the rest of the house was full
of dusk and shadows. And yet, how often, in spite of those bouquets of
lights, have I not pored over the cards that were dealed me, scarcely
able for some reason to see them. Their designs, too, were strange:
there were no red suits, but all were black, and among them there were
certain cards which were black all over. I hated and dreaded those. As this dream continued to recur, I got to know the greater part of the
house. There was a smoking-room beyond the drawing-room, at the end of a
passage with a green baize door. It was always very dark there, and as
often as I went there I passed somebody whom I could not see in the
doorway coming out. Curious developments, too, took place in the
characters that peopled the dream as might happen to living persons. Mrs
Stone, for instance, who, when I first saw her, had been black haired,
became grey, and instead of rising briskly, as she had done at first
when she said, “Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room
in the tower,” got up very feebly, as if the strength was leaving her
limbs. Jack also grew up, and became a rather ill-looking young man,
with a brown moustache, while one of the sisters ceased to appear, and I
understood she was married. Then it so happened that I was not visited by this dream for six months
or more, and I began to hope, in such inexplicable dread did I hold it,
that it had passed away for good. But one night after this interval I
again found myself being shown out on to the lawn for tea, and Mrs Stone
was not there, while the others were all dressed in black. At once I
guessed the reason, and my heart leaped at the thought that perhaps this
time I should not have to sleep in the room in the tower, and though we
usually all sat in silence, on this occasion the sense of relief made me
talk and laugh as I had never yet done. But even then matters were not
altogether comfortable, for no one else spoke, but they all looked
secretly at each other. And soon the foolish stream of my talk ran dry,
and gradually an apprehension worse than anything I had previously known
gained on me as the light slowly faded. Suddenly a voice which I knew well broke the stillness, the voice of Mrs
Stone, saying, “Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room
in the tower.” It seemed to come from near the gate in the red-brick
wall that bounded the lawn, and looking up, I saw that the grass outside
was sown thick with gravestones. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
A curious greyish light shone from
them, and I could read the lettering on the grave nearest me, and it
was, “In evil memory of Julia Stone.” And as usual Jack got up, and
again I followed him through the hall and up the staircase with many
corners. On this occasion it was darker than usual, and when I passed
into the room in the tower I could only just see the furniture, the
position of which was already familiar to me. Also there was a dreadful
odour of decay in the room, and I woke screaming. The dream, with such variations and developments as I have mentioned,
went on at intervals for fifteen years. Sometimes I would dream it two
or three nights in succession; once, as I have said, there was an
intermission of six months, but taking a reasonable average, I should
say that I dreamed it quite as often as once in a month. It had, as is
plain, something of nightmare about it, since it always ended in the
same appalling terror, which so far from getting less, seemed to me to
gather fresh fear every time that I experienced it. There was, too, a
strange and dreadful consistency about it. The characters in it, as I
have mentioned, got regularly older, death and marriage visited this
silent family, and I never in the dream, after Mrs Stone had died, set
eyes on her again. But it was always her voice that told me that the
room in the tower was prepared for me, and whether we had tea out on the
lawn, or the scene was laid in one of the rooms overlooking it, I could
always see her gravestone standing just outside the iron gate. It was
the same, too, with the married daughter; usually she was not present,
but once or twice she returned again, in company with a man, whom I took
to be her husband. He, too, like the rest of them, was always silent. But, owing to the constant repetition of the dream, I had ceased to
attach, in my waking hours, any significance to it. I never met Jack
Stone again during all those years, nor did I ever see a house that
resembled this dark house of my dream. And then something happened. I had been in London in this year, up till the end of July, and during
the first week in August went down to stay with a friend in a house he
had taken for the summer months, in the Ashdown Forest district of
Sussex. I left London early, for John Clinton was to meet me at Forest
Row Station, and we were going to spend the day golfing, and go to his
house in the evening. He had his motor with him, and we set off, about
five of the afternoon, after a thoroughly delightful day, for the drive,
the distance being some ten miles. As it was still so early we did not
have tea at the club house, but waited till we should get home. As we
drove, the weather, which up till then had been, though hot, deliciously
fresh, seemed to me to alter in quality, and become very stagnant and
oppressive, and I felt that indefinable sense of ominous apprehension
that I am accustomed to before thunder. John, however, did not share my
views, attributing my loss of lightness to the fact that I had lost both
my matches. Events proved, however, that I was right, though I do not
think that the thunderstorm that broke that night was the sole cause of
my depression. Our way lay through deep high-banked lanes, and before we had gone very
far I fell asleep, and was only awakened by the stopping of the motor. And with a sudden thrill, partly of fear but chiefly of curiosity, I
found myself standing in the doorway of my house of dream. We went, I
half wondering whether or not I was dreaming still, through a low
oak-panelled hall, and out on to the lawn, where tea was laid in the
shadow of the house. It was set in flower beds, a red-brick wall, with a
gate in it, bounded one side, and out beyond that was a space of rough
grass with a walnut tree. The façade of the house was very long, and at
one end stood a three-storied tower, markedly older than the rest. Here for the moment all resemblance to the repeated dream ceased. There
was no silent and somehow terrible family, but a large assembly of
exceedingly cheerful persons, all of whom were known to me. And in spite
of the horror with which the dream itself had always filled me, I felt
nothing of it now that the scene of it was thus reproduced before me. But I felt the intensest curiosity as to what was going to happen. Tea pursued its cheerful course, and before long Mrs Clinton got up. And
at that moment I think I knew what she was going to say. She spoke to
me, and what she said was:
“Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower.”
At that, for half a second, the horror of the dream took hold of me
again. But it quickly passed, and again I felt nothing more than the
most intense curiosity. It was not very long before it was amply
satisfied. John turned to me. “Right up at the top of the house,” he said, “but I think you’ll be
comfortable. We’re absolutely full up. Would you like to go and see it
now? By Jove, I believe that you are right, and that we are going to
have a thunderstorm. How dark it has become.”
I got up and followed him. We passed through the hall, and up the
perfectly familiar staircase. Then he opened the door, and I went in. And at that moment sheer unreasoning terror again possessed me. I did
not know for certain what I feared: I simply feared. Then like a sudden
recollection, when one remembers a name which has long escaped the
memory, I knew what I feared. I feared Mrs Stone, whose grave with the
sinister inscription, “In evil memory,” I had so often seen in my dream,
just beyond the lawn which lay below my window. And then once more the
fear passed so completely that I wondered what there was to fear, and I
found myself, sober and quiet and sane, in the room in the tower, the
name of which I had so often heard in my dream, and the scene of which
was so familiar. I looked round it with a certain sense of proprietorship, and found that
nothing had been changed from the dreaming nights in which I knew it so
well. Just to the left of the door was the bed, lengthways along the
wall, with the head of it in the angle. In a line with it was the
fireplace and a small bookcase; opposite the door the outer wall was
pierced by two lattice-paned windows, between which stood the
dressing-table, while ranged along the fourth wall was the washing-stand
and a big cupboard. My luggage had already been unpacked, for the
furniture of dressing and undressing lay orderly on the wash-stand and
toilet-table, while my dinner clothes were spread out on the coverlet of
the bed. And then, with a sudden start of unexplained dismay, I saw that
there were two rather conspicuous objects which I had not seen before in
my dreams: one a life-sized oil-painting of Mrs Stone, the other a
black-and-white sketch of Jack Stone, representing him as he had
appeared to me only a week before in the last of the series of these
repeated dreams, a rather secret and evil-looking man of about thirty. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
His picture hung between the windows, looking straight across the room
to the other portrait, which hung at the side of the bed. At that I
looked next, and as I looked I felt once more the horror of nightmare
seize me. It represented Mrs Stone as I had seen her last in my dreams: old and
withered and white haired. But in spite of the evident feebleness of
body, a dreadful exuberance and vitality shone through the envelope of
flesh, an exuberance wholly malign, a vitality that foamed and frothed
with unimaginable evil. Evil beamed from the narrow, leering eyes; it
laughed in the demon-like mouth. The whole face was instinct with some
secret and appalling mirth; the hands, clasped together on the knee,
seemed shaking with suppressed and nameless glee. Then I saw also that
it was signed in the left-hand bottom corner, and wondering who the
artist could be, I looked more closely, and read the inscription, “Julia
Stone by Julia Stone.”
There came a tap at the door, and John Clinton entered. “Got everything you want?” he asked. “Rather more than I want,” said I, pointing to the picture. He laughed. “Hard-featured old lady,” he said. “By herself, too, I remember. Anyhow
she can’t have flattered herself much.”
“But don’t you see?” said I. “It’s scarcely a human face at all. It’s
the face of some witch, of some devil.”
He looked at it more closely. “Yes; it isn’t very pleasant,” he said. “Scarcely a bedside manner, eh? Yes; I can imagine getting the nightmare if I went to sleep with that
close by my bed. I’ll have it taken down if you like.”
“I really wish you would,” I said. He rang the bell, and with the help of a servant we detached the
picture and carried it out on to the landing, and put it with its face
to the wall. “By Jove, the old lady is a weight,” said John, mopping his forehead. “I
wonder if she had something on her mind.”
The extraordinary weight of the picture had struck me too. I was about
to reply, when I caught sight of my own hand. There was blood on it, in
considerable quantities, covering the whole palm. “I’ve cut myself somehow,” said I.
John gave a little startled exclamation. “Why, I have too,” he said. Simultaneously the footman took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand
with it. I saw that there was blood also on his handkerchief. John and I went back into the tower room and washed the blood off; but
neither on his hand nor on mine was there the slightest trace of a
scratch or cut. It seemed to me that, having ascertained this, we both,
by a sort of tacit consent, did not allude to it again. Something in my
case had dimly occurred to me that I did not wish to think about. It was
but a conjecture, but I fancied that I knew the same thing had occurred
to him. The heat and oppression of the air, for the storm we had expected was
still undischarged, increased very much after dinner, and for some time
most of the party, among whom were John Clinton and myself, sat outside
on the path bounding the lawn, where we had had tea. The night was
absolutely dark, and no twinkle of star or moon ray could penetrate the
pall of cloud that overset the sky. By degrees our assembly thinned, the
women went up to bed, men dispersed to the smoking or billiard room, and
by eleven o’clock my host and I were the only two left. All the evening
I thought that he had something on his mind, and as soon as we were
alone he spoke. “The man who helped us with the picture had blood on his hand, too, did
you notice?” he said. “I asked him just now if he had cut himself, and
he said he supposed he had, but that he could find no mark of it. Now
where did that blood come from?”
By dint of telling myself that I was not going to think about it, I had
succeeded in not doing so, and I did not want, especially just at
bedtime, to be reminded of it. “I don’t know,” said I, “and I don’t really care so long as the picture
of Mrs Julia Stone is not by my bed.”
He got up. “But it’s odd,” he said. “Ha! Now you’ll see another odd thing.”
A dog of his, an Irish terrier by breed, had come out of the house as we
talked. The door behind us into the hall was open, and a bright oblong
of light shone across the lawn to the iron gate which led on to the
rough grass outside, where the walnut tree stood. I saw that the dog
had all his hackles up, bristling with rage and fright; his lips were
curled back from his teeth, as if he was ready to spring at something,
and he was growling to himself. He took not the slightest notice of his
master or me, but stiffly and tensely walked across the grass to the
iron gate. There he stood for a moment, looking through the bars and
still growling. Then of a sudden his courage seemed to desert him: he
gave one long howl, and scuttled back to the house with a curious
crouching sort of movement. “He does that half-a-dozen times a day,” said John. “He sees something
which he both hates and fears.”
I walked to the gate and looked over it. Something was moving on the
grass outside, and soon a sound which I could not instantly identify
came to my ears. Then I remembered what it was: it was the purring of a
cat. I lit a match, and saw the purrer, a big blue Persian, walking
round and round in a little circle just outside the gate, stepping high
and ecstatically, with tail carried aloft like a banner. Its eyes were
bright and shining, and every now and then it put its head down and
sniffed at the grass. I laughed. “The end of that mystery, I am afraid,” I said. “Here’s a large cat
having Walpurgis night all alone.”
“Yes, that’s Darius,” said John. “He spends half the day and all night
there. But that’s not the end of the dog mystery, for Toby and he are
the best of friends, but the beginning of the cat mystery. What’s the
cat doing there? And why is Darius pleased, while Toby is
terror-stricken?”
At that moment I remembered the rather horrible detail of my dreams when
I saw through the gate, just where the cat was now, the white tombstone
with the sinister inscription. But before I could answer the rain began,
as suddenly and heavily as if a tap had been turned on, and
simultaneously the big cat squeezed through the bars of the gate, and
came leaping across the lawn to the house for shelter. Then it sat in
the doorway, looking out eagerly into the dark. It spat and struck at
John with its paw, as he pushed it in, in order to close the door. Somehow, with the portrait of Julia Stone in the passage outside, the
room in the tower had absolutely no alarm for me, and as I went to bed,
feeling very sleepy and heavy, I had nothing more than interest for the
curious incident about our bleeding hands, and the conduct of the cat
and dog. The last thing I looked at before I put out my light was the
square empty space by my bed where the portrait had been. Here the paper
was of its original full tint of dark red: over the rest of the walls it
had faded. Then I blew out my candle and instantly fell asleep. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
My awaking was equally instantaneous, and I sat bolt upright in bed
under the impression that some bright light had been flashed in my face,
though it was now absolutely pitch dark. I knew exactly where I was, in
the room which I had dreaded in dreams, but no horror that I ever felt
when asleep approached the fear that now invaded and froze my brain. Immediately after a peal of thunder crackled just above the house, but
the probability that it was only a flash of lightning which awoke me
gave no reassurance to my galloping heart. Something I knew was in the
room with me, and instinctively I put out my right hand, which was
nearest the wall, to keep it away. And my hand touched the edge of a
picture-frame hanging close to me. I sprang out of bed, upsetting the small table that stood by it, and I
heard my watch, candle, and matches clatter on to the floor. But for the
moment there was no need of light, for a blinding flash leaped out of
the clouds, and showed me that by my bed again hung the picture of Mrs
Stone. And instantly the room went into blackness again. But in that
flash I saw another thing also, namely a figure that leaned over the end
of my bed, watching me. It was dressed in some close-clinging white
garment, spotted and stained with mould, and the face was that of the
portrait. Overhead the thunder cracked and roared, and when it ceased and the
deathly stillness succeeded, I heard the rustle of movement coming
nearer me, and, more horrible yet, perceived an odour of corruption and
decay. And then a hand was laid on the side of my neck, and close beside
my ear I heard quick-taken, eager breathing. Yet I knew that this thing,
though it could be perceived by touch, by smell, by eye and by ear, was
still not of this earth, but something that had passed out of the body
and had power to make itself manifest. Then a voice, already familiar to
me, spoke. “I knew you would come to the room in the tower,” it said. “I have been
long waiting for you. At last you have come. To-night I shall feast;
before long we will feast together.”
And the quick breathing came closer to me; I could feel it on my neck. At that the terror, which I think had paralyzed me for the moment, gave
way to the wild instinct of self-preservation. I hit wildly with both
arms, kicking out at the same moment, and heard a little animal-squeal,
and something soft dropped with a thud beside me. I took a couple of
steps forward, nearly tripping up over whatever it was that lay there,
and by the merest good-luck found the handle of the door. In another
second I ran out on the landing, and had banged the door behind me. Almost at the same moment I heard a door open somewhere below, and John
Clinton, candle in hand, came running upstairs. “What is it?” he said. “I sleep just below you, and heard a noise as
if--Good heavens, there’s blood on your shoulder.”
I stood there, so he told me afterwards, swaying from side to side,
white as a sheet, with the mark on my shoulder as if a hand covered with
blood had been laid there. “It’s in there,” I said, pointing. “She, you know. The portrait is in
there, too, hanging up on the place we took it from.”
At that he laughed. “My dear fellow, this is mere nightmare,” he said. He pushed by me, and opened the door, I standing there simply inert with
terror, unable to stop him, unable to move. “Phew! What an awful smell,” he said. Then there was silence; he had passed out of my sight behind the open
door. Next moment he came out again, as white as myself, and instantly
shut it. “Yes, the portrait’s there,” he said, “and on the floor is a thing--a
thing spotted with earth, like what they bury people in. Come away,
quick, come away.”
How I got downstairs I hardly know. An awful shuddering and nausea of
the spirit rather than of the flesh had seized me, and more than once he
had to place my feet upon the steps, while every now and then he cast
glances of terror and apprehension up the stairs. But in time we came
to his dressing-room on the floor below, and there I told him what I
have here described. * * * * *
The sequel can be made short; indeed, some of my readers have perhaps
already guessed what it was, if they remember that inexplicable affair
of the churchyard at West Fawley, some eight years ago, where an attempt
was made three times to bury the body of a certain woman who had
committed suicide. On each occasion the coffin was found in the course
of a few days again protruding from the ground. After the third attempt,
in order that the thing should not be talked about, the body was buried
elsewhere in unconsecrated ground. Where it was buried was just outside
the iron gate of the garden belonging to the house where this woman had
lived. She had committed suicide in a room at the top of the tower in
that house. Her name was Julia Stone. Subsequently the body was again secretly dug up, and the coffin was
found to be full of blood. THE DUST-CLOUD
The big French windows were open on to the lawn, and, dinner being over,
two or three of the party who were staying for the week at the end of
August with the Combe-Martins had strolled out on to the terrace to look
at the sea, over which the moon, large and low, was just rising and
tracing a path of pale gold from horizon to shore, while others, less
lunar of inclination, had gone in search of bridge or billiards. Coffee
had come round immediately after dessert, and the end of dinner,
according to the delectable custom of the house, was as informal as the
end of breakfast. Every one, that is to say, remained or went away,
smoked, drank port or abstained, according to his personal tastes. Thus,
on this particular evening it so happened that Harry Combe-Martin and I
were very soon left alone in the dining-room, because we were talking
unmitigated motor “shop,” and the rest of the party (small wonder) were
bored with it, and had left us. The shop was home-shop, so to speak, for
it was almost entirely concerned with the manifold perfections of the
new six-cylinder Napier which my host in a moment of extravagance, which
he did not in the least regret, had just purchased; in which, too, he
proposed to take me over to lunch at a friend’s house near Hunstanton on
the following day. He observed with legitimate pride that an early start
would not be necessary as the distance was only eighty miles and there
were no police traps. “Queer things these big motors are,” he said, relapsing into
generalities as we rose to go. “Often I can scarcely believe that my new
car is merely a machine. It seems to me to possess an independent life
of its own. It is really much more like a thoroughbred with a
wonderfully fine mouth.”
“And the moods of a thoroughbred?” I asked. “No; it’s got an excellent temper, I’m glad to say. It doesn’t mind
being checked, or even stopped, when it’s going its best. Some of these
big cars can’t stand that. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
They get sulky--I assure you it is literally
true--if they are checked too often.”
He paused on his way to ring the bell. “Guy Elphinstone’s car, for
instance,” he said: “it was a bad-tempered brute, a violent, vicious
beast of a car.”
“What make?” I asked. “Twenty-five horse-power Amédée. They are a fretful strain of car; too
thin, not enough bone--and bone is very good for the nerves. The brute
liked running over a chicken or a rabbit, though perhaps it was less the
car’s ill-temper than Guy’s, poor chap. Well, he paid for it--he paid
to the uttermost farthing. Did you know him?”
“No; but surely I have heard the name. Ah, yes, he ran over a child, did
he not?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “and then smashed up against his own park gates.”
“Killed, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yes, killed instantly, and the car just a heap of splinters. There’s
an odd story about it, I’m told, in the village: rather in your line.”
“Ghosts?” I asked. “Yes, the ghost of his motor-car. Seems almost too up-to-date, doesn’t
it?”
“And what’s the story?” I demanded. “Why, just this. His place was outside the village of Bircham, ten miles
out from Norwich; and there’s a long straight bit of road there--that’s
where he ran over the child--and a couple of hundred yards farther on, a
rather awkward turn into the park gates. Well, a month or two ago, soon
after the accident, one old gaffer in the village swore he had seen a
motor there coming full tilt along the road, but without a sound, and it
disappeared at the lodge gates of the park, which were shut. Soon after
another said he had heard a motor whirl by him at the same place,
followed by a hideous scream, but he saw nothing.”
“The scream is rather horrible,” said I. “Ah, I see what you mean! I only thought of his syren. Guy had a syren
on his exhaust, same as I have. His had a dreadful frightened sort of
wail, and always made me feel creepy.”
“And is that all the story?” I asked: “that one old man thought he saw a
noiseless motor, and another thought he heard an invisible one?”
Harry flicked the ash off his cigarette into the grate. “Oh dear no!” he
said. “Half a dozen of them have seen something or heard something. It
is quite a heavily authenticated yarn.”
“Yes, and talked over and edited in the public-house,” I said. “Well, not a man of them will go there after dark. Also the lodge-keeper
gave notice a week or two after the accident. He said he was always
hearing a motor stop and hoot outside the lodge, and he was kept running
out at all hours of the night to see what it was.”
“And what was it?”
“It wasn’t anything. Simply nothing there. He thought it rather uncanny,
anyhow, and threw up a good post. Besides, his wife was always hearing a
child scream, and while her man toddled out to the gate she would go and
see whether the kids were all right. And the kids themselves----”
“Ah, what of them?” I asked. “They kept coming to their mother, asking who the little girl was who
walked up and down the road and would not speak to them or play with
them.”
“It’s a many-sided story,” I said. “All the witnesses seem to have heard
and seen different things.”
“Yes, that is just what to my mind makes the yarn so good,” he said. “Personally I don’t take much stock in spooks at all. But given that
there are such things as spooks, and given that the death of the child
and the death of Guy have caused spooks to play about there, it seems to
me a very good point that different people should be aware of different
phenomena. One hears the car, another sees it, one hears the child
scream, another sees the child. How does that strike you?”
This, I am bound to say, was a new view to me, and the more I thought of
it the more reasonable it appeared. For the vast majority of mankind
have all those occult senses by which is perceived the spiritual world
(which, I hold, is thick and populous around us), sealed up, as it were;
in other words, the majority of mankind never hear or see a ghost at
all. Is it not, then, very probable that of the remainder--those, in
fact, to whom occult experiences have happened or can happen--few should
have every sense unsealed, but that some should have the unsealed ear,
others the unsealed eye--that some should be clairaudient, others
clairvoyant? “Yes, it strikes me as reasonable,” I said. “Can’t you take me over
there?”
“Certainly! If you will stop till Friday I’ll take you over on
Thursday. The others all go that day, so that we can get there after
dark.”
I shook my head. “I can’t stop till Friday, I’m afraid,” I said. “I must
leave on Thursday. But how about to-morrow? Can’t we take it on the way
to or from Hunstanton?”
“No; it’s thirty miles out of our way. Besides, to be at Bircham after
dark means that we shouldn’t get back here till midnight. And as host to
my guests----”
“Ah! things are only heard and seen after dark, are they?” I asked. “That makes it so much less interesting. It is like a séance where all
lights are put out.”
“Well, the accident happened at night,” he said. “I don’t know the
rules, but that may have some bearing on it, I should think.”
I had one question more in the back of my mind, but I did not like to
ask it. At least, I wanted information on this subject without appearing
to ask for it. “Neither do I know the rules of motors,” I said; “and I don’t understand
you when you say that Guy Elphinstone’s machine was an irritable,
cross-grained brute, that liked running over chickens and rabbits. But I
think you subsequently said that the irritability may have been the
irritability of its owner. Did he mind being checked?”
“It made him blind-mad if it happened often,” said Harry. “I shall never
forget a drive I had with him once: there were hay-carts and
perambulators every hundred yards. It was perfectly ghastly; it was like
being with a madman. And when we got inside his gate, his dog came
running out to meet him. He did not go an inch out of his course: it was
worse than that--he went for it, just grinding his teeth with rage. I
never drove with him again.”
He stopped a moment, guessing what might be in my mind. “I say, you
mustn’t think--you mustn’t think----” he began. “No, of course not,” said I.
Harry Combe-Martin’s house stood close to the weather-eaten, sandy
cliffs of the Suffolk shore, which are being incessantly gnawed away by
the hunger of the insatiable sea. Fathoms deep below it, and now many
hundred yards out, lies what was once the second port in England; but
now of the ancient town of Dunwich, and of its seven great churches,
nothing remains but one, and that ruinous and already half destroyed by
the falling cliff and the encroachments of the sea. Foot by foot, it too
is disappearing, and of the graveyard which surrounded it more than half
is gone, so that from the face of the sandy cliff on which it stands
there stick out like straws in glass, as Dante says, the bones of those
who were once committed there to the kindly and stable earth. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Whether it was the remembrance of this rather grim spectacle as I had
seen it that afternoon, or whether Harry’s story had caused some
trouble in my brain, or whether it was merely that the keen bracing air
of this place, to one who had just come from the sleepy languor of the
Norfolk Broads, kept me sleepless, I do not know; but, anyhow, the
moment I put out my light that night and got into bed, I felt that all
the footlights and gas-jets in the internal theatre of my mind sprang
into flame, and that I was very vividly and alertly awake. It was in
vain that I counted a hundred forwards and a hundred backwards, that I
pictured to myself a flock of visionary sheep coming singly through a
gap in an imaginary hedge, and tried to number their monotonous and
uniform countenances, that I played noughts and crosses with myself,
that I marked out scores of double lawn-tennis courts,--for with each
repetition of these supposedly soporific exercises I only became more
intensely wakeful. It was not in remote hope of sleep that I continued
to repeat these weary performances long after their inefficacy was
proved to the hilt, but because I was strangely unwilling in this
timeless hour of the night to think about those protruding relics of
humanity; also I quite distinctly did not desire to think about that
subject with regard to which I had, a few hours ago, promised Harry that
I would not make it the subject of reflection. For these reasons I
continued during the black hours to practise these narcotic exercises of
the mind, knowing well that if I paused on the tedious treadmill my
thoughts, like some released spring, would fly back to rather gruesome
subjects. I kept my mind, in fact, talking loud to itself, so that it
should not hear what other voices were saying. Then by degrees these absurd mental occupations became impossible; my
mind simply refused to occupy itself with them any longer; and next
moment I was thinking intently and eagerly, not about the bones
protruding from the gnawed section of sand-cliff, but about the subject
I had said I would not dwell upon. And like a flash it came upon me why
Harry had bidden me not think about it. Surely in order that I should
not come to the same conclusion as he had come to. Now the whole question of “haunt”--haunted spots, haunted houses, and so
forth--has always seemed to me to be utterly unsolved, and to be neither
proved nor disproved to a satisfactory degree. From the earliest times,
certainly from the earliest known Egyptian records, there has been a
belief that the scene of a crime is often revisited, sometimes by the
spirit of him who has committed it--seeking rest, we must suppose, and
finding none; sometimes, and more inexplicably, by the spirit of his
victim, crying perhaps, like the blood of Abel, for vengeance. And
though the stories of these village gossips in the alehouse about
noiseless visions and invisible noises were all as yet unsifted and
unreliable, yet I could not help wondering if they (such as they were)
pointed to something authentic and to be classed under this head of
appearances. But more striking than the yarns of the gaffers seemed to
me the questions of the lodge-keeper’s children. How should children
have imagined the figure of a child that would not speak to them or play
with them? Perhaps it was a real child, a sulky child. Yes--perhaps. But
perhaps not. Then after this preliminary skirmish I found myself
settling down to the question that I had said I would not think about;
in other words, the possible origin of these phenomena interested me
more than the phenomena themselves. For what exactly had Guy
Elphinstone, that savage driver, done? Had or had not the death of the
child been entirely an accident, a thing (given he drove a motor at all)
outside his own control? Or had he, irritated beyond endurance at the
checks and delays of the day, not pulled up when it was just possible he
might have, but had run over the child as he would have run over a
rabbit or a hen, or even his own dog? And what, in any case, poor
wretched brute, must have been his thoughts in that terrible instant
that intervened between the child’s death and his own, when a moment
later he smashed into the closed gates of his own lodge? Was remorse
his--bitter, despairing contrition? That could hardly have been so; or
else surely, knowing only for certain that he had knocked a child down,
he would have stopped; he would have done his best, whatever that might
be, to repair the irreparable harm. But he had not stopped: he had gone
on, it seemed, at full speed, for on the collision the car had been
smashed into matchwood and steel shavings. Again, with double force, had
this dreadful thing been a complete accident, he would have stopped. So
then--most terrible question of all--had he, after making murder, rushed
on to what proved to be his own death, filled with some hellish glee at
what he had done? Indeed, as in the churchyard on the cliff, bones of
the buried stuck starkly out into the night. * * * * *
The pale tired light of earliest morning had turned the window-blinds
into glimmering squares before I slept; and when I woke, the servant who
called me was already rattling them briskly up on their rollers, and
letting the calm serenity of the August day stream into the room. Through the open windows poured in sunlight and sea-wind, the scent of
flowers and the song of birds; and each and all were wonderfully
reassuring, banishing the hooded forms that had haunted the night, and I
thought of the disquietude of the dark hours as a traveller may think of
the billows and tempests of the ocean over which he has safely
journeyed, unable, now that they belong to the limbo of the past, to
recall his qualms and tossings with any vivid uneasiness. Not without a
feeling of relief, too, did I dwell on the knowledge that I was
definitely not going to visit this equivocal spot. Our drive to-day, as
Harry had said, would not take us within thirty miles of it, and
to-morrow I but went to the station and away. Though a thorough-paced
seeker after truth might, no doubt, have regretted that the laws of time
and space did not permit him to visit Bircham after the sinister dark
had fallen, and test whether for him there was visible or audible truth
in the tales of the village gossips, I was conscious of no such regret. Bircham and its fables had given me a very bad night, and I was
perfectly aware that I did not in the least want to go near it, though
yesterday I had quite truthfully said I should like to do so. In this
brightness, too, of sun and sea-wind I felt none of the _malaise_ at my
waking moments which a sleepless night usually gives me; I felt
particularly well, particularly pleased to be alive, and also, as I have
said, particularly content not to be going to Bircham. I was quite
satisfied to leave my curiosity unsatisfied. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
* * * * *
The motor came round about eleven, and we started at once, Harry and Mrs
Morrison, a cousin of his, sitting behind in the big back seat, large
enough to hold a comfortable three, and I on the left of the driver, in
a sort of trance--I am not ashamed to confess it--of expectancy and
delight. For this was in the early days of motors, when there was still
the sense of romance and adventure round them. I did not want to drive,
any more than Harry wanted to; for driving, so I hold, is too absorbing;
it takes the attention in too firm a grip: the mania of the true
motorist is not consciously enjoyed. For the passion for motors is a
taste--I had almost said a gift--as distinct and as keenly individual as
the passion for music or mathematics. Those who use motors most (merely
as a means of getting rapidly from one place to another) are often
entirely without it, while those whom adverse circumstances (over which
they have no control) compel to use them least may have it to a supreme
degree. To those who have it, analysis of their passion is perhaps
superfluous; to those who have it not, explanation is almost
unintelligible. Pace, however, and the control of pace, and above all
the sensuous consciousness of pace, is at the root of it; and pleasure
in pace is common to most people, whether it be in the form of a
galloping horse, or the pace of the skate hissing over smooth ice, or
the pace of a free-wheel bicycle humming down-hill, or, more
impersonally, the pace of the smashed ball at lawn-tennis, the driven
ball at golf, or the low boundary hit at cricket. But the sensuous
consciousness of pace, as I have said, is needful: one might experience
it seated in front of the engine of an express train, though not in a
wadded, shut-windowed carriage, where the wind of movement is not felt. Then add to this rapture of the rush through riven air the knowledge
that huge relentless force is controlled by a little lever, and
directed by a little wheel on which the hands of the driver seem to lie
so negligently. A great untamed devil has there his bridle, and he
answers to it, as Harry had said, like a horse with a fine mouth. He has
hunger and thirst, too, unslakeable, and greedily he laps of his soup of
petrol which turns to fire in his mouth: electricity, the force that
rends clouds asunder, and causes towers to totter, is the spoon with
which he feeds himself; and as he eats he races onward, and the road
opens like torn linen in front of him. Yet how obedient, how amenable is
he!--for with a touch on his snaffle his speed is redoubled, or melts
into thin air, so that before you know you have touched the rein he has
exchanged his swallow-flight for a mere saunter through the lanes. But
he ever loves to run; and knowing this, you will bid him lift up his
voice and tell those who are in his path that he is coming, so that he
will not need the touch that checks. Hoarse and jovial is his voice,
hooting to the wayfarer; and if his hooting be not heard he has a great
guttural falsetto scream that leaps from octave to octave, and echoes
from the hedges that are passing in blurred lines of hanging green. And,
as you go, the romantic isolation of divers in deep seas is yours;
masked and hooded companions may be near you also, in their
driving-dress for this plunge through the swift tides of air; but you,
like them, are alone and isolated, conscious only of the ripped riband
of road, the two great lantern-eyes of the wonderful monster that look
through drooped eyelids by day, but gleam with fire by night, the two
ear-laps of splash-boards, and the long lean bonnet in front which is
the skull and brain-case of that swift, untiring energy that feeds on
fire, and whirls its two tons of weight up hill and down dale, as if
some new law as everlasting as gravity, and like gravity making it go
ever swifter, was its sole control. For the first hour the essence of these joys, any description of which
compared to the real thing is but as a stagnant pond compared to the
bright rushing of a mountain stream, was mine. A straight switchback
road lay in front of us, and the monster plunged silently down hill, and
said below his breath, “Ha-ha--ha-ha--ha-ha,” as, without diminution of
speed, he breasted the opposing slope. In my control were his great
vocal chords (for in those days hooter and syren were on the driver’s
left, and lay convenient, to the hand of him who occupied the box-seat),
and it rejoiced me to let him hoot to a pony-cart, three hundred yards
ahead, with a hand on his falsetto scream if his ordinary tones of
conversation were unheard or disregarded. Then came a road crossing ours
at right angles, and the dear monster seemed to say, “Yes, yes,--see how
obedient and careful I am. I stroll with my hands in my pockets.” Then
again a puppy from a farmhouse staggered warlike into the road, and the
monster said, “Poor little chap! get home to your mother, or I’ll talk
to you in earnest.” The poor little chap did not take the hint, so the
monster slackened speed and just said, “Whoof!” Then it chuckled to
itself as the puppy scuttled into the hedge, seriously alarmed; and next
moment our self-made wind screeched and whistled round us again. Napoleon, I believe, said that the power of an army lay in its feet:
that is true also of the monster. There was a loud bang, and in thirty
seconds we were at a standstill. The monster’s off fore-foot troubled
it, and the chauffeur said, “Yes, sir,--burst.”
So the burst boot was taken off and a new one put on, a boot that had
never been on foot before. The foot in question was held up on a jack
during this operation, and the new boot laced up with a pump. This took
exactly twenty-five minutes. Then the monster got his spoon going again,
and said, “Let me run: oh, let me run!” And for fifteen miles on a
straight and empty road it ran. I timed the miles, but shall not produce
their chronology for the benefit of a forsworn constabulary. But there were no more dithyrambics that morning. We should have reached
Hunstanton in time for lunch. Instead, we waited to repair our fourth
puncture at 1.45 P.M., twenty-five miles short of our destination. This
fourth puncture was caused by a spicule of flint three-quarters of an
inch long--sharp, it is true, but weighing perhaps two pennyweights,
while we weighed two tons. It seemed an impertinence. So we lunched at a
wayside inn, and during lunch the pundits held a consultation, of which
the upshot was this:
We had no more boots for our monster, for his off fore-foot had burst
once, and punctured once (thus necessitating two socks and one boot). Similarly, but more so, his off hind-foot had burst twice (thus
necessitating two boots and two socks). Now, there was no certain
shoemaker’s shop at Hunstanton, as far as we knew, but there was a
regular universal store at King’s Lynn, which was about equidistant. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
And, so said the chauffeur, there was something wrong with the monster’s
spoon (ignition), and he didn’t rightly know what, and therefore it
seemed the prudent part not to go to Hunstanton (lunch, a thing of the
preterite, having been the object), but to the well-supplied King’s
Lynn. And we all breathed a pious hope that we might get there. Whizz: hoot: purr! The last boot held, the spoon went busily to the
monster’s mouth, and we just flowed into King’s Lynn. The return
journey, so I vaguely gathered, would be made by other roads; but
personally, intoxicated with air and movement, I neither asked nor
desired to know what those roads would be. This one small but rather
salient fact is necessary to record here, that as we waited at King’s
Lynn, and as we buzzed homewards afterwards, no thought of Bircham
entered my head at all. The subsequent hallucination, if hallucination
it was, was not, as far as I know, self-suggested. That we had gone out
of our way for the sake of the garage, I knew, and that was all. Harry
also told me that he did not know where our road would take us. The rest that follows is the baldest possible narrative of what actually
occurred. But it seems to me, a humble student of the occult, to be
curious. While we waited we had tea in a hotel looking on to a big empty square
of houses, and after tea we waited a very long time for our monster to
pick us up. Then the telephone from the garage inquired for “the
gentleman on the motor,” and since Harry had strolled out to get a local
evening paper with news of the last Test Match, I applied ear and mouth
to that elusive instrument. What I heard was not encouraging: the
ignition had gone very wrong indeed, and “perhaps” in an hour we should
be able to start. It was then about half-past six, and we were just
seventy-eight miles from Dunwich. Harry came back soon after this, and I told him what the message from
the garage had been. What he said was this: “Then we shan’t get back
till long after dinner. We might just as well have camped out to see
your ghost.”
As I have already said, no notion of Bircham was in my mind, and I
mention this as evidence that, even if it had been, Harry’s remark
would have implied that we were not going through Bircham. The hour lengthened itself into an hour and a half. Then the monster,
quite well again, came hooting round the corner, and we got in. “Whack her up, Jack,” said Harry to the chauffeur. “The roads will be
empty. You had better light up at once.”
The monster, with its eyes agleam, was whacked up, and never in my life
have I been carried so cautiously and yet so swiftly. Jack never took a
risk or the possibility of a risk, but when the road was clear and open
he let the monster run just as fast as it was able. Its eyes made day of
the road fifty yards ahead, and the romance of night was fairyland round
us. Hares started from the roadside, and raced in front of us for a
hundred yards, then just wheeled in time to avoid the ear-flaps of the
great triumphant brute that carried us. Moths flitted across, struck
sometimes by the lenses of its eyes, and the miles peeled over our
shoulders. When It occurred we were going top-speed. And this was
It--quite unsensational, but to us quite inexplicable unless my midnight
imaginings happened to be true. As I have said, I was in command of the hooter and of the syren. We were
flying along on a straight down-grade, as fast as ever we could go, for
the engines were working, though the decline was considerable. Then
quite suddenly I saw in front of us a thick cloud of dust, and knew
instinctively and on the instant, without thought or reasoning, what
that must mean. Evidently something going very fast (or else so large a
cloud could not have been raised) was in front of us, and going in the
same direction as ourselves. Had it been something on the road coming to
meet us, we should of course have seen the vehicle first and run into
the dust-cloud afterwards. Had it, again, been something of low speed--a
horse and dog-cart, for instance--no such dust could have been raised. But, as it was, I knew at once that there was a motor travelling swiftly
just ahead of us, also that it was not going as fast as we were, or we
should have run into its dust much more gradually. But we went into it
as into a suddenly lowered curtain. Then I shouted to Jack. “Slow down, and put on the brake,” I shrieked. “There’s something just ahead of us.”
As I spoke I wrought a wild concerto on the hooter, and with my right
hand groped for the syren, but did not find it. Simultaneously I heard a
wild, frightened shriek, just as if I had sounded the syren myself. Jack
had felt for it too, and our hands fingered each other. Then we entered
the dust-cloud. We slowed down with extraordinary rapidity, and still peering ahead we
went dead-slow through it. I had not put on my goggles after leaving
King’s Lynn, and the dust stung and smarted in my eyes. It was not,
therefore, a belt of fog, but real road-dust. And at the moment we crept
through it I felt Harry’s hands on my shoulder. “There’s something just ahead,” he said. “Look! don’t you see the tail
light?”
As a matter of fact, I did not; and, still going very slow, we came out
of that dust-cloud. The broad empty road stretched in front of us; a
hedge was on each side, and there was no turning either to right or
left. Only, on the right, was a lodge, and gates which were closed. The
lodge had no lights in any window. Then we came to a standstill; the air was dead-calm, not a leaf in the
hedgerow trees was moving, not a grain of dust was lifted from the road. But, behind, the dust-cloud still hung in the air, and stopped
dead-short at the closed lodge-gates. We had moved very slowly for the
last hundred yards: it was difficult to suppose that it was of our
making. Then Jack spoke, with a curious crack in his voice. “It must have been a motor, sir,” he said. “But where is it?”
I had no reply to this, and from behind another voice, Harry’s voice,
spoke. For the moment I did not recognise it, for it was strained and
faltering. “Did you open the syren?” he asked. “It didn’t sound like our syren. It
sounded like, like----”
“I didn’t open the syren,” said I. Then we went on again. Soon we came to scattered lights in houses by the
wayside. “What’s this place?” I asked Jack. “Bircham, sir,” said he. GAVON’S EVE
It is only the largest kind of ordnance map that records the existence
of the village of Gavon, in the shire of Sutherland, and it is perhaps
surprising that any map on whatever scale should mark so small and
huddled a group of huts, set on a bare, bleak headland between moor and
sea, and, so one would have thought, of no import at all to any who did
not happen to live there. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But the river Gavon, on the right bank of
which stand this half-dozen of chimneyless and wind-swept habitations,
is a geographical fact of far greater interest to outsiders, for the
salmon there are heavy fish, the mouth of the river is clear of nets,
and all the way up to Gavon Loch, some six miles inland, the
coffee-coloured water lies in pool after deep pool, which verge, if the
river is in order and the angler moderately sanguine, on a fishing
probability amounting almost to a certainty. In any case during the
first fortnight of September last I had no blank day on those delectable
waters, and up till the 15th of that month there was no day on which
some one at the lodge in which I was stopping did not land a fish out of
the famous Picts’ pool. But after the 15th that pool was not fished
again. The reason why is here set forward. The river at this point, after some hundred yards of rapid, makes a
sudden turn round a rocky angle, and plunges madly into the pool itself. Very deep water lies at the head of it, but deeper still further down on
the east side, where a portion of the stream flicks back again in a
swift dark backwater towards the top of the pool again. It is fishable
only from the western bank, for to the east, above this backwater, a
great wall of black and basaltic rock, heaved up no doubt by some fault
in strata, rises sheer from the river to the height of some sixty feet. It is in fact nearly precipitous on both sides, heavily serrated at the
top, and of so curious a thinness, that at about the middle of it where
a fissure breaks its topmost edge, and some twenty feet from the top,
there exists a long hole, a sort of lancet window, one would say, right
through the rock, so that a slit of daylight can be seen through it. Since, therefore, no one would care to cast his line standing perched on
that razor-edged eminence, the pool must needs be fished from the
western bank. A decent fly, however, will cover it all. It is on the western bank that there stand the remains of that which
gave its title to the pool, namely, the ruins of a Pict castle, built
out of rough and scarcely hewn masonry, unmortared but on a certain
large and impressive scale, and in a very well-preserved condition
considering its extreme antiquity. It is circular in shape and measures
some twenty yards of diameter in its internal span. A staircase of large
blocks with a rise of at least a foot leads up to the main gate, and
opposite this on the side towards the river is another smaller postern
through which down a rather hazardously steep slope a scrambling path,
where progress demands both caution and activity, conducts to the head
of the pool which lies immediately beneath it. A gate-chamber still
roofed over exists in the solid wall: inside there are foundation
indications of three rooms, and in the centre of all a very deep hole,
probably a well. Finally, just outside the postern leading to the river
is a small artificially levelled platform, some twenty feet across, as
if made to support some super-incumbent edifice. Certain stone slabs and
blocks are dispersed over it. Brora, the post-town of Gavon, lies some six miles to the south-west,
and from it a track over the moor leads to the rapids immediately above
the Picts’ pool, across which by somewhat extravagant striding from
boulder to boulder a man can pass dry-foot when the river is low, and
make his way up a steep path to the north of the basaltic rock, and so
to the village. But this transit demands a steady head, and at the best
is a somewhat giddy passage. Otherwise the road between it and Brora
lies in a long detour higher up the moor, passing by the gates of Gavon
Lodge, where I was stopping. For some vague and ill-defined reason the
pool itself and the Picts’ Castle had an uneasy reputation on the
country side, and several times trudging back from a day’s fishing I
have known my gillie take a longish circuit, though heavy with fish,
rather than make this short cut in the dusk by the castle. On the first
occasion when Sandy, a strapping yellow-bearded viking of twenty-five,
did this he gave as a reason that the ground round about the castle was
“mossy,” though as a God-fearing man, he must have known he lied. But on
another occasion he was more frank, and said that the Picts’ pool was
“no canny” after sunset. I am now inclined to agree with him, though,
when he lied about it, I think it was because as a God-fearing man he
feared the devil also. It was on the evening of September 14 that I was walking back with my
host, Hugh Graham, from the forest beyond the lodge. It had been a day
unseasonably hot for the time of year, and the hills were blanketed with
soft, furry clouds. Sandy, the gillie of whom I have spoken, was behind
with the ponies, and, idly enough, I told Hugh about his strange
distaste for the Picts’ pool after sunset. He listened, frowning a
little. “That’s curious,” he said. “I know there is some dim local superstition
about the place, but last year certainly Sandy used to laugh at it. I
remember asking him what ailed the place, and he said he thought
nothing about the rubbish folk talked. But this year you say he avoids
it.”
“On several occasions with me he has done so.”
Hugh smoked a while in silence, striding noiselessly over the dusky
fragrant heather. “Poor chap,” he said, “I don’t know what to do about him. He’s becoming
useless.”
“Drink?” I asked. “Yes, drink in a secondary manner. But trouble led to drink, and
trouble, I am afraid, is leading him to worse than drink.”
“The only thing worse than drink is the devil,” I remarked. “Precisely. That’s where he is going. He goes there often.”
“What on earth do you mean?” I asked. “Well, it’s rather curious,” said Hugh. “You know I dabble a bit in
folklore and local superstition, and I believe I am on the track of
something odder than odd. Just wait a moment.”
We stood there in the gathering dusk till the ponies laboured up the
hillside to us, Sandy with his six feet of lithe strength strolling
easily beside them up the steep brae, as if his long day’s trudging had
but served to half awaken his dormant powers of limb. “Going to see Mistress Macpherson again to-night?” asked Hugh. “Aye, puir body,” said Sandy. “She’s auld, and she’s lone.”
“Very kind of you, Sandy,” said Hugh, and we walked on. “What then?” I asked when the ponies had fallen behind again. “Why, superstition lingers here,” said Hugh, “and it’s supposed she’s a
witch. To be quite candid with you, the thing interests me a good deal. Supposing you asked me, on oath, whether I believed in witches, I should
say ‘No.’ But if you asked me again, on oath, whether I suspected I
believed in them, I should, I think, say ‘Yes.’ And the fifteenth of
this month--to-morrow--is Gavon’s Eve.”
“And what in Heaven’s name is that?” I asked. “And who is Gavon? And
what’s the trouble?”
“Well, Gavon is the person, I suppose, not saint, who is what we should
call the eponymous hero of this district. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
And the trouble is Sandy’s
trouble. Rather a long story. But there’s a long mile in front of us
yet, if you care to be told.”
During that mile I heard. Sandy had been engaged a year ago to a girl of
Gavon who was in service at Inverness. In March last he had gone,
without giving notice, to see her, and as he walked up the street in
which her mistress’ house stood, had met her suddenly face to face, in
company with a man whose clipped speech betrayed him English, whose
manner a kind of gentleman. He had a flourish of his hat for Sandy,
pleasure to see him, and scarcely any need of explanation as to how he
came to be walking with Catrine. It was the most natural thing possible,
for a city like Inverness boasted its innocent urbanities, and a girl
could stroll with a man. And for the time, since also Catrine was so
frankly pleased to see him, Sandy was satisfied. But after his return to
Gavon, suspicion, fungus-like, grew rank in his mind, with the result
that a month ago he had, with infinite pains and blottings, written a
letter to Catrine, urging her return and immediate marriage. Thereafter
it was known that she had left Inverness; it was known that she had
arrived by train at Brora. From Brora she had started to walk across the
moor by the path leading just above the Picts’ Castle, crossing the
rapids to Gavon, leaving her box to be sent by the carrier. But at Gavon
she had never arrived. Also it was said that, though it was a hot
afternoon, she wore a big cloak. By this time we had come to the lodge, the lights of which showed dim
and blurred through the thick hill-mists that had streamed sullenly down
from the higher ground. “And the rest,” said Hugh, “which is as fantastic as this is sober fact,
I will tell you later.”
Now, a fruit-bearing determination to go to bed is, to my mind, as
difficult to ripen as a fruit-bearing determination to get up, and in
spite of our long day, I was glad when Hugh (the rest of the men having
yawned themselves out of the smoking-room) came back from the hospitable
dispensing of bedroom candlesticks with a briskness that denoted that,
as far as he was concerned, the distressing determination was not
imminent. “As regards Sandy,” I suggested. “Ah, I also was thinking of that,” he said. “Well, Catrine Gordon left
Brora, and never arrived here. That is fact. Now for what remains. Have
you any remembrance of a woman always alone walking about the moor by
the loch? I think I once called your attention to her.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said. “Not Catrine, surely; a very old woman, awful
to look at. Moustache, whiskers, and muttering to herself. Always
looking at the ground, too.”
“Yes, that is she--not Catrine. Catrine! My word, a May morning! But the
other--it is Mrs Macpherson, reputed witch. Well, Sandy trudges there, a
mile and more away, every night to see her. You know Sandy: Adonis of
the north. Now, can you account by any natural explanation for that
fact? That he goes off after a long day to see an old hag in the hills?”
“It would seem unlikely,” said I. “Unlikely! Well, yes, unlikely.”
Hugh got up from his chair and crossed the room to where a bookcase of
rather fusty-looking volumes stood between windows. He took a small
morocco-backed book from a top shelf. “Superstitions of Sutherlandshire,” he said, as he handed it to me. “Turn to page 128, and read.”
I obeyed, and read. “September 15 appears to have been the date of what we may call this
devil festival. On the night of that day the powers of darkness held
pre-eminent dominion, and over-rode for any who were abroad that night
and invoked their aid, the protective Providence of Almighty God. Witches, therefore, above all, were peculiarly potent. On this night any
witch could entice to herself the heart and the love of any young man
who consulted her on matters of philtre or love charm, with the result
that on any night in succeeding years of the same date, he, though he
was lawfully affianced and wedded, would for that night be hers. If,
however, he should call on the name of God through any sudden grace of
the Spirit, her charm would be of no avail. On this night, too, all
witches had the power by certain dreadful incantations and indescribable
profanities, to raise from the dead those who had committed suicide.”
“Top of the next page,” said Hugh. “Leave out this next paragraph; it
does not bear on this last.”
“Near a small village in this country,” I read, “called Gavon, the moon
at midnight is said to shine through a certain gap or fissure in a wall
of rock close beside the river on to the ruins of a Pict castle, so
that the light of its beams falls on to a large flat stone erected there
near the gate, and supposed by some to be an ancient and pagan altar. At
that moment, so the superstition still lingers in the country side, the
evil and malignant spirits which hold sway on Gavon’s Eve, are at the
zenith of their powers, and those who invoke their aid at this moment
and in this place, will, though with infinite peril to their immortal
souls, get all that they desire of them.”
The paragraph on the subject ended here, and I shut the book. “Well?” I asked. “Under favourable circumstances two and two make four,” said Hugh. “And four means----”
“This. Sandy is certainly in consultation with a woman who is supposed
to be a witch, whose path no crofter will cross after nightfall. He
wants to learn, at whatever cost, poor devil, what happened to Catrine. Thus I think it more than possible that to-morrow, at midnight, there
will be folk by the Picts’ pool. There is another curious thing. I was
fishing there yesterday, and just opposite the river gate of the castle,
someone has set up a great flat stone, which has been dragged (for I
noticed the crushed grass) from the débris at the bottom of the slope.”
“You mean that the old hag is going to try to raise the body of Catrine,
if she is dead?”
“Yes, and I mean to see myself what happens. Come too.”
The next day Hugh and I fished down the river from the lodge, taking
with us not Sandy, but another gillie, and ate our lunch on the slope of
the Picts’ Castle after landing a couple of fish there. Even as Hugh had
said, a great flat slab of stone had been dragged on to the platform
outside the river gate of the castle, where it rested on certain rude
supports, which, now that it was in place, seemed certainly designed to
receive it. It was also exactly opposite that lancet window in the
basaltic rock across the pool, so that if the moon at midnight did shine
through it, the light would fall on the stone. This then was the almost
certain scene of the incantations. Below the platform, as I have said, the ground fell rapidly away to the
level of the pool, which owing to rain on the hills was running very
high, and, streaked with lines of greyish bubbles, poured down in
amazing and ear-filling volume. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But directly underneath the steep
escarpment of rock on the far side of the pool it lay foamless and
black, a still backwater of great depth. Above the altar-like erection
again the ground rose up seven rough-hewn steps to the gate itself, on
each side of which, to the height of about four feet, ran the circular
wall of the castle. Inside again were the remains of partition walls
between the three chambers, and it was in the one nearest to the river
gate that we determined to conceal ourselves that night. From there,
should the witch and Sandy keep tryst at the altar, any sound of
movement would reach us, and through the aperture of the gate itself we
could see, concealed in the shadow of the wall, whatever took place at
the altar or down below at the pool. The lodge, finally, was but a short
ten minutes away, if one went in the direct line, so that by starting at
a quarter to twelve that night, we could enter the Picts’ Castle by the
gate away from the river, thus not betraying our presence to those who
might be waiting for the moment when the moon should shine through the
lancet window in the wall of rock on to the altar in front of the river
gate. Night fell very still and windless, and when not long before midnight we
let ourselves silently out of the lodge, though to the east the sky was
clear, a black continent of cloud was creeping up from the west, and had
now nearly reached the zenith. Out of the remote fringes of it
occasional lightning winked, and the growl of very distant thunder
sounded drowsily at long intervals after. But it seemed to me as if
another storm hung over our heads, ready every moment to burst, for the
oppression in the air was of a far heavier quality than so distant a
disturbance could have accounted for. To the east, however, the sky was
still luminously clear; the curiously hard edges of the western cloud
were star-embroidered, and by the dove-coloured light in the east it was
evident that the moonrise over the moor was imminent. And though I did
not in my heart believe that our expedition would end in anything but
yawns, I was conscious of an extreme tension and rawness of nerves,
which I set down to the thunder-charged air. For noiselessness of footstep we had both put on india-rubber soled
shoes, and all the way down to the pool we heard nothing but the distant
thunder and our own padded tread. Very silently and cautiously we
ascended the steps of the gate away from the river, and keeping close to
the wall inside, sidled round to the river gate and peered out. For the
first moment I could see nothing, so black lay the shadow of the
rock-wall opposite across the pool, but by degrees I made out the lumps
and line of the glimmering foam which streaked the water. High as the
river was running this morning it was infinitely more voluminous and
turbulent now, and the sound of it filled and bewildered the ear with
its sonorous roaring. Only under the very base of the rock opposite it
ran quite black and unflecked by foam: there lay the deep still surface
of the backwater. Then suddenly I saw something black move in the
dimness in front of me, and against the grey foam rose up first the
head, then the shoulders, and finally the whole figure of a woman
coming towards us up the bank. Behind her walked another, a man, and the
two came to where the altar of stone had been newly erected and stood
there side by side silhouetted against the churned white of the stream. Hugh had seen too, and touched me on the arm to call my attention. So
far then he was right: there was no mistaking the stalwart proportions
of Sandy. Suddenly across the gloom shot a tiny spear of light, and momentarily as
we watched, it grew larger and longer, till a tall beam, as from some
window cut in the rock opposite, was shed on the bank below us. It moved
slowly, imperceptibly to the left till it struck full between the two
black figures standing there, and shone with a curious bluish gleam on
the flat stone in front of them. Then the roar of the river was suddenly
overscored by a dreadful screaming voice, the voice of a woman, and from
her side her arms shot up and out as if in invocation of some power. At
first I could catch none of the words, but soon from repetition they
began to convey an intelligible message to my brain, and I was listening
as in the paralytic horror of nightmare to a bellowing of the most
hideous and un-nameable profanity. What I heard I cannot bring myself to
record; suffice it to say that Satan was invoked by every adoring and
reverent name, that cursing and unspeakable malediction was poured forth
on Him whom we hold most holy. Then the yelling voice ceased as
suddenly as it had begun, and for a moment there was silence again, but
for the reverberating river. Then once more that horror of sound was uplifted. “So, Catrine Gordon,” it cried, “I bid ye in the name of my master and
your’s to rise from where ye lie. Up with ye--up!”
Once more there was silence; then I heard Hugh at my elbow draw a quick
sobbing breath, and his finger pointed unsteadily to the dead black
water below the rock. And I too looked and saw. Right under the rock there appeared a pale subaqueous light, which waved
and quivered in the stream. At first it was very small and dim, but as
we looked it seemed to swim upwards from remote depths and grew larger
till I suppose the space of some square yard was illuminated by it. Then
the surface of the water was broken, and a head, the head of a girl,
dead-white and with long, flowing hair, appeared above the stream. Her
eyes were shut, the corners of her mouth drooped as in sleep, and the
moving water stood in a frill round her neck. Higher and higher rose the
figure out of the tide, till at last it stood, luminous in itself, so it
appeared, up to the middle. The head was bent down over the breast, and
the hands clasped together. As it emerged from the water it seemed to
get nearer, and was by now half-way across the pool, moving quietly and
steadily against the great flood of the hurrying river. Then I heard a man’s voice crying out in a sort of strangled agony. “Catrine!” it cried; “Catrine! In God’s name; in God’s name!”
In two strides Sandy had rushed down the steep bank, and hurled himself
out into that mad swirl of waters. For one moment I saw his arms flung
up into the sky, the next he had altogether gone. And on the utterance
of that name the unholy vision had vanished too, while simultaneously
there burst in front of us a light so blinding, followed by a crack of
thunder so appalling to the senses, that I know I just hid my face in my
hands. At once, as if the flood-gates of the sky had been opened, the
deluge was on us, not like rain, but like one sheet of solid water, so
that we cowered under it. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Any hope or attempt to rescue Sandy was out of
the question; to dive into that whirlpool of mad water meant instant
death, and even had it been possible for any swimmer to live there, in
the blackness of the night there was absolutely no chance of finding
him. Besides, even if it had been possible to save him, I doubt whether
I was sufficiently master of my flesh and blood as to endure to plunge
where that apparition had risen. Then, as we lay there, another horror filled and possessed my mind. Somewhere close to us in the darkness was that woman whose yelling voice
just now had made my blood run ice-cold, while it brought the streaming
sweat to my forehead. At that moment I turned to Hugh. “I cannot stop here,” I said. “I must run, run right away. Where is
She?”
“Did you not see?” he asked. “No. What happened?”
“The lightning struck the stone within a few inches of where she was
standing. We--we must go and look for her.”
I followed him down the slope, shaking as if I had the palsy, and
groping with my hands on the ground in front of me, in deadly terror of
encountering something human. The thunder-clouds had in the last few
minutes spread over the moon, so that no ray from the window in the rock
guided our search. But up and down the bank from the stone that lay
shattered there to the edge of the pool we groped and stumbled, but
found nothing. At length we gave it up: it seemed morally certain that
she, too, had rolled down the bank after the lightning stroke, and lay
somewhere deep in the pool from which she had called the dead. None fished the pool next day, but men with drag-nets came from Brora. Right under the rock in the backwater lay two bodies, close together,
Sandy and the dead girl. Of the other they found nothing. * * * * *
It would seem, then, that Catrine Gordon, in answer to Sandy’s letter,
left Inverness in heavy trouble. What happened afterwards can only be
conjectured, but it seems likely she took the short cut to Gavon,
meaning to cross the river on the boulders above the Picts’ pool. But
whether she slipped accidentally in her passage, and so was drawn down
by the hungry water, or whether, unable to face the future, she had
thrown herself into the pool, we can only guess. In any case they sleep
together now in the bleak, wind-swept graveyard at Brora, in obedience
to the inscrutable designs of God. THE CONFESSION OF CHARLES LINKWORTH
Dr Teesdale had occasion to attend the condemned man once or twice
during the week before his execution, and found him, as is often the
case, when his last hope of life has vanished, quiet and perfectly
resigned to his fate, and not seeming to look forward with any dread to
the morning that each hour that passed brought nearer and nearer. The
bitterness of death appeared to be over for him: it was done with when
he was told that his appeal was refused. But for those days while hope
was not yet quite abandoned, the wretched man had drank of death daily. In all his experience the doctor had never seen a man so wildly and
passionately tenacious of life, nor one so strongly knit to this
material world by the sheer animal lust of living. Then the news that
hope could no longer be entertained was told him, and his spirit passed
out of the grip of that agony of torture and suspense, and accepted the
inevitable with indifference. Yet the change was so extraordinary that
it seemed to the doctor rather that the news had completely stunned his
powers of feeling, and he was below the numbed surface, still knit into
material things as strongly as ever. He had fainted when the result was
told him, and Dr Teesdale had been called in to attend him. But the fit
was but transient, and he came out of it into full consciousness of what
had happened. The murder had been a deed of peculiar horror, and there was nothing of
sympathy in the mind of the public towards the perpetrator. Charles
Linkworth, who now lay under capital sentence, was the keeper of a small
stationery store in Sheffield, and there lived with him his wife and
mother. The latter was the victim of his atrocious crime; the motive of
it being to get possession of the sum of five hundred pounds, which was
this woman’s property. Linkworth, as came out at the trial, was in debt
to the extent of a hundred pounds at the time, and during his wife’s
absence from home, on a visit to relations, he strangled his mother, and
during the night buried the body in the small back-garden of his house. On his wife’s return, he had a sufficiently plausible tale to account
for the elder Mrs Linkworth’s disappearance, for there had been constant
jarrings and bickerings between him and his mother for the last year or
two, and she had more than once threatened to withdraw herself and the
eight shillings a week which she contributed to household expenses, and
purchase an annuity with her money. It was true, also, that during the
younger Mrs Linkworth’s absence from home, mother and son had had a
violent quarrel arising originally from some trivial point in household
management, and that in consequence of this, she had actually drawn her
money out of the bank, intending to leave Sheffield next day and settle
in London where she had friends. That evening she told him this, and
during the night he killed her. His next step, before his wife’s return, was logical and sound. He
packed up all his mother’s possessions and took them to the station,
from which he saw them despatched to town by passenger train, and in the
evening he asked several friends in to supper, and told them of his
mother’s departure. He did not (logically also, and in accordance with
what they probably already knew) feign regret, but said that he and she
had never got on well together, and that the cause of peace and
quietness was furthered by her going. He told the same story to his wife
on her return, identical in every detail, adding, however, that the
quarrel had been a violent one, and that his mother had not even left
him her address. This again was wisely thought of: it would prevent his
wife from writing to her. She appeared to accept his story completely:
indeed there was nothing strange or suspicious about it. For a while he behaved with the composure and astuteness which most
criminals possess up to a certain point, the lack of which, after that,
is generally the cause of their detection. He did not, for instance,
immediately pay off his debts, but took into his house a young man as
lodger, who occupied his mother’s room, and he dismissed the assistant
in his shop, and did the entire serving himself. This gave the
impression of economy, and at the same time he openly spoke of the great
improvement in his trade, and not till a month had passed did he cash
any of the bank-notes which he had found in a locked drawer in his
mother’s room. Then he changed two notes of fifty pounds and paid off
his creditors. At that point his astuteness and composure failed him. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
He opened a
deposit account at a local bank with four more fifty-pound notes,
instead of being patient, and increasing his balance at the savings bank
pound by pound, and he got uneasy about that which he had buried deep
enough for security in the back garden. Thinking to render himself safer
in this regard, he ordered a cartload of slag and stone fragments and
with the help of his lodger employed the summer evenings when work was
over, in building a sort of rockery over the spot. Then came the chance
circumstance which really set match to this dangerous train. There was a
fire in the lost luggage office at King’s Cross Station (from which he
ought to have claimed his mother’s property) and one of the two boxes
was partially burned. The company was liable for compensation, and his
mother’s name on her linen, and a letter with the Sheffield address on
it, led to the arrival of a purely official and formal notice, stating
that the company were prepared to consider claims. It was directed to
Mrs Linkworth, and Charles Linkworth’s wife received and read it. It seemed a sufficiently harmless document, but it was endorsed with his
death-warrant. For he could give no explanation at all of the fact of
the boxes still lying at King’s Cross Station, beyond suggesting that
some accident had happened to his mother. Clearly he had to put the
matter in the hands of the police, with a view to tracing her movements,
and if it proved that she was dead, claiming her property, which she had
already drawn out of the bank. Such at least was the course urged on him
by his wife and lodger, in whose presence the communication from the
railway officials was read out, and it was impossible to refuse to take
it. Then the silent, uncreaking machinery of justice, characteristic of
England, began to move forward. Quiet men lounged about Smith Street,
visited banks, observed the supposed increase in trade, and from a house
near by looked into the garden where ferns were already flourishing on
the rockery. Then came the arrest and the trial, which did not last very
long, and on a certain Saturday night the verdict. Smart women in large
hats had made the court bright with colour, and in all the crowd there
was not one who felt any sympathy with the young athletic-looking man
who was condemned. Many of the audience were elderly and respectable
mothers, and the crime had been an outrage on motherhood, and they
listened to the unfolding of the flawless evidence with strong approval. They thrilled a little when the judge put on the awful and ludicrous
little black cap, and spoke the sentence appointed by God. Linkworth went to pay the penalty for the atrocious deed, which no one
who had heard the evidence could possibly doubt that he had done, with
the same indifference as had marked his entire demeanour since he knew
his appeal had failed. The prison chaplain who had attended him had done
his utmost to get him to confess, but his efforts had been quite
ineffectual, and to the last he asserted, though without protestation,
his innocence. On a bright September morning, when the sun shone warm on
the terrible little procession that crossed the prison yard to the shed
where was erected the apparatus of death, justice was done, and Dr
Teesdale was satisfied that life was immediately extinct. He had been
present on the scaffold, had watched the bolt drawn, and the hooded and
pinioned figure drop into the pit. He had heard the chunk and creak of
the rope as the sudden weight came on to it, and looking down he had
seen the queer twitchings of the hanged body. They had lasted but a
second or two; the execution had been perfectly satisfactory. An hour later he made the post-mortem examination, and found that his
view had been correct: the vertebrae of the spine had been broken at the
neck, and death must have been absolutely instantaneous. It was hardly
necessary even to make that little piece of dissection that proved this,
but for the sake of form he did so. And at that moment he had a very
curious and vivid mental impression that the spirit of the dead man was
close beside him, as if it still dwelt in the broken habitation of its
body. But there was no question at all that the body was dead: it had
been dead an hour. Then followed another little circumstance that at the
first seemed insignificant though curious also. One of the warders
entered, and asked if the rope which had been used an hour ago, and was
the hangman’s perquisite, had by mistake been brought into the mortuary
with the body. But there was no trace of it, and it seemed to have
vanished altogether though it was a singular thing to be lost: it was
not here; it was not on the scaffold. And though the disappearance was
of no particular moment, it was quite inexplicable. Dr Teesdale was a bachelor and a man of independent means, and lived in
a tall-windowed and commodious house in Bedford Square, where a plain
cook of surpassing excellence looked after his food, and her husband his
person. There was no need for him to practise a profession at all, and
he performed his work at the prison for the sake of the study of the
minds of criminals. Most crime--the transgression, that is, of the rule
of conduct which the human race has framed for the sake of its own
preservation--he held to be either the result of some abnormality of the
brain, or of starvation. Crimes of theft, for instance, he would by no
means refer to one head; often it is true they were the result of actual
want, but more often dictated by some obscure disease of the brain. In
marked cases it was labelled as kleptomania, but he was convinced there
were many others which did not fall directly under the dictation of
physical need. More especially was this the case where the crime in
question involved also some deed of violence, and he mentally placed
underneath this heading, as he went home that evening, the criminal at
whose last moments he had been present that morning. The crime had been
abominable, the need of money not so very pressing, and the very
abomination and unnaturalness of the murder inclined him to consider the
murderer as lunatic rather than criminal. He had been, as far as was
known, a man of quiet and kindly disposition, a good husband, a sociable
neighbour. And then he had committed a crime, just one, which put him
outside all pales. So monstrous a deed, whether perpetrated by a sane
man or a mad one, was intolerable; there was no use for the doer of it
on this planet at all. But somehow the doctor felt that he would have
been more at one with the execution of justice, if the dead man had
confessed. It was morally certain that he was guilty, but he wished that
when there was no longer any hope for him, he had endorsed the verdict
himself. He dined alone that evening, and after dinner sat in his study which
adjoined the dining-room, and feeling disinclined to read, sat in his
great red chair opposite the fireplace, and let his mind graze where it
would. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
At once almost, it went back to the curious sensation he had
experienced that morning, of feeling that the spirit of Linkworth was
present in the mortuary, though life had been extinct for an hour. It
was not the first time, especially in cases of sudden death, that he had
felt a similar conviction, though perhaps it had never been quite so
unmistakable as it had been to-day. Yet the feeling, to his mind, was
quite probably formed on a natural and psychical truth. The spirit--it
may be remarked that he was a believer in the doctrine of future life,
and the non-extinction of the soul with the death of the body--was very
likely unable or unwilling to quit at once and altogether the earthly
habitation, very likely it lingered there, earth-bound, for a while. In
his leisure hours Dr Teesdale was a considerable student of the occult,
for like most advanced and proficient physicians, he clearly recognised
how narrow was the boundary of separation between soul and body, how
tremendous the influence of the intangible was over material things,
and it presented no difficulty to his mind that a disembodied spirit
should be able to communicate directly with those who still were bounded
by the finite and material. His meditations, which were beginning to group themselves into definite
sequence, were interrupted at this moment. On his desk near at hand
stood his telephone, and the bell rang, not with its usual metallic
insistence, but very faintly, as if the current was weak, or the
mechanism impaired. However, it certainly was ringing, and he got up and
took the combined ear and mouth-piece off its hook. “Yes, yes,” he said, “who is it?”
There was a whisper in reply almost inaudible, and quite unintelligible. “I can’t hear you,” he said. Again the whisper sounded, but with no greater distinctness. Then it
ceased altogether. He stood there, for some half minute or so, waiting for it to be
renewed, but beyond the usual chuckling and croaking, which showed,
however, that he was in communication with some other instrument, there
was silence. Then he replaced the receiver, rang up the Exchange, and
gave his number. “Can you tell me what number rang me up just now?” he asked. There was a short pause, then it was given him. It was the number of the
prison, where he was doctor. “Put me on to it, please,” he said. This was done. “You rang me up just now,” he said down the tube. “Yes; I am Doctor
Teesdale. What is it? I could not hear what you said.”
The voice came back quite clear and intelligible. “Some mistake, sir,” it said, “We haven’t rang you up.”
“But the exchange tells me you did, three minutes ago.”
“Mistake at the Exchange, sir,” said the voice. “Very odd. Well, good-night. Warder Draycott, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir; good-night, sir.”
Dr Teesdale went back to his big arm-chair, still less inclined to read. He let his thoughts wander on for a while, without giving them definite
direction, but ever and again his mind kept coming back to that strange
little incident of the telephone. Often and often he had been rung up by
some mistake, often and often he had been put on to the wrong number by
the exchange, but there was something in this very subdued ringing of
the telephone bell, and the unintelligible whisperings at the other end
that suggested a very curious train of reflection to his mind, and soon
he found himself pacing up and down his room, with his thoughts eagerly
feeding on a most unusual pasture. “But it’s impossible,” he said, aloud. He went down as usual to the prison next morning and once again he was
strangely beset with the feeling that there was some unseen presence
there. He had before now had some odd psychical experiences, and knew
that he was a “sensitive”--one, that is, who is capable, under certain
circumstances, of receiving supernormal impressions, and of having
glimpses of the unseen world that lies about us. And this morning the
presence of which he was conscious was that of the man who had been
executed yesterday morning. It was local, and he felt it most strongly
in the little prison yard, and as he passed the door of the condemned
cell. So strong was it there that he would not have been surprised if
the figure of the man had been visible to him, and as he passed through
the door at the end of the passage, he turned round, actually expecting
to see it. All the time, too, he was aware of a profound horror at his
heart, this unseen presence strangely disturbed him. And the poor soul,
he felt, wanted something done for it. Not for a moment did he doubt
that this impression of his was objective, it was no imaginative phantom
of his own invention that made itself so real. The spirit of Linkworth
was there. He passed into the infirmary, and for a couple of hours busied himself
with his work. But all the time he was aware that the same invisible
presence was near him, though its force was manifestly less here than in
those places which had been more intimately associated with the man. Finally, before he left, in order to test his theory he looked into the
execution shed. But next moment with a face suddenly stricken pale, he
came out again, closing the door hastily. At the top of the steps stood
a figure hooded and pinioned, but hazy of outline and only faintly
visible. But it was visible, there was no mistake about it. Dr Teesdale was a man of good nerve, and he recovered himself almost
immediately, ashamed of his temporary panic. The terror that had
blanched his face was chiefly the effect of startled nerves, not of
terrified heart, and yet deeply interested as he was in psychical
phenomena, he could not command himself sufficiently to go back there. Or rather he commanded himself, but his muscles refused to act on the
message. If this poor earth-bound spirit had any communication to make
to him, he certainly much preferred that it should be made at a
distance. As far as he could understand, its range was circumscribed. It
haunted the prison yard, the condemned cell, the execution shed, it was
more faintly felt in the infirmary. Then a further point suggested
itself to his mind, and he went back to his room and sent for Warder
Draycott, who had answered him on the telephone last night. “You are quite sure,” he asked, “that nobody rang me up last night, just
before I rang you up?”
There was a certain hesitation in the man’s manner which the doctor
noticed. “I don’t see how it could be possible, sir,” he said, “I had been
sitting close by the telephone for half an hour before, and again before
that. I must have seen him, if anyone had been to the instrument.”
“And you _saw_ no one?” said the doctor with a slight emphasis. The man became more markedly ill at ease. “No, sir, I _saw_ no one,” he said, with the same emphasis. Dr Teesdale looked away from him. “But you had perhaps the impression that there was some one there?” he
asked, carelessly, as if it was a point of no interest. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Clearly Warder Draycott had something on his mind, which he found it
hard to speak of. “Well, sir, if you put it like that,” he began. “But you would tell me I
was half asleep, or had eaten something that disagreed with me at my
supper.”
The doctor dropped his careless manner. “I should do nothing of the kind,” he said, “any more than you would
tell me that I had dropped asleep last night, when I heard my telephone
bell ring. Mind you, Draycott, it did not ring as usual, I could only
just hear it ringing, though it was close to me. And I could only hear a
whisper when I put my ear to it. But when you spoke I heard you quite
distinctly. Now I believe there was something--somebody--at this end of
the telephone. You were here, and though you saw no one, you, too, felt
there was someone there.”
The man nodded. “I’m not a nervous man, sir,” he said, “and I don’t deal in fancies. But
there was something there. It was hovering about the instrument, and it
wasn’t the wind, because there wasn’t a breath of wind stirring, and the
night was warm. And I shut the window to make certain. But it went about
the room, sir, for an hour or more. It rustled the leaves of the
telephone book, and it ruffled my hair when it came close to me. And it
was bitter cold, sir.”
The doctor looked him straight in the face. “Did it remind you of what had been done yesterday morning?” he asked
suddenly. Again the man hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said at length. “Convict Charles Linkworth.”
Dr Teesdale nodded reassuringly. “That’s it,” he said. “Now, are you on duty to-night?”
“Yes, sir, I wish I wasn’t.”
“I know how you feel, I have felt exactly the same myself. Now whatever
this is, it seems to want to communicate with me. By the way, did you
have any disturbance in the prison last night?”
“Yes, sir, there was half a dozen men who had the nightmare. Yelling
and screaming they were, and quiet men too, usually. It happens
sometimes the night after an execution. I’ve known it before, though
nothing like what it was last night.”
“I see. Now, if this--this thing you can’t see wants to get at the
telephone again to-night, give it every chance. It will probably come
about the same time. I can’t tell you why, but that usually happens. So
unless you must, don’t be in this room where the telephone is, just for
an hour to give it plenty of time between half past nine and half past
ten. I will be ready for it at the other end. Supposing I am rung up, I
will, when it has finished, ring you up to make sure that I was not
being called in--in the usual way. “And there is nothing to be afraid of, sir?” asked the man. Dr Teesdale remembered his own moment of terror this morning, but he
spoke quite sincerely. “I am sure there is nothing to be afraid of,” he said, reassuringly. Dr Teesdale had a dinner engagement that night, which he broke, and was
sitting alone in his study by half past nine. In the present state of
human ignorance as to the law which governs the movements of spirits
severed from the body, he could not tell the warder why it was that
their visits are so often periodic, timed to punctuality according to
our scheme of hours, but in scenes of tabulated instances of the
appearance of _revenants_, especially if the soul was in sore need of
help, as might be the case here, he found that they came at the same
hour of day or night. As a rule, too, their power of making themselves
seen or heard or felt, grew greater for some little while after death,
subsequently growing weaker as they became less earth-bound, or often
after that ceasing altogether, and he was prepared to-night for a less
indistinct impression. The spirit apparently for the early hours of its
disembodiment is weak, like a moth newly broken out from its
chrysalis--and then suddenly the telephone bell rang, not so faintly as
the night before, but still not with its ordinary imperative tone. Dr Teesdale instantly got up, put the receiver to his ears. And what he
heard was heart-broken sobbing, strong spasms that seemed to tear the
weeper. He waited for a little before speaking, himself cold with some nameless
fear, and yet profoundly moved to help, if he was able. “Yes, yes,” he said at length, hearing his own voice tremble. “I am Dr
Teesdale. What can I do for you? And who are you?” he added, though he
felt that it was a needless question. Slowly the sobbing died down, the whispers took its place, still broken
by crying. “I want to tell, sir--I want to tell--I must tell.”
“Yes, tell me, what is it?” said the doctor. “No, not you--another gentleman, who used to come to see me. Will you
speak to him what I say to you?--I can’t make him hear me or see me.”
“Who are you?” asked Dr Teesdale suddenly. “Charles Linkworth. I thought you knew. I am very miserable. I can’t
leave the prison--and it is cold. Will you send for the other
gentleman?”
“Do you mean the chaplain?” asked Dr Teesdale. “Yes, the chaplain. He read the service when I went across the yard
yesterday. I shan’t be so miserable when I have told.”
The doctor hesitated a moment. This was a strange story that he would
have to tell Mr Dawkins, the prison chaplain, that at the other end of
the telephone was the spirit of the man executed yesterday. And yet he
soberly believed that it was so that this unhappy spirit was in misery,
and wanted to “tell.” There was no need to ask what he wanted to tell. “Yes, I will ask him to come here,” he said at length. “Thank you, sir, a thousand times. You will make him come, won’t you?”
The voice was growing fainter. “It must be to-morrow night,” it said. “I can’t speak longer now. I have
to go to see--oh, my God, my God.”
The sobs broke out afresh, sounding fainter and fainter. But it was in a
frenzy of terrified interest that Dr Teesdale spoke. “To see what?” he cried “Tell me what you are doing, what is happening
to you?”
“I can’t tell you; I mayn’t tell you,” said the voice very faint. “That
is part----” and it died away altogether. Dr Teesdale waited a little, but there was no further sound of any kind,
except the chuckling and croaking of the instrument. He put the receiver
on to its hook again, and then became aware for the first time that his
forehead was streaming with some, cold dew of horror. His ears sang; his
heart beat very quick and faint, and he sat down to recover himself. Once or twice he asked himself if it was possible that some terrible
joke was being played on him, but he knew that could not be so; he felt
perfectly sure that he had been speaking with a soul in torment of
contrition for the terrible and irremediable act it had committed. It
was no delusion of his senses, either; here in this comfortable room of
his in Bedford Square, with London cheerfully roaring round him, he had
spoken with the spirit of Charles Linkworth. But he had no time (nor indeed inclination, for somehow his soul sat
shuddering within him) to indulge in meditation. First of all he rang up
the prison. “Warder Draycott?” he asked. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
There was a perceptible tremor in the man’s voice as he answered. “Yes, sir. Is it Dr Teesdale?”
“Yes. Has anything happened here with you?”
Twice it seemed that the man tried to speak and could not. At the third
attempt the words came. “Yes, sir. He has been here. I saw him go into the room where the
telephone is.”
“Ah! Did you speak to him?”
“No, sir: I sweated and prayed. And there’s half a dozen men as have
been screaming in their sleep to-night. But it’s quiet again now. I
think he has gone into the execution shed.”
“Yes. Well, I think there will be no more disturbance now. By the way,
please give me Mr Dawkins’s home address.”
* * * * *
This was given him, and Dr Teesdale proceeded to write to the chaplain,
asking him to dine with him on the following night. But suddenly he
found that he could not write at his accustomed desk, with the telephone
standing close to him, and he went upstairs to the drawing-room which he
seldom used, except when he entertained his friends. There he recaptured
the serenity of his nerves, and could control his hand. The note simply
asked Mr Dawkins to dine with him next night, when he wished to tell him
a very strange history and ask his help. “Even if you have any other
engagement,” he concluded, “I seriously request you to give it up. To-night, I did the same. I should bitterly have regretted it if I had
not.”
Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor’s
dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the
doctor spoke. “You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins,” he said, “when you hear
what I have got to tell you.”
Mr Dawkins laughed. “I will certainly promise not to do that,” he said. “Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening
than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we
saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth.”
The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed. “Teesdale,” he said, “is it to tell me this--I don’t want to be
rude--but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here his evening?”
“Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold
of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it
is.”
Dawkins got up. “Please let me hear no more of it,” he said. “The dead do not return. In
what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to
us. But they have done with all material things.”
“But I must tell you more,” said the doctor. “Two nights ago I was rung
up, but very faintly, and could hear only whispers. I instantly inquired
where the call came from and was told it came from the prison. I rang
up the prison, and Warder Draycott told me that nobody had rung me up. He, too, was conscious of a presence.”
“I think that man drinks,” said Dawkins, sharply. The doctor paused a moment. “My dear fellow, you should not say that sort of thing,” he said. “He is
one of the steadiest men we have got. And if he drinks, why not I also?”
The chaplain sat down again. “You must forgive me,” he said, “but I can’t go into this. These are
dangerous matters to meddle with. Besides, how do you know it is not a
hoax?”
“Played by whom?” asked the doctor. “Hark!”
The telephone bell suddenly rang. It was clearly audible to the doctor. “Don’t you hear it?” he said. “Hear what?”
“The telephone bell ringing.”
“I hear no bell,” said the chaplain, rather angrily. “There is no bell
ringing.”
The doctor did not answer, but went through into his study, and turned
on the lights. Then he took the receiver and mouthpiece off its hook. “Yes?” he said, in a voice that trembled. “Who is it? Yes: Mr Dawkins is
here. I will try and get him to speak to you.”
He went back into the other room. “Dawkins,” he said, “there is a soul in agony. I pray you to listen. For God’s sake come and listen.”
The chaplain hesitated a moment. “As you will,” he said. He took up the receiver and put it to his ear. “I am Mr Dawkins,” he said. He waited. “I can hear nothing whatever,” he said at length. “Ah, there was
something there. The faintest whisper.”
“Ah, try to hear, try to hear!” said the doctor. Again the chaplain listened. Suddenly he laid the instrument down,
frowning. “Something--somebody said, ‘I killed her, I confess it. I want to be
forgiven.’ It’s a hoax, my dear Teesdale. Somebody knowing your
spiritualistic leanings is playing a very grim joke on you. I _can’t_
believe it.”
Dr Teesdale took up the receiver. “I am Dr Teesdale,” he said. “Can you give Mr Dawkins some sign that it
is you?”
Then he laid it down again. “He says he thinks he can,” he said. “We must wait.”
The evening was again very warm, and the window into the paved yard at
the back of the house was open. For five minutes or so the two men stood
in silence, waiting, and nothing happened. Then the chaplain spoke. “I think that is sufficiently conclusive,” he said. Even as he spoke a very cold draught of air suddenly blew into the room,
making the papers on the desk rustle. Dr Teesdale went to the window and
closed it. “Did you feel that?” he asked. “Yes, a breath of air. Chilly.”
Once again in the closed room it stirred again. “And did you feel that?” asked the doctor. The chaplain nodded. He felt his heart hammering in his throat suddenly. “Defend us from all peril and danger of this coming night,” he
exclaimed. “Something is coming!” said the doctor. As he spoke it came. In the centre of the room not three yards away from
them stood the figure of a man with his head bent over on to his
shoulder, so that the face was not visible. Then he took his head in
both his hands and raised it like a weight, and looked them in the face. The eyes and tongue protruded, a livid mark was round the neck. Then
there came a sharp rattle on the boards of the floor, and the figure was
no longer there. But on the floor there lay a new rope. For a long while neither spoke. The sweat poured off the doctor’s face,
and the chaplain’s white lips whispered prayers. Then by a huge effort
the doctor pulled himself together. He pointed at the rope. “It has been missing since the execution,” he said. Then again the telephone bell rang. This time the chaplain needed no
prompting. He went to it at once and the ringing ceased. For a while he
listened in silence. “Charles Linkworth,” he said at length, “in the sight of God, in whose
presence you stand, are you truly sorry for your sin?”
Some answer inaudible to the doctor came, and the chaplain closed his
eyes. And Dr Teesdale knelt as he heard the words of the Absolution. At the close there was silence again. “I can hear nothing more,” said the chaplain, replacing the receiver. Presently the doctor’s man-servant came in with the tray of spirits and
syphon. Dr Teesdale pointed without looking to where the apparition had
been. “Take the rope that is there and burn it, Parker,” he said. There was a moment’s silence. “There is no rope, sir,” said Parker. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
AT ABDUL ALI’S GRAVE
Luxor, as most of those who have been there will allow, is a place of
notable charm, and boasts many attractions for the traveller, chief
among which he will reckon an excellent hotel containing a
billiard-room, a garden fit for the gods to sit in, any quantity of
visitors, at least a weekly dance on board a tourist steamer, quail
shooting, a climate as of Avilion, and a number of stupendously ancient
monuments for those archæologically inclined. But to certain others, few
indeed in number, but almost fanatically convinced of their own
orthodoxy, the charm of Luxor, like some sleeping beauty, only wakes
when these things cease, when the hotel has grown empty and the
billiard-marker “has gone for a long rest” to Cairo, when the decimated
quail and the decimating tourist have fled northwards, and the Theban
plain, Danæ to a tropical sun, is a gridiron across which no man would
willingly make a journey by day, not even if Queen Hatasoo herself
should signify that she would give him audience on the terraces of
Deir-el-Bahari. A suspicion however that the fanatic few were right, for
in other respects they were men of estimable opinions, induced me to
examine their convictions for myself, and thus it came about that two
years ago, certain days toward the beginning of June saw me still there,
a confirmed convert. Much tobacco and the length of summer days had assisted us to the
analysis of the charm of which summer in the south is possessed, and
Weston--one of the earliest of the elect--and myself had discussed it at
some length, and though we reserved as the principal ingredient a
nameless something which baffled the chemist, and must be felt to be
understood, we were easily able to detect certain other drugs of sight
and sound, which we were agreed, contributed to the whole. A few of them
are here subjoined. The waking in the warm darkness just before dawn to find that the desire
for stopping in bed fails with the awakening. The silent start across the Nile in the still air with our horses, who,
like us, stand and sniff at the incredible sweetness of the coming
morning without apparently finding it less wonderful in repetition. The moment infinitesimal in duration but infinite in sensation, just
before the sun rises, when the grey shrouded river is struck suddenly
out of darkness, and becomes a sheet of green bronze. The rose flush, rapid as a change of colour in some chemical
combination, which shoots across the sky from east to west, followed
immediately by the sunlight which catches the peaks of the western
hills, and flows down like some luminous liquid. The stir and whisper which goes through the world: a breeze springs up;
a lark soars and sings; the boatman shouts “Yallah. Yallah”; the horses
toss their heads. The subsequent ride. The subsequent breakfast on our return. The subsequent absence of anything to do. At sunset the ride into the desert thick with the scent of warm barren
sand, which smells like nothing else in the world, for it smells of
nothing at all. The blaze of the tropical night. Camel’s milk. Converse with the fellahin, who are the most charming and least
accountable people on the face of the earth except when tourists are
about, and when in consequence there is no thought but backsheesh. Lastly, and with this we are concerned, the possibility of odd
experiences. * * * * *
The beginning of the things which make this tale occurred four days ago,
when Abdul Ali, the oldest man in the village, died suddenly, full of
days and riches. Both, some thought, had probably been somewhat
exaggerated, but his relations affirmed without variation that he had as
many years as he had English pounds, and that each was a hundred. The
apt roundness of these numbers was incontestable, the thing was too
neat not to be true, and before he had been dead for twenty-four hours,
it was a matter of orthodoxy. But with regard to his relations, that
which turned their bereavement, which must soon have occurred, into a
source of blank dismay instead of pious resignation, was that not one of
these English pounds, not even their less satisfactory equivalent in
notes, which, out of the tourist season, are looked upon at Luxor as a
not very dependable variety of Philosopher’s stone, though certainly
capable of producing gold under favourable circumstances, could be
found. Abdul Ali with his hundred years was dead, his century of
sovereigns--they might as well have been an annuity--were dead with him,
and his son Mohamed, who had previously enjoyed a sort of brevet rank in
anticipation of the event, was considered to be throwing far more dust
in the air than the genuine affection even of a chief mourner wholly
justified. Abdul, it is to be feared, was not a man of stereotyped respectability;
though full of years and riches, he enjoyed no great reputation for
honour. He drank wine whenever he could get it, he ate food during the
days of Ramadan, scornful of the fact, when his appetite desired it, he
was supposed to have the evil eye, and in his last moments he was
attended by the notorious Achmet, who is well known here to be practised
in Black Magic, and has been suspected of the much meaner crime of
robbing the bodies of those lately dead. For in Egypt, while to despoil
the bodies of ancient kings and priests is a privilege for which
advanced and learned societies vie with each other, to rob the corpses
of your contemporaries, is considered the deed of a dog. Mohamed who
soon exchanged the throwing of dust in the air for the more natural mode
of expressing chagrin, which is to gnaw the nails, told us in confidence
that he suspected Achmet of having ascertained the secret of where his
father’s money was, but it appeared that Achmet had as blank a face as
anybody when his patient, who was striving to make some communication to
him, went out into the great silence, and the suspicion that he knew
where the money was, gave way, in the minds of those who were competent
to form an estimate of his character, to a but dubious regret that he
had just failed to learn that very important fact. So Abdul died and was buried, and we all went to the funeral feast at
which we ate more roast meat than one naturally cares about at five in
the afternoon on a June day, in consequence of which Weston and I, not
requiring dinner, stopped at home after our return from the ride into
the desert, and talked to Mohamed, Abdul’s son, and Hussein, Abdul’s
youngest grandson, a boy of about twenty, who is also our valet, cook
and housemaid, and they together woefully narrated of the money that had
been and was not, and told us scandalous tales about Achmet concerning
his weakness for cemeteries. They drank coffee and smoked, for though
Hussein was our servant, we had been that day the guests of his father,
and shortly after they had gone, up came Machmout. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Machmout, who says he thinks he is twelve, but does not know for
certain, is kitchen-maid, groom and gardener, and has to an
extraordinary degree some occult power resembling clairvoyance. Weston,
who is a member of the Society for Psychical Research, and the tragedy
of whose life has been the detection of the fraudulent medium Mrs Blunt,
says that it is all thought-reading, and has made notes of many of
Machmout’s performances, which may subsequently turn out to be of
interest. Thought-reading, however, does not seem to me to fully explain
the experience which followed Abdul’s funeral, and with Machmout I have
to put it down to White Magic, which should be a very inclusive term, or
to Pure Coincidence, which is even more inclusive, and will cover all
the inexplicable phenomena of the world, taken singly. Machmout’s method
of unloosing the forces of White Magic is simple, being the ink-mirror
known by name to many, and it is as follows. A little black ink is poured into the palm of Machmout’s hand, or, as
ink has been at a premium lately owing to the last post-boat from Cairo
which contained stationery for us, having stuck on a sand-bank, a small
piece of black American cloth about an inch in diameter, is found to be
a perfect substitute. Upon this he gazes. After five or ten minutes his
shrewd monkey-like expression is struck from his face, his eyes, wide
open, remain fixed on the cloth, a complete rigidity sets in over his
muscles, and he tells us of the curious things he sees. In whatever
position he is, in that position he remains without the deflection of a
hair’s breadth until the ink is washed off or the cloth removed. Then he
looks up and says, “Khalás,” which means, “It is finished.”
We only engaged Machmout’s services as second general domestic a
fortnight ago, but the first evening he was with us he came upstairs
when he had finished his work, and said, “I will show you White Magic;
give me ink,” and proceeded to describe the front hall of our house in
London, saying that there were two horses at the door, and that a man
and woman soon came out, gave the horses each a piece of bread and
mounted. The thing was so probable that by the next mail I wrote asking
my mother to write down exactly what she was doing and where at half
past five (English time) on the evening of June 12. At the corresponding
time in Egypt Machmout was describing speaking to us of a “sitt” (lady)
having tea in a room which he described with some minuteness, and I am
waiting anxiously for her letter. The explanation which Weston gives us
of all these phenomena, is that a certain picture of people I know is
present in my mind, though I may not be aware of it,--present to my
subliminal self, I think, he says,--and that I give an unspoken
suggestion to the hypnotised Machmout. My explanation is that there
isn’t any explanation, for no suggestion on my part would make my
brother go out and ride at the moment when Machmout says he is so doing
(if indeed we find that Machmout’s visions are chronologically correct). Consequently I prefer the open mind and am prepared to believe anything. Weston, however, does not speak quite so calmly or scientifically about
Machmout’s last performance, and since it took place, he has almost
entirely ceased to urge me to become a member of the Society for
Psychical Research, in order that I may no longer be hidebound by vain
superstitions. Machmout will not exercise these powers if his own folk are present, for
he says that when he is in this state, if a man who knew Black Magic was
in the room, or knew that he was practising White Magic, he could get
the spirit who presides over the Black Magic to kill the spirit of White
Magic, for the Black Magic is the more potent, and the two are foes. And
as the spirit of White Magic is on occasions a powerful friend--he had
before now befriended Machmout in a manner which I consider
incredible--Machmout is very desirous that he should abide long with
him. But Englishmen it appears do not know the Black Magic, so with us
he is safe. The spirit of Black Magic, to speak to whom it is death,
Machmout saw once “between heaven and earth, and night and day,” so he
phrases it, on the Karnak road. He may be known, he told us, by the fact
that he is of paler skin than his people, that he has two long teeth,
one in each corner of his mouth, and that his eyes, which are white all
over, are as big as the eyes of a horse. Machmout squatted himself comfortably in the corner, and I gave him the
piece of black American cloth. As some minutes must elapse before he
gets into the hypnotic state in which the visions begin, I strolled out
on to the balcony for coolness. It was the hottest night we had yet had,
and though the sun had set three hours, the thermometer still registered
close on 100°. Above, the sky seemed veiled with grey, where it should
have been dark velvety blue, and a fitful puffing wind from the south
threatened three days of the sandy intolerable khamseen. A little way up
the street to the left was a small café in front of which were glowing
and waning little glowworm specks of light from the water pipes of Arabs
sitting out there in the dark. From inside came the click of brass
castanets in the hands of some dancing-girl, sounding sharp and precise
against the wailing bagpipe music of the strings and pipes which
accompany these movements which Arabs love and Europeans think so
unpleasing. Eastwards the sky was paler and luminous, for the moon was
imminently rising, and even as I looked the red rim of the enormous disc
cut the line of the desert, and on the instant with a curious aptness,
one of the Arabs outside the café broke out into that wonderful chant--
“I cannot sleep for longing for thee, O full moon
Far is thy throne over Mecca, slip down, O beloved, to me.”
Immediately afterwards I heard the piping monotone of Machmout’s voice
begin, and in a moment or two I went inside. We have found that the experiments gave the quickest result by contact,
a fact which confirmed Weston in his explanation of them by thought
transference of some elaborate kind, which I confess I cannot
understand. He was writing at a table in the window when I came in, but
looked up. “Take his hand,” he said, “at present he is quite incoherent.”
“Do you explain that?” I asked. “It is closely analogous, so Myers thinks, to talking in sleep. He has
been saying something about a tomb. Do make a suggestion, and see if he
gives it right. He is remarkably sensitive and he responds quicker to
you than to me. Probably Abdul’s funeral suggested the tomb!”
A sudden thought struck me. “Hush!” I said, “I want to listen.”
Machmout’s head was thrown a little back, and he held the hand in which
was the piece of cloth rather above his face. As usual he was talking
very slowly, and in a high staccato voice, absolutely unlike his usual
tones. “On one side of the grave,” he piped, “is a tamarisk tree, and the green
beetles make _fantasia_ about it. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
On the other side is a mud wall. There
are many other graves about, but they are all asleep. This is _the_
grave, because it is awake, and is moist and not sandy.”
“I thought so,” said Weston, “It is Abdul’s grave he is talking about.”
“There is a red moon sitting on the desert,” continued Machmout, “and it
is now. There is the puffing of khamseen, and much dust coming. The moon
is red with dust, and because it is low.”
“Still sensitive to external conditions,” said Weston. “That is rather
curious. Pinch him, will you?”
I pinched Machmout; he did not pay the slightest attention. “In the last house of the street, and in the doorway stands a man. Ah! ah!” cried the boy suddenly, “it is the Black Magic he knows. Don’t let
him come. He is going out of the house,” he shrieked, “he is coming--no,
he is going the other way, towards the moon and the grave. He has the
Black Magic with him, which can raise the dead, and he has a murdering
knife, and a spade. I cannot see his face for the Black Magic is between
it and my eyes.”
Weston had got up, and, like me, was hanging on Machmout’s words. “We will go there,” he said. “Here is an opportunity of testing it. Listen a moment.”
“He is walking, walking, walking,” piped Machmout, “still walking to the
moon and the grave. The moon sits no longer on the desert, but has
sprung up a little way.”
I pointed out of the window. “That at any rate is true,” I said. Weston took the cloth out of Machmout’s hand, and the piping ceased. In
a moment he stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes. “Khalás,” he said. “Yes, it is Khalás.”
“Did I tell you of the sitt in England?” he asked. “Yes, oh, yes,” I answered; “thank you, little Machmout. The White Magic
was very good to-night. Get you to bed.”
Machmout trotted obediently out of the room, and Weston closed the door
after him. “We must be quick,” he said. “It is worth while going and giving the
thing a chance, though I wish he had seen something less gruesome. The
odd thing is that he was not at the funeral, and yet he describes the
grave accurately. What do you make of it?”
“I make that the White Magic has shown Machmout that somebody with
black magic is going to Abdul’s grave, perhaps to rob it,” I answered
resolutely. “What are we to do when we get there?” asked Weston. “See the Black Magic at work. Personally I am in a blue funk. So are
you.”
“There is no such thing as Black Magic,” said Weston. “Ah, I have it. Give me that orange.”
Weston rapidly skinned it, and cut from the rind two circles as big as a
five shilling piece, and two long, white fangs of skin. The first he
fixed in his eye, the two latter in the corners of his mouth. “The spirit of Black Magic?” I asked. “The same.”
He took up a long black burnous and wrapped it round him. Even in the
bright lamp light, the spirit of black magic was a sufficiently terrific
personage. “I don’t believe in black magic,” he said, “but others do. If it is
necessary to put a stop to--to anything that is going on, we will hoist
the man on his own petard. Come along. Whom do you suspect it is--I
mean, of course, who was the person you were thinking of when your
thoughts were transferred to Machmout.”
“What Machmout said,” I answered, “suggested Achmet to me.”
Weston indulged in a laugh of scientific incredulity, and we set off. The moon, as the boy had told us, was just clear of the horizon, and as
it rose higher, its colour at first red and sombre, like the blaze of
some distant conflagration, paled to a tawny yellow. The hot wind from
the south, blowing no longer fitfully but with a steadily increasing
violence was thick with sand, and of an incredibly scorching heat, and
the tops of the palm trees in the garden of the deserted hotel on the
right were lashing themselves to and fro with a harsh rattle of dry
leaves. The cemetery lay on the outskirts of the village, and, as long
as our way lay between the mud walls of the huddling street, the wind
came to us only as the heat from behind closed furnace doors. Every now
and then with a whisper and whistle rising into a great buffeting flap,
a sudden whirlwind of dust would scour some twenty yards along the road,
and then break like a shore-quenched wave against one or other of the
mud walls or throw itself heavily against a house and fall in a shower
of sand. But once free of obstructions we were opposed to the full heat
and blast of the wind which blew full in our teeth. It was the first
summer khamseen of the year, and for the moment I wished I had gone
north with the tourist and the quail and the billiard marker, for
khamseen fetches the marrow out of the bones, and turns the body to
blotting paper. We passed no one in the street, and the only sound we
heard, except the wind, was the howling of moonstruck dogs. The cemetery is surrounded by a tall mud-built wall, and sheltering for
a few moments under this we discussed our movements. The row of
tamarisks close to which the tomb lay went down the centre of the
graveyard, and by skirting the wall outside and climbing softly over
where they approached it, the fury of the wind might help us to get near
the grave without being seen, if anyone happened to be there. We had
just decided on this, and were moving on to put the scheme into
execution, when the wind dropped for a moment, and in the silence we
could hear the chump of the spade being driven into the earth, and what
gave me a sudden thrill of intimate horror, the cry of the
carrion-feeding hawk from the dusty sky just overhead. Two minutes later we were creeping up in the shade of the tamarisks, to
where Abdul had been buried. The great green beetles which live on the
trees were flying about blindly, and once or twice one dashed into my
face with a whirr of mail-clad wings. When we were within some twenty
yards of the grave we stopped for a moment, and, looking cautiously out
from our shelter of tamarisks, saw the figure of a man already waist
deep in the earth, digging out the newly turned grave. Weston, who was
standing behind me had adjusted the characteristics of the spirit of
Black Magic so as to be ready for emergencies, and turning round
suddenly, and finding myself unawares face to face with that realistic
impersonation, though my nerves are not precariously strong, I could
have found it within me to shriek aloud. But that unsympathetic man of
iron only shook with suppressed laughter, and, holding the eyes in his
hand, motioned me forward again without speaking to where the trees grew
thicker. There we stood not a dozen yards away from the grave. We waited, I suppose, for some ten minutes, while the man, whom we saw
to be Achmet, toiled on at his impious task. He was entirely naked, and
his brown skin glistened with the dews of exertion in the moonlight. At
times he chattered in a cold uncanny manner to himself, and once or
twice he stopped for breath. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Then he began scraping the earth away with
his hands, and soon afterwards searched in his clothes which were lying
near for a piece of rope, with which he stepped into the grave, and in a
moment reappeared again with both ends in his hands. Then, standing
astride the grave, he pulled strongly, and one end of the coffin
appeared above the ground. He chipped a piece of the lid away to make
sure that he had the right end, and then, setting it upright, wrenched
off the top with his knife and there faced us leaning against the coffin
lid, the small shrivelled figure of the dead Abdul, swathed like a baby
in white. I was just about to motion the spirit of Black Magic to make his
appearance, when Machmout’s words came into my head: “He has with him
the Black Magic which can raise the dead,” and sudden overwhelming
curiosity, which froze disgust and horror into chill unfeeling things,
came over me. “Wait,” I whispered to Weston, “he will use the Black Magic.”
Again the wind dropped for a moment, and again, in the silence that came
with it, I heard the chiding of the hawk overhead, this time nearer, and
thought I heard more birds than one. Achmet meantime had taken the covering from off the face, and had undone
the swathing band, which at the moment after death is bound round the
chin to close the jaw, and in Arab burial is always left there, and from
where we stood I could see that the jaw dropped when the bandage was
untied, as if, though the wind blew towards us with a ghastly scent of
mortality on it, the muscles were not even now set, though the man had
been dead sixty hours. But still a rank and burning curiosity to see
what this unclean ghoul would do next stifled all other feelings in my
mind. He seemed not to notice, or, at any rate, to disregard that mouth
gaping awry, and moved about nimbly in the moonlight. He took from a pocket of his clothes, which were lying near, two small
black objects, which now are safely embedded in the mud at the bottom of
the Nile, and rubbed them briskly together. By degrees they grew
luminous with a sickly yellow pallor of light, and from his hands went
up a wavy, phosphorescent flame. One of these cubes he placed in the
open mouth of the corpse, the other in his own, and, taking the dead man
closely in his arms as though he would indeed dance with death, he
breathed long breaths from his mouth into that dead cavern which was
pressed to his. Suddenly he started back with a quick-drawn breath of
wonder and perhaps of horror, and stood for a space as if irresolute,
for the cube which the dead man held instead of lying loosely in the
jaw, was pressed tight between clenched teeth. After a moment of
irresolution he stepped back quickly to his clothes again, and took up
from near them the knife with which he had stripped off the coffin lid,
and holding this in one hand behind his back, with the other he took out
the cube from the dead man’s mouth, though with a visible exhibition of
force, and spoke. “Abdul,” he said, “I am your friend, and I swear I will give your money
to Mohamed, if you will tell me where it is.”
Certain I am that the lips of the dead moved, and the eyelids fluttered
for a moment like the wings of a wounded bird, but at that sight, the
horror so grew on me that I was physically incapable of stifling the cry
that rose to my lips, and Achmet turned round. Next moment the complete
Spirit of Black Magic glided out of the shade of the trees, and stood
before him. The wretched man stood for a moment without stirring, then,
turning with shaking knees to flee, he stepped back and fell into the
grave he had just opened. Weston turned on me angrily, dropping the eyes and the teeth of the
Afrit. “You spoiled it all,” he cried. “It would perhaps have been the most
interesting ...” and his eye lighted on the dead Abdul, who peered
open-eyed from the coffin, then swayed, tottered, and fell forward, face
downwards on the ground close to him. For one moment he lay there, and
then the body rolled slowly on to its back without visible cause of
movement, and lay staring into the sky. The face was covered with dust,
but with the dust was mingled fresh blood. A nail had caught the cloth
that wound him, underneath which as usual were the clothes in which he
had died, for the Arabs do not wash their dead, and it had torn a great
rent through them all, leaving the right shoulder bare. Weston strove to speak once, but failed. Then:
“I will go and inform the police,” he said, “if you will stop here, and
see that Achmet does not get out.”
But this I altogether refused to do, and, after covering the body with
the coffin to protect it from the hawks, we secured Achmet’s arms with
the rope he had already used that night, and took him off to Luxor. Next morning Mohamed came to see us. “I thought Achmet knew where the money was,” he said exultantly. “Where was it?”
“In a little purse tied round the shoulder. The dog had already begun
stripping it. See”--and he brought it out of his pocket--“it is all
there in those English notes, five pounds each, and there are twenty of
them.”
Our conclusion was slightly different, for even Weston will allow that
Achmet _hoped_ to learn from dead lips the secret of the treasure, and
then to kill the man anew and bury him. But that is pure conjecture. The only other point of interest lies in the two black cubes which we
picked up, and found to be graven with curious characters. These I put
one evening into Machmout’s hand, when he was exhibiting to us his
curious powers of “thought transference.” The effect was that he
screamed aloud, crying out that the Black Magic had come, and though I
did not feel certain about that, I thought they would be safer in
mid-Nile. Weston grumbled a little, and said that he had wanted to take
them to the British Museum, but that I feel sure was an afterthought. THE SHOOTINGS OF ACHNALEISH
The dining-room windows, both front and back, the one looking into
Oakley Street, the other into a small back-yard with three sooty shrubs
in it (known as the garden), were all open, so that the table stood in
mid-stream of such air as there was. But in spite of this the heat was
stifling, since, for once in a way, July had remembered that it was the
duty of good little summers to be hot. Hot in consequence it had been:
heat reverberated from the house-walls, it rose through the boot from
the paving-stones, it poured down from a large superheated sun that
walked the sky all day long in a benignant and golden manner. Dinner was
over, but the small party of four who had eaten it still lingered. Mabel Armytage--it was she who had laid down the duty of good little
summers--spoke first. “Oh, Jim, it sounds too heavenly,” she said. “It makes me feel cool to
think of it. Just fancy, in a fortnight’s time we shall all four of us
be there, in our own shooting-lodge----”
“Farm-house,” said Jim. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“Well, I didn’t suppose it was Balmoral, with our own coffee-coloured
salmon river roaring down to join the waters of our own loch.”
Jim lit a cigarette. “Mabel, you mustn’t think of shooting-lodges and salmon rivers and
lochs,” he said. “It’s a farm-house, rather a big one, though I’m sure
we shall find it hard enough to fit in. The salmon river you speak of is
a big burn, no more, though it appears that salmon have been caught
there. But when I saw it, it would have required as much cleverness on
the part of a salmon to fit into it as it will require on our parts to
fit into our farm-house. And the loch is a tarn.”
Mabel snatched the “Guide to Highland Shootings” out of my hand with a
rudeness that even a sister should not show her elder brother, and
pointed a withering finger at her husband. “‘Achnaleish,’” she declaimed, “‘is situated in one of the grandest and
most remote parts of Sutherlandshire. To be let from August 12 till the
end of October, the lodge with shooting and fishing belonging. Proprietor supplies two keepers, fishing-gillie, boat on loch, and dogs. Tenant should secure about 500 head of grouse and 500 head of mixed
game, including partridge, black-game, woodcock, snipe, roe deer; also
rabbits in very large number, especially by ferreting. Large baskets of
brown trout can be taken from the loch, and whenever the water is high
sea-trout and occasional salmon. Lodge contains’--I can’t go on; it’s
too hot, and you know the rest. Rent only £350!”
Jim listened patiently. “Well?” he said. “What then?”
Mabel rose with dignity. “It _is_ a shooting-lodge with a salmon river and a loch, just as I have
said. Come, Madge, let’s go out. It is too hot to sit in the house.”
“You’ll be calling Buxton ‘the major-domo’ next,” remarked Jim, as his
wife passed him. I had picked up the “Guide to Highland Shootings” again which my sister
had so unceremoniously plucked from me, and idly compared the rent and
attractions of Achnaleish with other places that were to let. “Seems cheap, too,” I said. “Why, here’s another place, just the same
sort of size and bag, for which they ask £500; here’s another at £550.”
Jim helped himself to coffee. “Yes, it does seem cheap,” he said. “But, of course, it’s very remote:
it took me a good three hours from Lairg, and I don’t suppose I was
driving very noticeably below the legal limit. But it’s cheap, as you
say.”
Now, Madge (who is my wife) has her prejudices. One of them--an
extremely expensive one--is that anything cheap has always some hidden
and subtle drawback, which you discover when it is too late. And the
drawback to cheap houses is drains or offices--the presence, so to
speak, of the former, and the absence of the latter. So I hazarded
these. “No, the drains are all right,” said Jim, “because I got the certificate
of the inspector, and as for offices, really I think the servants’ parts
are better than ours. No--why it’s so cheap, I can’t imagine.”
“Perhaps the bag is overstated,” I suggested. Jim again shook his head. “No, that’s the funny thing about it,” he said. “The bag, I am sure, is
understated. At least, I walked over the moor for a couple of hours, and
the whole place is simply crawling with hares. Why, you could shoot five
hundred hares alone on it.”
“Hares?” I asked. “That’s rather queer, so far up, isn’t it?”
Jim laughed. “So I thought. And the hares are queer, too; big beasts, very dark in
colour. Let’s join the others outside. Jove! what a hot night!”
* * * * *
Even as Mabel had said, that day fortnight found us all four, the four
who had stifled and sweltered in Chelsea, flying through the cool and
invigorating winds of the North. The road was in admirable condition,
and I should not wonder if for the second time Jim’s big Napier went not
noticeably below the legal limit. The servants had gone straight up,
starting the same day as we, while we had got out at Perth, motored to
Inverness, and were now, on the second day, nearing our goal. Never
have I seen so depopulated a road. I do not suppose there was a man to a
mile of it. We had left Lairg about five that afternoon, expecting to arrive at
Achnaleish by eight, but one disaster after another overtook us. Now it
was the engine, and now a tyre that delayed us, till finally we stopped
some eight miles short of our destination, to light up, for with evening
had come a huge wrack of cloud out of the West, so that we were cheated
of the clear post-sunset twilight of the North. Then on again, till,
with a little dancing of the car over a bridge, Jim said:
“That’s the bridge of our salmon river; so look out for the turning up
to the lodge. It is to the right, and only a narrow track. You can send
her along, Sefton,” he called to the chauffeur; “we shan’t meet a soul.”
I was sitting in front, finding the speed and the darkness
extraordinarily exhilarating. A bright circle of light was cast by our
lamps, fading into darkness in front, while at the sides, cut off by the
casing of the lamps, the transition into blackness was sharp and sudden. Every now and then, across this circle of illumination some wild thing
would pass: now a bird, with hurried flutter of wings when it saw the
speed of the luminous monster, would just save itself from being knocked
over; now a rabbit feeding by the side of the road would dash onto it
and then bounce back again; but more frequently it would be a hare that
sprang up from its feeding and raced in front of us. They seemed dazed
and scared by the light, unable to wheel into the darkness again, until
time and again I thought we must run over one, so narrowly, in giving a
sort of desperate sideways leap, did it miss our wheels. Then it seemed
that one started up almost from under us, and I saw, to my surprise, it
was enormous in size, and in colour apparently quite black. For some
hundred yards it raced in front of us, fascinated by the bright light
pursuing it, then, like the rest, it dashed for the darkness. But it was
too late, and with a horrid jolt we ran over it. At once Sefton slowed
down and stopped, for Jim’s rule is to go back always and make sure that
any poor run-over is dead. So, when we stopped, the chauffeur jumped
down and ran back. “What was it?” Jim asked me, as we waited. “A hare.”
Sefton came running back. “Yes, sir, quite dead,” he said. “I picked it up, sir.”
“What for?”
“Thought you might like to see it, sir. It’s the biggest hare I ever
see, and it’s quite black.”
It was immediately after this that we came to the track up to the house,
and in a few minutes we were within doors. There we found that if
“shooting-lodge” was a term unsuitable, so also was “farmhouse,” so
roomy, excellently proportioned, and well furnished was our dwelling,
while the contentment that beamed from Buxton’s face was sufficient
testimonial for the offices. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
In the hall, too, with its big open
fireplace, were a couple of big solemn bookcases, full of serious works,
such as some educated minister might have left, and, coming down dressed
for dinner before the others, I dipped into the shelves. Then--something
must long have been vaguely simmering in my brain, for I pounced on the
book as soon as I saw it--I came upon Elwes’s “Folklore of the North
West Highlands,” and looked out “Hare” in the index. Then I read:
“Nor is it only witches that are believed to have the power of changing
themselves into animals.... Men and women on whom no suspicion of the
sort lies are thought to be able to do this, and to don the bodies of
certain animals, notably hares.... Such, according to local
superstition, are easily distinguishable by their size and colour, which
approaches jet black.”
I was up and out early next morning, prey to the vivid desire that
attacks many folk in new places--namely, to look on the fresh country
and the new horizons--and, on going out, certainly the surprise was
great. For I had imagined an utterly lonely and solitary habitation;
instead, scarce half a mile away, down the steep brae-side at the top of
which stood our commodious farm-house, ran a typically Scotch village
street, the hamlet no doubt of Achnaleish. So steep was this hill-side
that the village was really remote; if it was half a mile away in
crow-flying measurement, it must have been a couple of hundred yards
below us. But its existence was the odd thing to me: there were some
four dozen houses, at the least, while we had not seen half that number
since leaving Lairg. A mile away, perhaps, lay the shining shield of the
western sea; to the other side, away from the village, I had no
difficulty in recognising the river and the loch. The house, in fact,
was set on a hog’s back; from all sides it must needs be climbed to. But, as is the custom of the Scots, no house, however small, should be
without its due brightness of flowers, and the walls of this were purple
with clematis and orange with tropæolum. It all looked very placid and
serene and home-like. I continued my tour of exploration, and came back rather late for
breakfast. A slight check in the day’s arrangements had occurred, for
the head keeper, Maclaren, had not come up, and the second, Sandie Ross,
reported that the reason for this had been the sudden death of his
mother the evening before. She was not known to be ill, but just as she
was going to bed she had thrown up her arms, screamed suddenly as if
with fright, and was found to be dead. Sandie, who repeated this news to
me after breakfast, was just a slow, polite Scotchman, rather shy,
rather awkward. Just as he finished--we were standing about outside the
back-door--there came up from the stables the smart, very
English-looking Sefton. In one hand he carried the black hare. He touched his hat to me as he went in. “Just to show it to Mr Armytage, sir,” he said. “She’s as black as a
boot.”
He turned into the door, but not before Sandie Ross had seen what he
carried, and the slow, polite Scotchman was instantly turned into some
furtive, frightened-looking man. “And where might it be that you found that, sir?” he asked. Now, the black-hare superstition had already begun to intrigue me. “Why does that interest you?” I asked. The slow Scotch look was resumed with an effort. “It’ll no interest me,” he said. “I just asked. There are unco many
black hares in Achnaleish.”
Then his curiosity got the better of him. “She’d have been nigh to where the road passes by and on to Achnaleish?”
he asked. “The hare? Yes, we found her on the road there.”
Sandie turned away. “She aye sat there,” he said. There were a number of little plantations climbing up the steep
hill-side from Achnaleish to the moor above, and we had a pleasant slack
sort of morning shooting there, walking through and round them with a
nondescript tribe of beaters, among whom the serious Buxton figured. We
had fair enough sport, but of the hares which Jim had seen in such
profusion none that morning came to the gun, till at last, just before
lunch, there came out of the apex of one of these plantations, some
thirty yards from where Jim was standing, a very large, dark-coloured
hare. For one moment I saw him hesitate--for he holds the correct view
about long or doubtful shots at hares--then he put up his gun to fire. Sandie, who had walked round outside, after giving the beaters their
instructions, was at this moment close to him, and with incredible
quickness rushed upon him and with his stick struck up the barrels of
the gun before he could fire. “Black hare!” he cried. “Ye’d shoot a black hare? There’s no shooting of
hares at all in Achnaleish, and mark that.”
Never have I seen so sudden and extraordinary a change in a man’s face:
it was as if he had just prevented some blackguard of the street from
murdering his wife. “An’ the sickness about an’ all,” he added indignantly. “When the puir
folk escape from their peching fevered bodies an hour or two, to the
caller muirs.”
Then he seemed to recover himself. “I ask your pardon, sir,” he said to Jim. “I was upset with ane thing
an’ anither, an’ the black hare ye found deid last night--eh, I’m
blatherin’ again. But there’s no a hare shot on Achnaleish, that’s
sure.”
Jim was still looking in mere speechless astonishment at Sandie when I
came up. And, though shooting is dear to me, so too is folk-lore. “But we’ve taken the shooting of Achnaleish, Sandie,” I said. “There was
nothing there about not shooting hares.”
Sandie suddenly boiled up again for a minute. “An’ mebbe there was nothing there about shooting the bairns and the
weemen!” he cried. I looked round, and saw that by now the beaters had all come through the
wood: of them Buxton and Jim’s valet, who was also among them, stood
apart: all the rest were standing round us two with gleaming eyes and
open mouths, hanging on the debate, and forced, so I imagined, from
their imperfect knowledge of English to attend closely in order to catch
the drift of what went on. Every now and then a murmur of Gaelic passed
between them, and this somehow I found peculiarly disconcerting. “But what have the hares to do with the children or women of
Achnaleish?” I asked. There was no reply to this beyond the reiterated sentence: “There’s na
shooting of hares in Achnaleish whatever,” and then Sandie turned to
Jim. “That’s the end of the bit wood, sir,” he said. “We’ve been a’ roound.”
Certainly the beat had been very satisfactory. A roe had fallen to Jim
(one ought also to have fallen to me, but remained, if not standing, at
any rate running away). We had a dozen of black-game, four pigeons, six
brace of grouse (these were, of course, but outliers, as we had not gone
on to the moor proper at all), some thirty rabbits, and four couple of
woodcock. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
This, it must be understood, was just from the fringe of
plantations about the house, but this was all we meant to do to-day,
making only a morning of it, since our ladies had expressly desired
first lessons in the art of angling in the afternoon, so that they too
could be busy. Excellently too had Sandie worked the beat, leaving us
now, after going, as he said, all round, a couple of hundred yards only
from the house, at a few minutes to two. So, after a little private signalling from Jim to me, he spoke to
Sandie, dropping the hare-question altogether. “Well, the beat has gone excellently,” he said, “and this afternoon
we’ll be fishing. Please settle with the beaters every evening, and tell
me what you have paid out. Good morning to you all.”
We walked back to the house, but the moment we had turned a hum of
confabulation began behind us, and, looking back, I saw Sandie and all
the beaters in close whispering conclave. Then Jim spoke. “More in your line than mine,” he said; “I prefer shooting a hare to
routing out some cock-and-bull story as to why I shouldn’t. What does it
all mean?”
I mentioned what I had found in Elwes last night. “Then do they think it was we who killed the old lady on the road, and
that I was going to kill somebody else this morning?” he asked. “How
does one know that they won’t say that rabbits are their aunts, and
woodcock their uncles, and grouse their children? I never heard such
rot, and to-morrow we’ll have a hare drive. Blow the grouse! We’ll
settle this hare-question first.”
Jim by this time was in the frame of mind typical of the English when
their rights are threatened. He had the shooting of Achnaleish, on which
were hares, sir, hares. And if he chose to shoot hares, neither papal
bull nor royal charter could stop him. “Then there’ll be a row,” said I, and Jim sniffed scornfully. At lunch Sandie’s remark about the “sickness,” which I had forgotten
till that moment, was explained. “Fancy that horrible influenza getting here,” said Madge. “Mabel and I
went down to the village this morning, and, oh, Ted, you can get all
sorts of things, from mackintoshes to peppermints, at the most heavenly
shop, and there was a child there looking awfully ill and feverish. So
we inquired: it was the ‘sickness’--that was all they knew. But, from
what the woman said, it’s clearly influenza. Sudden fever, and all the
rest of it.”
“Bad type?” I asked. “Yes; there have been several deaths already among the old people from
pneumonia following it.”
Now, I hope that as an Englishman I too have a notion of my rights, and
attempt anyhow to enforce them, as a general rule, if they are wantonly
threatened. But if a mad bull wishes to prevent my going across a
certain field, I do not insist on my rights, but go round instead, since
I see no reasonable hope of convincing the bull that according to the
constitution of my country I may walk in this field unmolested. And that
afternoon, as Madge and I drifted about the loch, while I was not
employed in disentangling her flies from each other or her hair or my
coat, I pondered over our position with regard to the hares and men of
Achnaleish, and thought that the question of the bull and the field
represented our standpoint pretty accurately. Jim _had_ the shooting of
Achnaleish, and that undoubtedly included the right to shoot hares: so
too he might have the right to walk over a field in which was a mad
bull. But it seemed to me not more futile to argue with the bull than to
hope to convince these folk of Achnaleish that the hares were--as was
assuredly the case--only hares, and not the embodiments of their
friends and relations. For that, beyond all doubt, was their belief, and
it would take, not half an hour’s talk, but perhaps a couple of
generations of education to kill that belief, or even to reduce it to
the level of a superstition. At present it was no superstition--the
terror and incredulous horror on Sandie’s face when Jim raised his gun
to fire at the hare told me that--it was a belief as sober and
commonplace as our own belief that the hares were not incarnations of
living folk in Achnaleish. Also, virulent influenza was raging in the
place, and Jim proposed to have a hare-drive to-morrow! What would
happen? That evening Jim raved about it in the smoking-room. “But, good gracious, man, what can they _do_?” he cried. “What’s the use
of an old gaffer from Achnaleish saying I’ve shot his grand-daughter
and, when he is asked to produce the corpse, telling the jury that we’ve
eaten it, but that he has got the skin as evidence? What skin? A
hare-skin! Oh, folk-lore is all very well in its way, a nice subject for
discussion when topics are scarce, but don’t tell me it can enter into
practical life. What can they do?”
“They can shoot us,” I remarked. “The canny, God-fearing Scotchmen shoot us for shooting hares?” he
asked. “Well, it’s a possibility. However, I don’t think you’ll have much of a
hare-drive in any case.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t get a single native beater, and you won’t get a
keeper to come either. You’ll have to go with Buxton and your man.”
“Then I’ll discharge Sandie,” snapped Jim. “That would be a pity: he knows his work.”
Jim got up. “Well, his work to-morrow will be to drive hares for you and me,” said
Jim. “Or do you funk?”
“I funk,” I replied. The scene next morning was extremely short. Jim and I went out before
breakfast, and found Sandie at the back door, silent and respectful. In
the yard were a dozen young Highlanders, who had beaten for us the day
before. “Morning, Sandie,” said Jim shortly. “We’ll drive hares to-day. We ought
to get a lot in those narrow gorges up above. Get a dozen beaters more,
can you?”
“There will be na hare-drive here,” said Sandie quietly. “I have given you your orders,” said Jim. Sandie turned to the group of beaters outside and spoke half a dozen
words in Gaelic. Next moment the yard was empty, and they were all
running down the hillside towards Achnaleish. One stood on the skyline a
moment, waving his arms, making some signal, as I supposed, to the
village below. Then Sandie turned again. “An’ whaur are your beaters, sir?” he asked. For the moment I was afraid Jim was going to strike him. But he
controlled himself. “You are discharged,” he said. The hare-drive, therefore, since there were neither beaters nor
keeper--Maclaren, the head-keeper, having been given this “day-off” to
bury his mother--was clearly out of the question, and Jim, still
blustering rather, but a good bit taken aback at the sudden disciplined
defection of the beaters, was in betting humour that they would all
return by to-morrow morning. Meanwhile the post which should have
arrived before now had not come, though Mabel from her bedroom window
had seen the post-cart on its way up the drive a quarter of an hour ago. At that a sudden idea struck me, and I ran to the edge of the hog’s back
on which the house was set. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
It was even as I thought: the post-cart was
just striking the high-road below, going away from the house and back to
the village, without having left our letters. I went back to the dining-room. Everything apparently was going wrong
this morning: the bread was stale, the milk was not fresh, and the bell
was rung for Buxton. Quite so: neither milkman nor baker had called. From the point of view of folk-lore this was admirable. “There’s another cock-and-bull story called ‘taboo,’” I said. “It means
that nobody will supply you with anything.”
“My dear fellow, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” said Jim,
helping himself to marmalade. I laughed. “You are irritated,” I said, “because you are beginning to be afraid
that there is something in it.”
“Yes, that’s quite true,” he said. “But who could have supposed there
was anything in it? Ah, dash it! there _can’t_ be. A hare is a hare.”
“Except when it is your first cousin,” said I. “Then I shall go out and shoot first cousins by myself,” he said. That, I am glad to say, in the light of what followed, we dissuaded him
from doing, and instead he went off with Madge down the burn. And I, I
may confess, occupied myself the whole morning, ensconced in a thick
piece of scrub on the edge of the steep brae above Achnaleish, in
watching through a field-glass what went on there. One could see as from
a balloon almost: the street with its houses was spread like a map
below. First, then, there was a funeral--the funeral, I suppose, of the mother
of Maclaren, attended, I should say, by the whole village. But after
that there was no dispersal of the folk to their work: it was as if it
was the Sabbath; they hung about the street talking. Now one group would
break up, but it would only go to swell another, and no one went either
to his house or to the fields. Then, shortly before lunch, another idea
occurred to me, and I ran down the hill-side, appearing suddenly in the
street, to put it to the test. Sandie was there, but he turned his back
square on me, as did everybody else, and as I approached any group talk
fell dead. But a certain movement seemed to be going on; where they
stood and talked before, they now moved and were silent. Soon I saw what
that meant. None would remain in the street with me: every man was going
to his house. The end house of the street was clearly the “heavenly shop” we had been
told of yesterday. The door was open and a small child was looking round
it as I approached, for my plan was to go in, order something, and try
to get into conversation. But, while I was still a yard or two off, I
saw through the glass of the door a man inside come quickly up and pull
the child roughly away, banging the door and locking it. I knocked and
rang, but there was no response: only from inside came the crying of the
child. The street which had been so busy and populous was now completely empty;
it might have been the street of some long-deserted place, but that thin
smoke curled here and there above the houses. It was as silent, too, as
the grave, but, for all that, I knew it was watching. From every house,
I felt sure, I was being watched by eyes of mistrust and hate, yet no
sign of living being could I see. There was to me something rather eerie
about this: to know one is watched by invisible eyes is never, I
suppose, quite a comfortable sensation; to know that those eyes are all
hostile does not increase the sense of security. So I just climbed back
up the hill-side again, and from my thicket above the brae again I
peered down. Once more the street was full. Now, all this made me uneasy: the taboo had been started, and--since not
a soul had been near us since Sandie gave the word, whatever it was,
that morning--was in excellent working order. Then what was the purport
of these meetings and colloquies? What else threatened? The afternoon
told me. It was about two o’clock when these meetings finally broke up, and at
once the whole village left the street for the hill-sides, much as if
they were all returning to work. The only odd thing indeed was that no
one remained behind: women and children alike went out, all in little
parties of two and three. Some of these I watched rather idly, for I had
formed the hasty conclusion that they were all going back to their usual
employments, and saw that here a woman and girl were cutting dead
bracken and heather. That was reasonable enough, and I turned my glass
on others. Group after group I examined; all were doing the same thing,
cutting fuel ... fuel. Then vaguely, with a sense of impossibility, a thought flashed across
me; again it flashed, more vividly. This time I left my hiding-place
with considerable alacrity and went to find Jim down by the burn. I told
him exactly what I had seen and what I believed it meant, and I fancy
that his belief in the possibility of folk-lore entering the domain of
practical life was very considerably quickened. In any case, it was not
a quarter of an hour afterwards that the chauffeur and I were going,
precisely as fast as the Napier was able, along the road to Lairg. We
had not told the women what my conjecture was, because we believed that,
making the dispositions we were making, there was no cause for
alarm-sounding. One private signal only existed between Jim within the
house that night and me outside. If my conjecture proved to be correct,
he was to place a light in the window of my room, which I should see
returning after dark from Lairg. My ostensible reason for going was to
get some local fishing-flies. As we flowed--there is no other word for the movement of these big cars
but that--over the road to Lairg, I ran over everything in my mind. I
felt no doubt whatever that all the brushwood and kindling I had seen
being gathered in was to be piled after nightfall round our walls and
set on fire. This certainly would not be done till after dark; indeed,
we both felt sure that it would not be done till it was supposed that we
were all abed. It remained to see whether the police at Lairg agreed
with my conjecture, and it was to ascertain this that I was now flowing
there. I told my story to the chief constable as soon as I got there, omitting
nothing and, I think, exaggerating nothing. His face got graver and
graver as I proceeded. “Yes, sir, you did right to come,” he said. “The folk at Achnaleish are
the dourest and the most savage in all Scotland. You’ll have to give up
this hare-hunting, though, whatever,” he added. He rang up his telephone. “I’ll get five men,” he said, “and I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
Our plan of campaign was simple. We were to leave the car well out of
sight of Achnaleish, and--supposing the signal was in my window--steal
up from all sides to command the house from every direction. It would
not be difficult to make our way unseen through the plantations that ran
up close to the house, and hidden at their margins we could see whether
the brushwood and heather was piled up round the lodge. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
There we should
wait to see if anybody attempted to fire it. That somebody, whenever he
showed his light, would be instantly covered by a rifle and challenged. It was about ten when we dismounted and stalked our way up to the house. The light burned in my window; all else was quiet. Personally, I was
unarmed, and so, when I had planted the men in places of advantageous
concealment round the house, my work was over. Then I returned to
Sergeant Duncan, the chief constable, at the corner of the hedge by the
garden, and waited. How long we waited I do not know, but it seemed as if æons slipped by
over us. Now and then an owl would hoot, now and then a rabbit ran out
from cover and nibbled the short sweet grass of the lawn. The night was
thickly overcast with clouds, and the house seemed no more than a black
blot, with slits of light where windows were lit within. By and by even
these slits of illumination were extinguished, and other lights appeared
in the top story. After a while they, too, vanished; no sign of life
appeared on the quiet house. Then suddenly the end came: I heard a foot
grate on the gravel; I saw the gleam of a lantern, and heard Duncan’s
voice. “Man,” he shouted, “if you move hand or foot I fire. My rifle-bead is
dead on you.”
Then I blew the whistle; the others ran up, and in less than a minute it
was all over. The man we closed in on was Maclaren. “They killed my mither with that hell-carriage,” he said, “as she juist
sat on the road, puir body, who had niver hurt them.”
And that seemed to him an excellent reason for attempting to burn us all
to death. But it took time to get into the house: their preparations had been
singularly workmanlike, for every window and door on the ground floor
was wired up. Now, we had Achnaleish for two months, but we had no wish to be burned
or otherwise murdered. What we wanted was not a prosecution of our
head-keeper, but peace, the necessaries of life, and beaters. For that
we were willing to shoot no hares, and release Maclaren. An hour’s
conclave next morning settled these things; the ensuing two months were
most enjoyable, and relations were the friendliest. But if anybody wants to test how far what Jim still calls cock-and-bull
stories can enter into practical life, I should suggest to him to go
a-shooting hares at Achnaleish. HOW FEAR DEPARTED FROM THE LONG GALLERY
CHURCH-PEVERIL is a house so beset and frequented by spectres, both
visible and audible, that none of the family which it shelters under its
acre and a half of green copper roofs takes psychical phenomena with any
seriousness. For to the Peverils the appearance of a ghost is a matter
of hardly greater significance than is the appearance of the post to
those who live in more ordinary houses. It arrives, that is to say,
practically every day, it knocks (or makes other noises), it is observed
coming up the drive (or in other places). I myself, when staying there
have seen the present Mrs Peveril, who is rather short-sighted, peer
into the dusk, while we were taking our coffee on the terrace after
dinner, and say to her daughter:
“My dear, was not that the Blue Lady who has just gone into the
shrubbery. I hope she won’t frighten Flo. Whistle for Flo, dear.”
(Flo, it may be remarked, is the youngest and most precious of many
dachshunds). Blanche Peveril gave a cursory whistle, and crunched the sugar left
unmelted at the bottom of her coffee-cup between her very white teeth. “Oh, darling, Flo isn’t so silly as to mind,” she said. “Poor blue Aunt
Barbara is such a bore! Whenever I meet her she always looks as if she
wanted to speak to me, but when I say, ‘What is it, Aunt Barbara?’ she
never utters, but only points somewhere towards the house, which is so
vague. I believe there was something she wanted to confess about two
hundred years ago, but she has forgotten what it is.”
Here Flo gave two or three short pleased barks, and came out of the
shrubbery wagging her tail, and capering round what appeared to me to be
a perfectly empty space on the lawn. “There! Flo has made friends with her,” said Mrs Peveril. “I wonder why
she dresses in that very stupid shade of blue.”
* * * * *
From this it may be gathered that even with regard to psychical
phenomena there is some truth in the proverb that speaks of familiarity. But the Peverils do not exactly treat their ghosts with contempt, since
most of that delightful family never despised anybody except such people
as avowedly did not care for hunting or shooting, or golf or skating. And as all of their ghosts are of their family, it seems reasonable to
suppose that they all, even the poor Blue Lady, excelled at one time in
field-sports. So far then they harbour no such unkindness or contempt,
but only pity. Of one Peveril, indeed, who broke his neck in vainly
attempting to ride up the main staircase on a thoroughbred mare after
some monstrous and violent deed in the back-garden, they are very fond,
and Blanche comes downstairs in the morning with an eye unusually bright
when she can announce that Master Anthony was “very loud” last night. He
(apart from the fact of his having been so foul a ruffian) was a
tremendous fellow across country, and they like these indications of the
continuance of his superb vitality. In fact, it is supposed to be a
compliment, when you go to stay at Church-Peveril, to be assigned a
bedroom which is frequented by defunct members of the family. It means
that you are worthy to look on the august and villainous dead,
and you will find yourself shown into some vaulted or tapestried
chamber, without benefit of electric light, and are told that
great-great-grandmamma Bridget occasionally has vague business by the
fireplace, but it is better not to talk to her, and that you will hear
Master Anthony “awfully well” if he attempts the front staircase any
time before morning. There you are left for your night’s repose, and,
having quakingly undressed, begin reluctantly to put out your candles. It is draughty in these great chambers, and the solemn tapestry swings
and bellows and subsides, and the firelight dances on the forms of
huntsmen and warriors and stern pursuits. Then you climb into your bed,
a bed so huge that you feel as if the desert of Sahara was spread for
you, and pray, like the mariners who sailed with St Paul, for day. And,
all the time, you are aware that Freddy and Harry and Blanche and
possibly even Mrs Peveril are quite capable of dressing up and making
disquieting tappings outside your door, so that when you open it some
inconjecturable horror fronts you. For myself, I stick steadily to the
assertion that I have an obscure valvular disease of the heart, and so
sleep undisturbed in the new wing of the house where Aunt Barbara, and
great-great-grandmamma Bridget and Master Anthony never penetrate. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
I
forget the details of great-great-grandmamma Bridget, but she certainly
cut the throat of some distant relation before she disembowelled herself
with the axe that had been used at Agincourt. Before that she had led a
very sultry life, crammed with amazing incident. * * * * *
But there is one ghost at Church-Peveril at which the family never
laugh, in which they feel no friendly and amused interest, and of which
they only speak just as much as is necessary for the safety of their
guests. More properly it should be described as two ghosts, for the
“haunt” in question is that of two very young children, who were twins. These, not without reason, the family take very seriously indeed. The
story of them, as told me by Mrs Peveril, is as follows:
In the year 1602, the same being the last of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, a
certain Dick Peveril was greatly in favour at Court. He was brother to
Master Joseph Peveril, then owner of the family house and lands, who two
years previously, at the respectable age of seventy-four, became father
of twin boys, first-born of his progeny. It is known that the royal and
ancient virgin had said to handsome Dick, who was nearly forty years his
brother’s junior, “’Tis pity that you are not master of Church Peveril,”
and these words probably suggested to him a sinister design. Be that as
it may, handsome Dick, who very adequately sustained the family
reputation for wickedness, set off to ride down to Yorkshire, and found
that, very conveniently, his brother Joseph had just been seized with an
apoplexy, which appeared to be the result of a continued spell of hot
weather combined with the necessity of quenching his thirst with an
augmented amount of sack, and had actually died while handsome Dick,
with God knows what thoughts in his mind, was journeying northwards. Thus it came about that he arrived at Church-Peveril just in time for
his brother’s funeral. It was with great propriety that he attended the
obsequies, and returned to spend a sympathetic day or two of mourning
with his widowed sister-in-law, who was but a faint-hearted dame,
little fit to be mated with such hawks as these. On the second night of
his stay, he did that which the Peverils regret to this day. He entered
the room where the twins slept with their nurse, and quietly strangled
the latter as she slept. Then he took the twins and put them into the
fire which warms the long gallery. The weather, which up to the day of
Joseph’s death had been so hot, had changed suddenly to bitter cold, and
the fire was heaped high with burning logs and was exultant with flame. In the core of this conflagration he struck out a cremation-chamber, and
into that he threw the two children, stamping them down with his
riding-boots. They could just walk, but they could not walk out of that
ardent place. It is said that he laughed as he added more logs. Thus he
became master of Church Peveril. The crime was never brought home to him, but he lived no longer than a
year in the enjoyment of his blood-stained inheritance. When he lay
a-dying he made his confession to the priest who attended him, but his
spirit struggled forth from its fleshly coil before Absolution could be
given him. On that very night there began in Church-Peveril the haunting
which to this day is but seldom spoken of by the family, and then only
in low tones and with serious mien. For, only an hour or two after
handsome Dick’s death, one of the servants passing the door of the long
gallery heard from within peals of the loud laughter so jovial and yet
so sinister, which he had thought would never be heard in the house
again. In a moment of that cold courage, which is so nearly akin to
mortal terror, he opened the door and entered, expecting to see he knew
not what manifestation of him who lay dead in the room below. Instead he
saw two little white-robed figures toddling towards him hand in hand
across the moon-lit floor. The watchers in the room below ran upstairs startled by the crash of his
fallen body, and found him lying in the grip of some dread convulsion. Just before morning he regained consciousness and told his tale. Then
pointing with trembling and ash-grey finger towards the door, he
screamed aloud, and so fell back dead. * * * * *
During the next fifty years this strange and terrible legend of the
twin-babies became fixed and consolidated. Their appearance, luckily for
those who inhabit the house, was exceedingly rare, and during these
years they seem to have been seen four or five times only. On each
occasion they appeared at night, between sunset and sunrise, always in
the same long gallery, and always as two toddling children scarcely able
to walk. And on each occasion the luckless individual who saw them died
either speedily or terribly, or with both speed and terror, after the
accursed vision had appeared to him. Sometimes he might live for a few
months: he was lucky if he died, as did the servant who first saw them,
in a few hours. Vastly more awful was the fate of a certain Mrs Canning,
who had the ill-luck to see them in the middle of the next century, or
to be quite accurate, in the year 1760. By this time the hours and the
place of their appearance were well-known, and, as up till a year ago,
visitors were warned not to go between sunset and sunrise into the long
gallery. But Mrs Canning, a brilliantly clever and beautiful woman, admirer also
and friend of the notorious sceptic M. Voltaire, wilfully went and sat
night after night, in spite of all protestations, in the haunted place. For four evenings she saw nothing, but on the fifth she had her will,
for the door in the middle of the gallery opened, and there came
toddling towards her the ill-omened innocent little pair. It seemed that
even then she was not frightened, but she thought good, poor wretch, to
mock at them, telling them it was time for them to get back into the
fire. They gave no word in answer, but turned away from her crying and
sobbing. Immediately after they disappeared from her vision and she
rustled downstairs to where the family and guests in the house were
waiting for her, with the triumphant announcement that she had seen them
both, and must needs write to M. Voltaire, saying that she had spoken to
spirits made manifest. It would make him laugh. But when some months
later the whole news reached him he did not laugh at all. Mrs Canning was one of the great beauties of her day, and in the year
1760 she was at the height and zenith of her blossoming. The chief
beauty, if it is possible to single out one point where all was so
exquisite, lay in the dazzling colour and incomparable brilliance of her
complexion. She was now just thirty years of age, but, in spite of the
excesses of her life, retained the snow and roses of girlhood, and she
courted the bright light of day which other women shunned, for it but
showed to greater advantage the splendour of her skin. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
In consequence
she was very considerably dismayed one morning, about a fortnight after
her strange experience in the long gallery, to observe on her left cheek
an inch or two below her turquoise-coloured eyes, a little greyish patch
of skin, about as big as a threepenny piece. It was in vain that she
applied her accustomed washes and ungents: vain, too, were the arts of
her _fardeuse_ and of her medical adviser. For a week she kept herself
secluded, martyring herself with solitude and unaccustomed physics, and
for result at the end of the week she had no amelioration to comfort
herself with: instead this woeful grey patch had doubled itself in size. Thereafter the nameless disease, whatever it was, developed in new and
terrible ways. From the centre of the discoloured place there sprouted
forth little lichen-like tendrils of greenish-grey, and another patch
appeared on her lower lip. This, too, soon vegetated, and one morning
on opening her eyes to the horror of a new day, she found that her
vision was strangely blurred. She sprang to her looking-glass, and what
she saw caused her to shriek aloud with horror. From under her upper
eye-lid a fresh growth had sprung up, mushroom-like, in the night, and
its filaments extended downwards, screening the pupil of her eye. Soon
after her tongue and throat were attacked: the air passages became
obstructed, and death by suffocation was merciful after such suffering. More terrible yet was the case of a certain Colonel Blantyre who fired
at the children with his revolver. What he went through is not to be
recorded here. * * * * *
It is this haunting, then, that the Peverils take quite seriously, and
every guest on his arrival in the house is told that the long gallery
must not be entered after nightfall on any pretext whatever. By day,
however, it is a delightful room and intrinsically merits description,
apart from the fact that the due understanding of its geography is
necessary for the account that here follows. It is full eighty feet in
length, and is lit by a row of six tall windows looking over the gardens
at the back of the house. A door communicates with the landing at the
top of the main staircase, and about half-way down the gallery in the
wall facing the windows is another door communicating with the back
staircase and servants’ quarters, and thus the gallery forms a constant
place of passage for them in going to the rooms on the first landing. It
was through this door that the baby-figures came when they appeared to
Mrs Canning, and on several other occasions they have been known to make
their entry here, for the room out of which handsome Dick took them lies
just beyond at the top of the back stairs. Further on again in the
gallery is the fireplace into which he thrust them, and at the far end a
large bow-window looks straight down the avenue. Above this fireplace
there hangs with grim significance a portrait of handsome Dick, in the
insolent beauty of early manhood, attributed to Holbein, and a dozen
other portraits of great merit face the windows. During the day this is
the most frequented sitting-room in the house, for its other visitors
never appear there then, nor does it then ever resound with the harsh
jovial laugh of handsome Dick, which sometimes, after dark has fallen,
is heard by passers-by on the landing outside. But Blanche does not grow
bright-eyed when she hears it: she shuts her ears and hastens to put a
greater distance between her and the sound of that atrocious mirth. But during the day the long gallery is frequented by many occupants, and
much laughter in no wise sinister or saturnine resounds there. When
summer lies hot over the land, those occupants lounge in the deep window
seats, and when winter spreads his icy fingers and blows shrilly between
his frozen palms, congregate round the fireplace at the far end, and
perch, in companies of cheerful chatterers, upon sofa and chair, and
chair-back and floor. Often have I sat there on long August evenings up
till dressing-time, but never have I been there when anyone has seemed
disposed to linger over-late without hearing the warning: “It is close
on sunset: shall we go?” Later on in the shorter autumn days they often
have tea laid there, and sometimes it has happened that, even while
merriment was most uproarious, Mrs Peveril has suddenly looked out of
the window and said, “My dears, it is getting so late: let us finish our
nonsense downstairs in the hall.” And then for a moment a curious hush
always falls on loquacious family and guests alike, and as if some bad
news had just been known, we all make our silent way out of the place. But the spirits of the Peverils (of the living ones, that is to say) are
the most mercurial imaginable, and the blight which the thought of
handsome Dick and his doings casts over them passes away again with
amazing rapidity. * * * * *
A typical party, large, young, and peculiarly cheerful, was staying at
Church-Peveril shortly after Christmas last year, and as usual on
December 31, Mrs Peveril was giving her annual New Year’s Eve ball. The
house was quite full, and she had commandeered as well the greater part
of the Peveril Arms to provide sleeping-quarters for the overflow from
the house. For some days past a black and windless frost had stopped all
hunting, but it is an ill windlessness that blows no good (if so mixed a
metaphor may be forgiven), and the lake below the house had for the last
day or two been covered with an adequate and admirable sheet of ice. Everyone in the house had been occupied all the morning of that day in
performing swift and violent manœuvres on the elusive surface, and as
soon as lunch was over we all, with one exception, hurried out again. This one exception was Madge Dalrymple who had had the misfortune to
fall rather badly earlier in the day, but hoped, by resting her injured
knee, instead of joining the skaters again, to be able to dance that
evening. The hope, it is true, was of the most sanguine sort, for she
could but hobble ignobly back to the house, but with the breezy optimism
which characterises the Peverils (she is Blanche’s first cousin), she
remarked that it would be but tepid enjoyment that she could, in her
present state, derive from further skating, and thus she sacrificed
little, but might gain much. Accordingly after a rapid cup of coffee which was served in the long
gallery, we left Madge comfortably reclined on the big sofa at
right-angles to the fireplace, with an attractive book to beguile the
tedium till tea. Being of the family, she knew all about handsome Dick
and the babies, and the fate of Mrs Canning and Colonel Blantyre, but as
we went out I heard Blanche say to her, “Don’t run it too fine, dear,”
and Madge had replied, “No; I’ll go away well before sunset.” And so we
left her alone in the long gallery. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
* * * * *
Madge read her attractive book for some minutes, but failing to get
absorbed in it, put it down and limped across to the window. Though it
was still but little after two, it was but a dim and uncertain light
that entered, for the crystalline brightness of the morning had given
place to a veiled obscurity produced by flocks of thick clouds which
were coming sluggishly up from the north-east. Already the whole sky was
overcast with them, and occasionally a few snowflakes fluttered
waveringly down past the long windows. From the darkness and bitter cold
of the afternoon, it seemed to her that there was like to be a heavy
snowfall before long, and these outward signs were echoed inwardly in
her by that muffled drowsiness of the brain, which to those who are
sensitive to the pressures and lightnesses of weather portends storm. Madge was peculiarly the prey of such external influences: to her a
brisk morning gave an ineffable brightness and briskness of spirit, and
correspondingly the approach of heavy weather produced a somnolence in
sensation that both drowsed and depressed her. It was in such mood as this that she limped back again to the sofa
beside the log-fire. The whole house was comfortably heated by
water-pipes, and though the fire of logs and peat, an adorable mixture,
had been allowed to burn low, the room was very warm. Idly she watched
the dwindling flames, not opening her book again, but lying on the sofa
with face towards the fireplace, intending drowsily and not immediately
to go to her own room and spend the hours, until the return of the
skaters made gaiety in the house again, in writing one or two neglected
letters. Still drowsily she began thinking over what she had to
communicate: one letter several days overdue should go to her mother,
who was immensely interested in the psychical affairs of the family. She
would tell her how Master Anthony had been prodigiously active on the
staircase a night or two ago, and how the Blue Lady, regardless of the
severity of the weather, had been seen by Mrs Peveril that morning,
strolling about. It was rather interesting: the Blue Lady had gone down
the laurel walk and had been seen by her to enter the stables, where, at
the moment, Freddy Peveril was inspecting the frost-bound hunters. Identically then, a sudden panic had spread through the stables, and the
horses had whinnied and kicked, and shied, and sweated. Of the fatal
twins nothing had been seen for many years past, but, as her mother
knew, the Peverils never used the long gallery after dark. Then for a moment she sat up, remembering that she was in the long
gallery now. But it was still but a little after half-past two, and if
she went to her room in half an hour, she would have ample time to
write this and another letter before tea. Till then she would read her
book. But she found she had left it on the window-sill, and it seemed
scarcely worth while to get it. She felt exceedingly drowsy. The sofa where she lay had been lately re-covered, in a greyish green
shade of velvet, somewhat the colour of lichen. It was of very thick
soft texture, and she luxuriously stretched her arms out, one on each
side of her body, and pressed her fingers into the nap. How horrible
that story of Mrs Canning was: the growth on her face was of the colour
of lichen. And then without further transition or blurring of thought
Madge fell asleep. She dreamed. She dreamed that she awoke and found herself exactly where
she had gone to sleep, and in exactly the same attitude. The flames from
the logs had burned up again, and leaped on the walls, fitfully
illuminating the picture of handsome Dick above the fire-place. In her
dream she knew exactly what she had done to-day, and for what reason she
was lying here now instead of being out with the rest of the skaters. She remembered also (still dreaming), that she was going to write a
letter or two before tea, and prepared to get up in order to go to her
room. As she half-rose she caught sight of her own arms lying out on
each side of her on the grey velvet sofa. But she could not see where
her hands ended, and where the grey velvet began: her fingers seemed to
have melted into the stuff. She could see her wrists quite clearly, and
a blue vein on the backs of her hands, and here and there a knuckle. Then, in her dream she remembered, the last thought which had been in
her mind before she fell asleep, namely the growth of the
lichen-coloured vegetation on the face and the eyes and the throat of
Mrs Canning. At that thought the strangling terror of real nightmare
began: she knew that she was being transformed into this grey stuff, and
she was absolutely unable to move. Soon the grey would spread up her
arms, and over her feet; when they came in from skating they would find
here nothing but a huge misshapen cushion of lichen-coloured velvet, and
that would be she. The horror grew more acute, and then by a violent
effort she shook herself free of the clutches of this very evil dream,
and she awoke. For a minute or two she lay there, conscious only of the tremendous
relief at finding herself awake. She felt again with her fingers the
pleasant touch of the velvet, and drew them backwards and forwards,
assuring herself that she was not, as her dream had suggested, melting
into greyness and softness. But she was still, in spite of the violence
of her awakening, very sleepy, and lay there till, looking down, she was
aware that she could not see her hands at all. It was very nearly dark. At that moment a sudden flicker of flame came from the dying fire, and a
flare of burning gas from the peat flooded the room. The portrait of
handsome Dick looked evilly down on her, and her hands were visible
again. And then a panic worse than the panic of her dreams seized her. Daylight had altogether faded, and she knew that she was alone in the
dark in the terrible gallery. This panic was of the nature of nightmare,
for she felt unable to move for terror. But it was worse than nightmare
because she knew she was awake. And then the full cause of this frozen
fear dawned on her; she knew with the certainty of absolute conviction
that she was about to see the twin-babies. She felt a sudden moisture break out on her face, and within her mouth
her tongue and throat went suddenly dry, and she felt her tongue grate
along the inner surface of her teeth. All power of movement had slipped
from her limbs, leaving them dead and inert, and she stared with wide
eyes into the blackness. The spurt of flame from the peat had burned
itself out again, and darkness encompassed her. Then on the wall opposite her, facing the windows, there grew a faint
light of dusky crimson. For a moment she thought it but heralded the
approach of the awful vision, then hope revived in her heart, and she
remembered that thick clouds had overcast the sky before she went to
sleep, and guessed that this light came from the sun not yet quite sunk
and set. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
This sudden revival of hope gave her the necessary stimulus,
and she sprang off the sofa where she lay. She looked out of the window
and saw the dull glow on the horizon. But before she could take a step
forward it was obscured again. A tiny sparkle of light came from the
hearth which did no more than illuminate the tiles of the fireplace, and
snow falling heavily tapped at the window panes. There was neither light
nor sound except these. But the courage that had come to her, giving her the power of movement,
had not quite deserted her, and she began feeling her way down the
gallery. And then she found that she was lost. She stumbled against a
chair, and, recovering herself, stumbled against another. Then a table
barred her way, and, turning swiftly aside, she found herself up against
the back of a sofa. Once more she turned and saw the dim gleam of the
firelight on the side opposite to that on which she expected it. In her
blind gropings she must have reversed her direction. But which way was
she to go now? She seemed blocked in by furniture. And all the time
insistent and imminent was the fact that the two innocent terrible
ghosts were about to appear to her. Then she began to pray, “Lighten our darkness, O Lord,” she said to
herself. But she could not remember how the prayer continued, and she
had sore need of it. There was something about the perils of the night. All this time she felt about her with groping, fluttering hands. The
fire-glimmer which should have been on her left was on her right again;
therefore she must turn herself round again. “Lighten our darkness,” she
whispered, and then aloud she repeated, “Lighten our darkness.”
She stumbled up against a screen, and could not remember the existence
of any such screen. Hastily she felt beside it with blind hands, and
touched something soft and velvety. Was it the sofa on which she had
lain? If so, where was the head of it. It had a head and a back and
feet--it was like a person, all covered with grey lichen. Then she lost
her head completely. All that remained to her was to pray; she was lost,
lost in this awful place, where no one came in the dark except the
babies that cried. And she heard her voice rising from whisper to
speech, and speech to scream. She shrieked out the holy words, she
yelled them as if blaspheming as she groped among tables and chairs and
the pleasant things of ordinary life which had become so terrible. * * * * *
Then came a sudden and an awful answer to her screamed prayer. Once more
a pocket of inflammable gas in the peat on the hearth was reached by the
smouldering embers, and the room started into light. She saw the evil
eyes of handsome Dick, she saw the little ghostly snow-flakes falling
thickly outside. And she saw where she was, just opposite the door
through which the terrible twins made their entrance. Then the flame
went out again, and left her in blackness once more. But she had gained
something, for she had her geography now. The centre of the room was
bare of furniture, and one swift dart would take her to the door of the
landing above the main staircase and into safety. In that gleam she had
been able to see the handle of the door, bright-brassed, luminous like a
star. She would go straight for it; it was but a matter of a few seconds
now. She took a long breath, partly of relief, partly to satisfy the demands
of her galloping heart. But the breath was only half-taken when she was
stricken once more into the immobility of nightmare. There came a little whisper, it was no more than that, from the door
opposite which she stood, and through which the twin-babies entered. It
was not quite dark outside it, for she could see that the door was
opening. And there stood in the opening two little white figures, side
by side. They came towards her slowly, shufflingly. She could not see
face or form at all distinctly, but the two little white figures were
advancing. She knew them to be the ghosts of terror, innocent of the
awful doom they were bound to bring, even as she was innocent. With the
inconceivable rapidity of thought, she made up her mind what to do. She
had not hurt them or laughed at them, and they, they were but babies
when the wicked and bloody deed had sent them to their burning death. Surely the spirits of these children would not be inaccessible to the
cry of one who was of the same blood as they, who had committed no fault
that merited the doom they brought. If she entreated them they might
have mercy, they might forebear to bring the curse on her, they might
allow her to pass out of the place without blight, without the sentence
of death, or the shadow of things worse than death upon her. It was but for the space of a moment that she hesitated, then she sank
down on to her knees, and stretched out her hands towards them. “Oh, my dears,” she said, “I only fell asleep. I have done no more wrong
than that----”
She paused a moment, and her tender girl’s heart thought no more of
herself, but only of them, those little innocent spirits on whom so
awful a doom was laid, that they should bring death where other children
bring laughter, and doom for delight. But all those who had seen them
before had dreaded and feared them, or had mocked at them. Then, as the enlightenment of pity dawned on her, her fear fell from her
like the wrinkled sheath that holds the sweet folded buds of Spring. “Dears, I am so sorry for you,” she said. “It is not your fault that you
must bring me what you must bring, but I am not afraid any longer. I am
only sorry for you. God bless you, you poor darlings.”
She raised her head and looked at them. Though it was so dark, she could
now see their faces, though all was dim and wavering, like the light of
pale flames shaken by a draught. But the faces were not miserable or
fierce--they smiled at her with shy little baby smiles. And as she
looked they grew faint, fading slowly away like wreaths of vapour in
frosty air. * * * * *
Madge did not at once move when they had vanished, for instead of fear
there was wrapped round her a wonderful sense of peace, so happy and
serene that she would not willingly stir, and so perhaps disturb it. But
before long she got up, and feeling her way, but without any sense of
nightmare pressing her on, or frenzy of fear to spur her, she went out
of the long gallery, to find Blanche just coming upstairs whistling and
swinging her skates. “How’s the leg, dear,” she asked, “You’re not limping any more.”
Till that moment Madge had not thought of it. “I think it must be all right,” she said, “I had forgotten it anyhow. Blanche, dear, you won’t be frightened for me, will you, but--but I have
seen the twins.”
For a moment Blanche’s face whitened with terror. “What?” she said in a whisper. “Yes, I saw them just now. But they were kind, they smiled at me, and I
was so sorry for them. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
And somehow I am sure I have nothing to fear.”
* * * * *
It seems that Madge was right, for nothing untoward has come to her. Something, her attitude to them, we must suppose, her pity, her
sympathy, touched and dissolved and annihilated the curse. Indeed, I was
at Church Peveril only last week, arriving there after dark. Just as I
passed the gallery door, Blanche came out. “Ah, there you are,” she said, “I’ve just been seeing the twins. They
looked too sweet and stopped nearly ten minutes. Let us have tea at
once.”
CATERPILLARS
I saw a month or two ago in an Italian paper that the Villa Cascana, in
which I once stayed, had been pulled down, and that a manufactory of
some sort was in process of erection on its site. There is therefore no
longer any reason for refraining from writing of those things which I
myself saw (or imagined I saw) in a certain room and on a certain
landing of the villa in question, nor from mentioning the circumstances
which followed, which may or may not (according to the opinion of the
reader) throw some light on or be somehow connected with this
experience. The Villa Cascana was in all ways but one a perfectly delightful house,
yet, if it were standing now, nothing in the world--I use the phrase in
its literal sense--would induce me to set foot in it again, for I
believe it to have been haunted in a very terrible and practical manner. Most ghosts, when all is said and done, do not do much harm; they may
perhaps terrify, but the person whom they visit usually gets over their
visitation. They may on the other hand be entirely friendly and
beneficent. But the appearances in the Villa Cascana were not
beneficent, and had they made their “visit” in a very slightly
different manner, I do not suppose I should have got over it any more
than Arthur Inglis did. * * * * *
The house stood on an ilex-clad hill not far from Sestri di Levante on
the Italian Riviera, looking out over the iridescent blues of that
enchanted sea, while behind it rose the pale green chestnut woods that
climb up the hillsides till they give place to the pines that, black in
contrast with them, crown the slopes. All round it the garden in the
luxuriance of mid-spring bloomed and was fragrant, and the scent of
magnolia and rose, borne on the salt freshness of the winds from the
sea, flowed like a stream through the cool vaulted rooms. On the ground floor a broad pillared _loggia_ ran round three sides of
the house, the top of which formed a balcony for certain rooms of the
first floor. The main staircase, broad and of grey marble steps, led up
from the hall to the landing outside these rooms, which were three in
number, namely two big sitting-rooms and a bedroom arranged _en suite_. The latter was unoccupied, the sitting-rooms were in use. From these the
main staircase was continued to the second floor, where were situated
certain bedrooms, one of which I occupied, while from the other side of
the first-floor landing some half-dozen steps led to another suite of
rooms, where, at the time I am speaking of, Arthur Inglis, the artist,
had his bedroom and studio. Thus the landing outside my bedroom at the
top of the house, commanded both the landing of the first floor, and
also the steps that led to Inglis’ rooms. Jim Stanley and his wife,
finally (whose guest I was), occupied rooms in another wing of the
house, where also were the servants’ quarters. I arrived just in time for lunch on a brilliant noon of mid-May. The
garden was shouting with colour and fragrance, and not less delightful
after my broiling walk up from the _marina_, should have been the coming
from the reverberating heat and blaze of the day into the marble
coolness of the villa. Only (the reader has my bare word for this, and
nothing more), the moment I set foot in the house I felt that something
was wrong. This feeling, I may say, was quite vague, though very strong,
and I remember that when I saw letters waiting for me on the table in
the hall I felt certain that the explanation was here: I was convinced
that there was bad news of some sort for me. Yet when I opened them I
found no such explanation of my premonition: my correspondents all
reeked of prosperity. Yet this clear miscarriage of a presentiment did
not dissipate my uneasiness. In that cool fragrant house there was
something wrong. I am at pains to mention this because to the general view it may explain
that though I am as a rule so excellent a sleeper that the extinction of
my light on getting into bed is apparently contemporaneous with being
called on the following morning, I slept very badly on my first night
in the Villa Cascana. It may also explain the fact that when I did sleep
(if it was indeed in sleep that I saw what I thought I saw) I dreamed in
a very vivid and original manner, original, that is to say, in the sense
that something that, as far as I knew, had never previously entered into
my consciousness, usurped it then. But since, in addition to this evil
premonition, certain words and events occurring during the rest of the
day, might have suggested something of what I thought happened that
night, it will be well to relate them. After lunch, then, I went round the house with Mrs Stanley, and during
our tour she referred, it is true, to the unoccupied bedroom on the
first floor, which opened out of the room where we had lunched. “We left that unoccupied,” she said, “because Jim and I have a charming
bedroom and dressing-room, as you saw, in the wing, and if we used it
ourselves we should have to turn the dining-room into a dressing-room
and have our meals downstairs. As it is, however, we have our little
flat there, Arthur Inglis has his little flat in the other passage; and
I remembered (aren’t I extraordinary?) that you once said that the
higher up you were in a house the better you were pleased. So I put you
at the top of the house, instead of giving you that room.”
It is true, that a doubt, vague as my uneasy premonition, crossed my
mind at this. I did not see why Mrs Stanley should have explained all
this, if there had not been more to explain. I allow, therefore, that
the thought that there was something to explain about the unoccupied
bedroom was momentarily present to my mind. The second thing that may have borne on my dream was this. At dinner the conversation turned for a moment on ghosts. Inglis, with
the certainty of conviction, expressed his belief that anybody who could
possibly believe in the existence of supernatural phenomena was unworthy
of the name of an ass. The subject instantly dropped. As far as I can
recollect, nothing else occurred or was said that could bear on what
follows. We all went to bed rather early, and personally I yawned my way
upstairs, feeling hideously sleepy. My room was rather hot, and I threw
all the windows wide, and from without poured in the white light of the
moon, and the love-song of many nightingales. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
I undressed quickly, and
got into bed, but though I had felt so sleepy before, I now felt
extremely wide-awake. But I was quite content to be awake: I did not
toss or turn, I felt perfectly happy listening to the song and seeing
the light. Then, it is possible, I may have gone to sleep, and what
follows may have been a dream. I thought anyhow that after a time the
nightingales ceased singing and the moon sank. I thought also that if,
for some unexplained reason, I was going to lie awake all night, I might
as well read, and I remembered that I had left a book in which I was
interested in the dining-room on the first floor. So I got out of bed,
lit a candle, and went downstairs. I went into the room, saw on a
side-table the book I had come to look for, and then, simultaneously,
saw that the door into the unoccupied bedroom was open. A curious grey
light, not of dawn nor of moonshine, came out of it, and I looked in. The bed stood just opposite the door, a big four-poster, hung with
tapestry at the head. Then I saw that the greyish light of the bedroom
came from the bed, or rather from what was on the bed. For it was
covered with great caterpillars, a foot or more in length, which crawled
over it. They were faintly luminous, and it was the light from them that
showed me the room. Instead of the sucker-feet of ordinary caterpillars
they had rows of pincers like crabs, and they moved by grasping what
they lay on with their pincers, and then sliding their bodies forward. In colour these dreadful insects were yellowish-grey, and they were
covered with irregular lumps and swellings. There must have been
hundreds of them, for they formed a sort of writhing, crawling pyramid
on the bed. Occasionally one fell off on to the floor, with a soft
fleshy thud, and though the floor was of hard concrete, it yielded to
the pincer-feet as if it had been putty, and, crawling back, the
caterpillar would mount on to the bed again, to rejoin its fearful
companions. They appeared to have no faces, so to speak, but at one end
of them there was a mouth that opened sideways in respiration. Then, as I looked, it seemed to me as if they all suddenly became
conscious of my presence. All the mouths at any rate were turned in my
direction, and next moment they began dropping off the bed with those
soft fleshy thuds on to the floor, and wriggling towards me. For one
second a paralysis as of a dream was on me, but the next I was running
upstairs again to my room, and I remember feeling the cold of the marble
steps on my bare feet. I rushed into my bedroom, and slammed the door
behind me, and then--I was certainly wide awake now--I found myself
standing by my bed with the sweat of terror pouring from me. The noise
of the banged door still rang in my ears. But, as would have been more
usual, if this had been mere nightmare, the terror that had been mine
when I saw those foul beasts crawling about the bed or dropping softly
on to the floor did not cease then. Awake now, if dreaming before, I did
not at all recover from the horror of dream: it did not seem to me that
I had dreamed. And until dawn, I sat or stood, not daring to lie down,
thinking that every rustle or movement that I heard was the approach of
the caterpillars. To them and the claws that bit into the cement the
wood of the door was child’s play: steel would not keep them out. But with the sweet and noble return of day the horror vanished: the
whisper of wind became benignant again: the nameless fear, whatever it
was, was smoothed out and terrified me no longer. Dawn broke, hueless at
first; then it grew dove-coloured, then the flaming pageant of light
spread over the sky. * * * * *
The admirable rule of the house was that everybody had breakfast where
and when he pleased, and in consequence it was not till lunch-time that
I met any of the other members of our party, since I had breakfast on my
balcony, and wrote letters and other things till lunch. In fact, I got
down to that meal rather late, after the other three had begun. Between
my knife and fork there was a small pill-box of cardboard, and as I sat
down Inglis spoke. “Do look at that,” he said, “since you are interested in natural
history. I found it crawling on my counterpane last night, and I don’t
know what it is.”
I think that before I opened the pill-box I expected something of the
sort which I found in it. Inside it, anyhow, was a small caterpillar,
greyish-yellow in colour, with curious bumps and excrescences on its
rings. It was extremely active, and hurried round the box, this way and
that. Its feet were unlike the feet of any caterpillar I ever saw: they
were like the pincers of a crab. I looked, and shut the lid down again. “No, I don’t know it,” I said, “but it looks rather unwholesome. What
are you going to do with it?”
“Oh, I shall keep it,” said Inglis. “It has begun to spin: I want to see
what sort of a moth it turns into.”
I opened the box again, and saw that these hurrying movements were
indeed the beginning of the spinning of the web of its cocoon. Then
Inglis spoke again. “It has got funny feet, too,” he said. “They are like crabs’ pincers. What’s the Latin for crab? Oh, yes, Cancer. So in case it is unique,
let’s christen it: ‘Cancer Inglisensis.’”
Then something happened in my brain, some momentary piecing together of
all that I had seen or dreamed. Something in his words seemed to me to
throw light on it all, and my own intense horror at the experience of
the night before linked itself on to what he had just said. In effect, I
took the box and threw it, caterpillar and all, out of the window. There
was a gravel path just outside, and beyond it, a fountain playing into a
basin. The box fell on to the middle of this. Inglis laughed. “So the students of the occult don’t like solid facts,” he said. “My
poor caterpillar!”
The talk went off again at once on to other subjects, and I have only
given in detail, as they happened, these trivialities in order to be
sure myself that I have recorded everything that could have borne on
occult subjects or on the subject of caterpillars. But at the moment
when I threw the pill-box into the fountain, I lost my head: my only
excuse is that, as is probably plain, the tenant of it was, in
miniature, exactly what I had seen crowded on to the bed in the
unoccupied room. And though this translation of those phantoms into
flesh and blood--or whatever it is that caterpillars are made of--ought
perhaps to have relieved the horror of the night, as a matter of fact it
did nothing of the kind. It only made the crawling pyramid that covered
the bed in the unoccupied room more hideously real. * * * * *
After lunch we spent a lazy hour or two strolling about the garden or
sitting in the loggia, and it must have been about four o’clock when
Stanley and I started off to bathe, down the path that led by the
fountain into which I had thrown the pill-box. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
The water was shallow and
clear, and at the bottom of it I saw its white remains. The water had
disintegrated the cardboard, and it had become no more than a few strips
and shreds of sodden paper. The centre of the fountain was a marble
Italian Cupid which squirted the water out of a wine-skin held under its
arm. And crawling up its leg was the caterpillar. Strange and scarcely
credible as it seemed, it must have survived the falling-to-bits of its
prison, and made its way to shore, and there it was, out of arm’s reach,
weaving and waving this way and that as it evolved its cocoon. Then, as I looked at it, it seemed to me again that, like the
caterpillar I had seen last night, it saw me, and breaking out of the
threads that surrounded it, it crawled down the marble leg of the Cupid
and began swimming like a snake across the water of the fountain towards
me. It came with extraordinary speed (the fact of a caterpillar being
able to swim was new to me), and in another moment was crawling up the
marble lip of the basin. Just then Inglis joined us. “Why, if it isn’t old ‘Cancer Inglisensis’ again,” he said, catching
sight of the beast. “What a tearing hurry it is in.”
We were standing side by side on the path, and when the caterpillar had
advanced to within about a yard of us, it stopped, and began waving
again, as if in doubt as to the direction in which it should go. Then it
appeared to make up its mind, and crawled on to Inglis’ shoe. “It likes me best,” he said, “but I don’t really know that I like it. And as it won’t drown I think perhaps----”
He shook it off his shoe on to the gravel path and trod on it. * * * * *
All afternoon the air got heavier and heavier with the Sirocco that was
without doubt coming up from the south, and that night again I went up
to bed feeling very sleepy; but below my drowsiness, so to speak, there
was the consciousness, stronger than before, that there was something
wrong in the house, that something dangerous was close at hand. But I
fell asleep at once, and--how long after I do not know--either woke or
dreamed I awoke, feeling that I must get up at once, _or I should be too
late_. Then (dreaming or awake) I lay and fought this fear, telling
myself that I was but the prey of my own nerves disordered by Sirocco or
what not, and at the same time quite clearly knowing in another part of
my mind, so to speak, that every moment’s delay added to the danger. At
last this second feeling became irresistible, and I put on coat and
trousers and went out of my room on to the landing. And then I saw that
I had already delayed too long, and that I was now too late. The whole of the landing of the first floor below was invisible under
the swarm of caterpillars that crawled there. The folding doors into the
sitting-room from which opened the bedroom where I had seen them last
night, were shut, but they were squeezing through the cracks of it, and
dropping one by one through the keyhole, elongating themselves into mere
string as they passed, and growing fat and lumpy again on emerging. Some, as if exploring, were nosing about the steps into the passage at
the end of which were Inglis’ rooms, others were crawling on the lowest
steps of the staircase that led up to where I stood. The landing,
however, was completely covered with them: I was cut off. And of the
frozen horror that seized me when I saw that, I can give no idea in
words. * * * * *
Then at last a general movement began to take place, and they grew
thicker on the steps that led to Inglis’ room. Gradually, like some
hideous tide of flesh, they advanced along the passage, and I saw the
foremost, visible by the pale grey luminousness that came from them,
reach his door. Again and again I tried to shout and warn him, in terror
all the time that they would turn at the sound of my voice and mount my
stair instead, but for all my efforts I felt that no sound came from my
throat. They crawled along the hinge-crack of his door, passing through
as they had done before, and still I stood there making impotent efforts
to shout to him, to bid him escape while there was time. * * * * *
At last the passage was completely empty: they had all gone, and at that
moment I was conscious for the first time of the cold of the marble
landing on which I stood barefooted. The dawn was just beginning to
break in the Eastern sky. * * * * *
Six months later I met Mrs Stanley in a country house in England. We
talked on many subjects and at last she said:
“I don’t think I have seen you since I got that dreadful news about
Arthur Inglis a month ago.”
“I haven’t heard,” said I. “No? He has got cancer. They don’t even advise an operation, for there
is no hope of a cure: he is riddled with it, the doctors say.”
Now during all these six months I do not think a day had passed on which
I had not had in my mind the dreams (or whatever you like to call them)
which I had seen in the Villa Cascana. “It is awful, is it not?” she continued, “and I feel, I can’t help
feeling, that he may have----”
“Caught it at the villa?” I asked. She looked at me in blank surprise. “Why did you say that?” she asked. “How did you know?”
Then she told me. In the unoccupied bedroom a year before there had been
a fatal case of cancer. She had, of course, taken the best advice and
had been told that the utmost dictates of prudence would be obeyed so
long as she did not put anybody to sleep in the room, which had also
been thoroughly disinfected and newly white-washed and painted. But----
THE CAT
Many people will, doubtless, remember that exhibition at the Royal
Academy, not so many seasons ago, which came to be known as Alingham’s
year, when Dick Alingham vaulted, with one bound, as it were, out of the
crowd of strugglers and seated himself with admirably certain poise on
the very topmost pinnacle of contemporary fame. He exhibited three
portraits, each a master-piece, which killed every picture within range. But since that year nobody cared anything for pictures whether in or out
of range except those three, it did not signify so greatly. The
phenomenon of his appearance was as sudden as that of the meteor, coming
from nowhere and sliding large and luminous across the remote and
star-sown sky, as inexplicable as the bursting of a spring on some
dust-ridden rocky hillside. Some fairy godmother, one might conjecture,
had bethought herself of her forgotten godson, and with a wave of her
wand bestowed on him this transcendant gift. But, as the Irish say, she
held her wand in her left hand, for her gift had another side to it. Or
perhaps, again, Jim Merwick is right, and the theory he propounds in his
monograph, “On certain obscure lesions of the nerve centres,” says the
final word on the subject. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Dick Alingham himself, as was indeed natural, was delighted with his
fairy godmother or his obscure lesion (whichever was responsible), and
(the monograph spoken of above was written after Dick’s death) confessed
frankly to his friend Merwick, who was still struggling through the
crowd of rising young medical practitioners, that it was all quite as
inexplicable to himself as it was to anyone else. “All I know about it,” he said, “is that last autumn I went through two
months of mental depression so hideous that I thought again and again
that I must go off my head. For hours daily, I sat here, waiting for
something to crack, which as far as I am concerned would end everything. Yes, there was a cause; you know it.”
He paused a moment and poured into his glass a fairly liberal allowance
of whisky, filled it half up from a syphon, and lit a cigarette. The
cause, indeed, had no need to be enlarged on, for Merwick quite well
remembered how the girl Dick had been engaged to, threw him over with an
abruptness that was almost superb, when a more eligible suitor made his
appearance. The latter was certainly very eligible indeed with his
good looks, his title, and his million of money, and Lady
Madingley--ex-future Mrs Alingham--was perfectly content with what she
had done. She was one of those blonde, lithe, silken girls who, happily
for the peace of men’s minds, are rather rare, and who remind one of
some humanised yet celestial and bestial cat. “I needn’t speak of the cause,” Dick continued, “but, as I say, for
those two months I soberly thought that the only end to it would be
madness. Then one evening when I was sitting here alone--I was always
sitting alone--something did snap in my head. I know I wondered, without
caring at all, whether this was the madness which I had been expecting,
or whether (which would be preferable) some more fatal breakage had
happened. And even while I wondered, I was aware that I was not
depressed or unhappy any longer.”
He paused for so long in a smiling retrospect that Merwick indicated to
him that he had a listener. “Well?” he said. “It was well indeed. I haven’t been unhappy since. I have been riotously
happy instead. Some divine doctor, I suppose, just wiped off that stain
on my brain that hurt so. Heavens, how it hurt! Have a drink, by the
way?”
“No, thanks,” said Merwick. “But what has all this got to do with your
painting?”
“Why, everything. For I had hardly realised the fact that I was happy
again, when I was aware that everything looked different. The colours of
all I saw were twice as vivid as they had been, shape and outline were
intensified too. The whole visible world had been dusty and blurred
before, and seen in a half light. But now the lights were turned up, and
there was a new heaven and a new earth. And in the same flash, I knew
that I could paint things as I saw them. Which,” he concluded, “I have
done.”
There was something rather sublime about this, and Merwick laughed. “I wish something would snap in my brain, if it kindles the perceptions
in that way,” said he, “but it is just possible that the snapping of
things in one’s brain does not always produce just that effect.”
“That is possible. Also, as I gather, things don’t snap unless you have
gone through some such hideous period as I have been through. And I tell
you frankly that I wouldn’t go through that again even to ensure a snap
that would make me see things like Titian.”
“What did the snapping feel like?” asked Merwick. Dick considered a moment. “Do you know when a parcel comes, tied up with string, and you can’t
find a knife,” he said, “and therefore you burn the string through,
holding it taut? Well, it was like that: quite painless, only something
got weaker and weaker, and then parted, softly without effort. Not very
lucid, I’m afraid, but it was just like that. It had been burning a
couple of months, you see.”
He turned away and hunted among the letters and papers which littered
his writing-table till he found an envelope with a coronet on it. He
chuckled to himself as he took it up. “Commend me to Lady Madingley,” he said, “for a brazen impudence in
comparison with which brass is softer than putty. She wrote to me
yesterday, asking me if I would finish the portrait I had begun of her
last year, and let her have it at my own price.”
“Then I think you have had a lucky escape,” remarked Merwick, “I suppose
you didn’t even answer her.”
“Oh, yes, I did: why not? I said the price would be two thousand pounds,
and I was ready to go on at once. She has agreed, and sent me a cheque
for a thousand this evening.”
Merwick stared at him in blank astonishment. “Are you mad?” he asked. “I hope not, though one can never be sure about little points like that. Even doctors like you don’t know exactly what constitutes madness.”
Merwick got up. “But is it possible that you don’t see what a terrible risk you run?” he
asked. “To see her again, to be with her like that, having to look at
her--I saw her this afternoon by the way, hardly human--may not that so
easily revive again all that you felt before? It is too dangerous: much
too dangerous.”
Dick shook his head. “There is not the slightest risk,” he said, “everything within me is
utterly and absolutely indifferent to her. I don’t even hate her: if I
hated her there might be a possibility of my again loving her. As it is,
the thought of her does not arouse in me any emotion of any kind. And
really such stupendous calmness deserves to be rewarded. I respect
colossal things like that.”
He finished his whisky as he spoke, and instantly poured himself out
another glass. “That’s the fourth,” said his friend. “Is it? I never count. It shows a sordid attention to uninteresting
detail. Funnily enough too, alcohol does not have the smallest effect on
me now.”
“Why drink then?”
“Because if I give it up this entrancing vividness of colour and clarity
of outline is a little diminished.”
“Can’t be good for you,” said the doctor. Dick laughed. “My dear fellow, look at me carefully,” he said, “and then if you can
conscientiously declare that I show any signs of indulging in
stimulants, I’ll give them up altogether.”
Certainly it would have been hard to find a point in which Dick did not
present the appearance of perfect health. He had paused, and stood still
a moment, his glass in one hand, the whisky-bottle in the other, black
against the front of his shirt, and not a tremor of unsteadiness was
there. His face of wholesome sun-burnt hue was neither puffy nor
emaciated, but firm of flesh and of a wonderful clearness of skin. Clear
too was his eye, with eyelids neither baggy nor puckered; he looked
indeed a model of condition, hard and fit, as if he was in training for
some athletic event. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Lithe and active too was his figure, his movements
were quick and precise, and even Merwick, with his doctor’s eye, trained
to detect any symptom, however slight, in which the drinker must betray
himself, was bound to confess that no such was here present. His
appearance contradicted it authoritatively, so also did his manner; he
met the eye of the man he was talking to without sideway glances; he
showed no signs however small, of any disorder of the nerves. Yet Dick
was altogether an abnormal fellow; the history he had just been
recounting was abnormal, those weeks of depression, followed by the
sudden snap in his brain which had apparently removed, as a wet cloth
removes a stain, all the memory of his love, and of the cruel bitterness
that resulted from it. Abnormal too was his sudden leap into high
artistic achievement from a past of very mediocre performance. Why
should there then not be a similar abnormality here? “Yes, I confess you show no sign of taking excessive stimulant,” said
Merwick, “but if I attended you professionally--ah, I’m not touting--I
should make you give up all stimulant, and go to bed for a month.”
“Why in the name of goodness?” asked Dick. “Because, theoretically, it must be the best thing you could do. You had
a shock, how severe, the misery of those weeks of depression tells you. Well, common-sense says, ‘Go slow after a shock; recoup.’ Instead of
which you go very fast indeed and produce. I grant it seems to suit you;
you also became suddenly capable of feats which--oh, it’s sheer
nonsense, man.”
“What’s sheer nonsense?”
“You are. Professionally, I detest you, because you appear to be an
exception to a theory that I am sure must be right. Therefore I have got
to explain you away, and at present I can’t.”
“What’s the theory?” asked Dick. “Well, the treatment of shock first of all. And secondly, that in order
to do good work, one ought to eat and drink very little and sleep a lot. How long do you sleep by the way?”
Dick considered. “Oh, I go to bed about three usually,” he said; “I suppose I sleep for
about four hours.”
“And live on whisky, and eat like a Strasburg goose, and are prepared to
run a race to-morrow. Go away, or at least I will. Perhaps you’ll break
down, though. That would satisfy me. But even if you don’t, it still
remains quite interesting.”
Merwick found it more than quite interesting in fact, and when he got
home that night he searched in his shelves for a certain dusky volume in
which he turned up a chapter called “Shock.” The book was a treatise on
obscure diseases and abnormal conditions of the nervous system. He had
often read it before, for in his profession he was a special student of
the rare and curious. And the following paragraph which had interested
him much before, interested him more than ever this evening. “The nervous system also can act in a way that must always even to the
most advanced student be totally unexpected. Cases are known, and
well-authenticated ones, when a paralytic person has jumped out of bed
on the cry of ‘Fire.’ Cases too are known when a great shock, which
produces depression so profound as to amount to lethargy, is followed by
abnormal activity, and the calling into use of powers which were
previously unknown to exist, or at any rate existed in a quite ordinary
degree. Such a hyper-sensitised state, especially since the desire for
sleep or rest is very often much diminished, demands much stimulant in
the way of food and alcohol. It would appear also that the patient
suffering from this rare form of the after-consequences of shock has
sooner or later some sudden and complete break-down. It is impossible,
however, to conjecture what form this will take. The digestion, however,
may become suddenly atrophied, delirium tremens may, without warning,
supervene, or he may go completely off his head....”
* * * * *
But the weeks passed on, the July suns made London reel in a haze of
heat, and yet Alingham remained busy, brilliant and altogether
exceptional. Merwick, unknown to him, was watching him closely, and at
present was completely puzzled. He held Dick to his word that if he
could detect the slightest sign of over-indulgence in stimulant, he
would cut it off altogether, but he could see absolutely none. Lady
Madingley meantime had given him several sittings, and in this
connection again Merwick was utterly mistaken in the view he had
expressed to Dick as to the risks he ran. For, strangely enough, the two
had become great friends. Yet Dick was quite right, all emotion with
regard to her on his part was dead, it might have been a piece of
still-life that he was painting, instead of a woman he had wildly
worshipped. One morning in mid-July she had been sitting to him in his studio, and
contrary to custom he had been rather silent, biting the ends of his
brushes, frowning at his canvas, frowning too at her. Suddenly he gave a
little impatient exclamation. “It’s so like you,” he said, “but it just isn’t you. There’s a lot of
difference! I can’t help making you look as if you were listening to a
hymn, one of those in four sharps, don’t you know, written by an
organist, probably after eating muffins. And that’s not characteristic
of you!”
She laughed. “You must be rather ingenious to put all that in,” she said. “I am.”
“Where do I show it all?”
Dick sighed. “Oh, in your eyes of course,” he said. “You show everything by your
eyes, you know. It is entirely characteristic of you. You are a
throw-back; don’t you remember we settled that ever so long ago, to the
brute creation, who likewise show everything by their eyes.”
“Oh-h. I should have thought that dogs growled at you, and cats
scratched.”
“Those are practical measures, but short of that you and animals use
their eyes only, whereas people use their mouths and foreheads and other
things. A pleased dog, an expectant dog, a hungry dog, a jealous dog, a
disappointed dog--one gathers all that from a dog’s eyes. Their mouths
are comparatively immobile, and a cat’s is even more so.”
“You have often told me that I belong to the genus cat,” said Lady
Madingley, with complete composure. “By Jove, yes,” said he. “Perhaps looking at the eyes of a cat would
help me to see what I miss. Many thanks for the hint.”
He put down his palette and went to a side table on which stood bottles
and ice and syphons. “No drink of any kind on this Sahara of a morning?” he asked. “No, thanks. Now when will you give me the final sitting? You said you
only wanted one more.”
Dick helped himself. “Well, I go down to the country with this,” he said, “to put in the
background I told you of. With luck it will take me three days hard
painting, without luck a week or more. Oh, my mouth waters at the
thought of the background. So shall we say to-morrow week?”
Lady Madingley made a note of this in a minute gold and jewelled
memorandum book. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“And I am to be prepared to see cat’s eyes painted there instead of my
own when I see it next?” she asked, passing by the canvas. Dick laughed. “Oh, you will hardly notice the difference,” he said. “How odd it is
that I always have detested cats so--they make me feel actually faint,
although you always reminded me of a cat.”
“You must ask your friend Mr Merwick about these metaphysical
mysteries,” said she. * * * * *
The background to the picture was at present only indicated by a few
vague splashes close to the side of the head of brilliant purple and
brilliant green, and the artist’s mouth might well water at the thought
of the few days painting that lay before him. For behind the figure in
the long panel-shaped canvas was to be painted a green trellis, over
which, almost hiding the woodwork, there was to sprawl a great purple
clematis in full flaunting glory of varnished leaf and starry flower. At
the top would be just a strip of pale summer sky, at her feet just a
strip of grey-green grass, but all the rest of the background, greatly
daring, would be this diaper of green and purple. For the purpose of
putting this in, he was going down to a small cottage of his near
Godalming, where he had built in the garden a sort of outdoor studio, an
erection betwixt a room and a mere shelter, with the side to the north
entirely open, and flanked by this green trellis which was now one
immense constellation of purple stars. Framed in this, he well knew how
the strange pale beauty of his sitter would glow on the canvas, how she
would start out of the background, she and her huge grey hat, and
shining grey dress, and yellow hair and ivory white skin and pale eyes,
now blue, now grey, now green. This was indeed a thing to look forward
to, for there is probably no such unadulterated rapture known to men as
creation, and it was small wonder that Dick’s mood, as he travelled down
to Godalming, was buoyant and effervescent. For he was going, so to
speak, to realise his creation: every purple star of clematis, every
green leaf and piece of trellis-work that he put in, would cause what he
had painted to live and shine, just as it is the layers of dusk that
fall over the sky at evening which make the stars to sparkle there,
jewel-like. His scheme was assured, he had hung his constellation--the
figure of Lady Madingley--in the sky: and now he had to surround it with
the green and purple night, so that it might shine. His garden was but a circumscribed plot, but walls of old brick
circumscribed it, and he had dealt with the space at his command with a
certain originality. At no time had his grass plot (you could scarcely
call it “lawn”) been spacious; now the outdoor studio, twenty-five feet
by thirty, took up the greater part of it. He had a solid wooden wall on
one side and two trellis walls to the south and east, which creepers
were beginning to clothe and which were faced internally by hangings of
Syrian and Oriental work. Here in the summer he passed the greater part
of the day, painting or idling, and living an outdoor existence. The
floor, which had once been grass, which had withered completely under
the roof, was covered with Persian rugs; a writing-table, and a
dining-table were there, a bookcase full of familiar friends and a
half-dozen of basket chairs. One corner, too, was frankly given up to
the affairs of the garden, and a mowing machine, a hose for watering,
shears, and spade stood there. For like many excitable persons, Dick
found that in gardening, that incessant process of plannings and
designings to suit the likings of plants, and make them gorgeous in
colour and high of growth, there was a wonderful calm haven of refuge
for the brain that had been tossing on emotional seas. Plants, too, were
receptive, so responsive to kindness; thought given to them was never
thought wasted, and to come back now after a month’s absence in London
was to be assured of fresh surprise and pleasure in each foot of
garden-bed. And here, with how regal a generosity was the purple
clematis to repay him for the care lavished on it. Every flower would
show its practical gratitude by standing model for the background of his
picture. The evening was very warm, warm not with any sultry premonition of
thunder, but with the clear, clean heat of summer, and he dined alone in
his shelter, with the after-flames of the sunset for his lamp. These
slowly faded into a sky of velvet blue, but he lingered long over his
coffee looking northwards across the garden towards the row of trees
that screened him from the house beyond. These were acacias, most
graceful and feminine of all green things that grow, summer-plumaged
now, yet still fresh of leaf. Below them ran a little raised terrace of
turf and nearer the beds of the beloved garden; clumps of sweet peas
made an inimitable fragrance, and the rose-beds were pink with _Baroness
Rothschild_ and _La France_, and copper-coloured with _Beauté
inconstante_, and the _Richardson_ rose. Then, nearer at hand, was the
green trellis foaming with purple. He was sitting there, hardly looking, but unconsciously drinking in this
great festival of colour, when his eye was arrested by a dark slinking
form that appeared among the roses, and suddenly turned two shining
luminous orbs on him. At this he started up, but his movement caused no
perturbation in the animal, which continued with back arched for
stroking, and poker-like tail, to advance towards him, purring. As it
came closer Dick felt that shuddering faintness, which often affected
him in the presence of cats, come over him, and he stamped and clapped
his hands. At this it turned tail quickly: a sort of dark shadow
streaked the garden-wall for a moment, and it vanished. But its
appearance had spoiled for him the sweet spell of the evening, and he
went indoors. The next morning was pellucid summer: a faint north wind blew, and a sun
worthy to illumine the isles of Greece flooded the sky. Dick’s dreamless
and (for him) long sleep had banished from his mind that rather
disquieting incident of the cat, and he set up his canvas facing the
trellis-work and purple clematis with a huge sense of imminent ecstasy. Also the garden, which at present he had only seen in the magic of
sunset, was gloriously rewarding, and glowed with colour, and though
life--this was present to his mind for the first time for months--in
the shape of Lady Madingley had not been very propitious, yet a man, he
argued to himself, must be a very poor hand at living if, with a passion
for plants and a passion for art, he cannot fashion a life that shall be
full of content. So breakfast being finished, and his model ready and
glowing with beauty, he quickly sketched in the broad lines of flowers
and foliage and began to paint. Purple and green, green and purple: was there ever such a feast for the
eye? Gourmet like and greedy as well, he was utterly absorbed in it. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
He
was right too: as soon as he put on the first brush of colour he knew he
was right. It was just those divine and violent colours which would
cause his figure to step out from the picture, it was just that pale
strip of sky above which would focus her again, it was just that strip
of grey-green grass below her feet that would prevent her, so it seemed,
from actually leaving the canvas. And with swift eager sweeps of the
brush which never paused and never hurried, he lost himself in his work. He stopped at length with a sense of breathlessness, feeling too as if
he had been suddenly called back from some immense distance off. He must
have been working some three hours, for his man was already laying the
table for lunch, yet it seemed to him that the morning had gone by in
one flash. The progress he had made was extraordinary, and he looked
long at his picture. Then his eye wandered from the brightness of the
canvas to the brightness of the garden-beds. There, just in front of the
bed of sweet-peas, not two yards from him, stood a very large grey cat,
watching him. Now the presence of a cat was a thing that usually produced in Dick a
feeling of deadly faintness, yet, at this moment, as he looked at the
cat and the cat at him, he was conscious of no such feeling, and put
down the absence of it, in so far as he consciously thought about it, to
the fact that he was in the open air, not in the atmosphere of a closed
room. Yet, last night out here, the cat had made him feel faint. But he
hardly gave a thought to this, for what filled his mind was that he saw
in the rather friendly interested look of the beast that expression in
the eye which had so baffled him in his portrait of Lady Madingley. So,
slowly, and without any sudden movement that might startle the cat, he
reached out his hand for the palette he had just put down, and in a
corner of the canvas not yet painted over, recorded in half a dozen
swift intuitive touches, what he wanted. Even in the broad sunlight
where the animal stood, its eyes looked as if they were internally
smouldering as well as being lit from without: it was just so that Lady
Madingley looked. He would have to lay colour very thinly over white....
For five minutes or so he painted them with quiet eager strokes,
drawing the colour thinly over the background of white, and then looked
long at that sketch of the eye to see if he had got what he wanted. Then
he looked back at the cat which had stood so charmingly for him. But
there was no cat there. That, however, since he detested them, and this
one had served his purpose, was no matter for regret, and he merely
wondered a little at the suddenness of its disappearance. But the legacy
it had left on the canvas could not vanish thus, it was his own, a
possession, an achievement. Truly this was to be a portrait which would
altogether out-distance all he had ever done before. A woman, real,
alive, wearing her soul in her eyes, should stand there, and summer riot
round her. An extraordinary clearness of vision was his all day, and towards sunset
an empty whisky-bottle. But this evening he was conscious for the first
time of two feelings, one physical, one mental, altogether strange to
him: the first an impression that he had drunk as much as was good for
him, the second a sort of echo in his mind of those tortures he had
undergone in the autumn, when he had been tossed aside by the girl, to
whom he had given his soul, like a soiled glove. Neither were at all
acutely felt, but both were present to him. The evening altogether belied the brilliance of the day, and about six
o’clock thick clouds had driven up over the sky, and the clear heat of
summer had given place to a heat no less intense, but full of the
menace of storm. A few big hot drops, too, of rain warned him further,
and he pulled his easel into shelter, and gave orders that he would dine
indoors. As was usual with him when he was at work, he shunned the
distracting influence of any companionship, and he dined alone. Dinner
finished, he went into his sitting-room prepared to enjoy his solitary
evening. His servant had brought him in the tray, and till he went to
bed he would be undisturbed. Outside the storm was moving nearer, the
reverberation of the thunder, though not yet close, kept up a continual
growl: any moment it might move up and burst above in riot of fire and
sound. Dick read a book for a while, but his thoughts wandered. The poignancy
of his trouble last autumn, which he thought had passed away from him
for ever, grew suddenly and strangely more acute, also his head was
heavy, perhaps with the storm, but possibly with what he had drunk. So,
intending to go to bed and sleep off his disquietude, he closed his
book, and went across to the window to close that also. But, half-way
towards it, he stopped. There on the sofa below it sat a large grey cat
with yellow gleaming eyes. In its mouth it held a young thrush, still
alive. Then horror woke in him: his feeling of sick-faintness was there, and he
loathed and was terrified at this dreadful feline glee in the torture of
its prey, a glee so great that it preferred the postponement of its
meal to a shortening of the other. More than all, the resemblance of the
eyes of this cat to those of his portrait suddenly struck him as
something hellish. For one moment this all held him bound, as if with
paralysis, the next his physical shuddering could be withstood no
longer, and he threw the glass he carried at the cat, missing it. For
one second the animal paused there glaring at him with an intense and
dreadful hostility, then it made one spring of it out of the open
window. Dick shut it with a bang that startled himself, and then
searched on the sofa and the floor for the bird which he thought the cat
had dropped. Once or twice he thought he heard it feebly fluttering, but
this must have been an illusion, for he could not find it. All this was rather shaky business, so before going to bed he steadied
himself, as his unspoken phrase ran, with a final drink. Outside the
thunder had ceased, but the rain beat hissing on to the grass. Then
another sound mingled with it, the mewing of a cat, not the long drawn
screeches and cries that are usual, but the plaintive calls of the beast
that wants to be admitted into its own home. The blind was down, but
after a while he could not resist peeping out. There on the window-sill
was seated the large grey cat. Though it was raining heavily its fur
seemed dry, for it was standing stiffly away from its body. But when it
saw him it spat at him, scratching angrily at the glass, and vanished. Lady Madingley ... heavens, how he had loved her! And, infernally as she
had treated him, how passionately he wanted her now. Was all his trouble
then to begin over again? Had that nightmare dawned anew on him? It was
the cat’s fault: the eyes of the cat had done it. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Yet just now all his
desire was blurred by this dullness of brain that was as unaccountable
as the re-awakening of his desire. For months now he had drunk far more
than he had drunk to-day, yet evening had seen him clear-headed, acute,
master of himself, and revelling in the liberty that had come to him,
and in the cool joy of creative vision. But to-night he stumbled and
groped across the room. The neutral-coloured light of dawn awoke him, and he got up at once,
feeling still very drowsy, but in answer to some silent imperative call. The storm had altogether passed away, and a jewel of a morning star hung
in a pale heaven. His room looked strangely unfamiliar to him, his own
sensations were unfamiliar, there was a vagueness about things, a
barrier between him and the world. One desire alone possessed him, to
finish the portrait. All else, so he felt, he left to chance, or
whatever laws regulate the world, those laws which choose that a certain
thrush shall be caught by a certain cat, and choose one scapegoat out of
a thousand, and let the rest go free. Two hours later his servant called him, and found him gone from his
room. So as the morning was so fair, he went out to lay breakfast in the
shelter. The portrait was there, it had been dragged back into position
by the clematis, but it was covered with strange scratches, as if the
claws of some enraged animal or the nails perhaps of a man had furiously
attacked it. Dick Alingham was there, too, lying very still in front of
the disfigured canvas. Claws, also, or nails had attacked him, his
throat was horribly mangled by them. But his hands were covered with
paint, the nails of his fingers too were choked with it. THE BUS-CONDUCTOR
My friend, Hugh Grainger, and I had just returned from a two days’ visit
in the country, where we had been staying in a house of sinister repute
which was supposed to be haunted by ghosts of a peculiarly fearsome and
truculent sort. The house itself was all that such a house should be,
Jacobean and oak-panelled, with long dark passages and high vaulted
rooms. It stood, also, very remote, and was encompassed by a wood of
sombre pines that muttered and whispered in the dark, and all the time
that we were there a south-westerly gale with torrents of scolding rain
had prevailed, so that by day and night weird voices moaned and fluted
in the chimneys, a company of uneasy spirits held colloquy among the
trees, and sudden tattoes and tappings beckoned from the window-panes. But in spite of these surroundings, which were sufficient in themselves,
one would almost say, to spontaneously generate occult phenomena,
nothing of any description had occurred. I am bound to add, also, that
my own state of mind was peculiarly well adapted to receive or even to
invent the sights and sounds we had gone to seek, for I was, I confess,
during the whole time that we were there, in a state of abject
apprehension, and lay awake both nights through hours of terrified
unrest, afraid of the dark, yet more afraid of what a lighted candle
might show me. Hugh Grainger, on the evening after our return to town, had dined with
me, and after dinner our conversation, as was natural, soon came back to
these entrancing topics. “But why you go ghost-seeking I cannot imagine,” he said, “because your
teeth were chattering and your eyes starting out of your head all the
time you were there, from sheer fright. Or do you like being
frightened?”
Hugh, though generally intelligent, is dense in certain ways; this is
one of them. “Why, of course, I like being frightened,” I said. “I want to be made to
creep and creep and creep. Fear is the most absorbing and luxurious of
emotions. One forgets all else if one is afraid.”
“Well, the fact that neither of us saw anything,” he said, “confirms
what I have always believed.”
“And what have you always believed?”
“That these phenomena are purely objective, not subjective, and that
one’s state of mind has nothing to do with the perception that perceives
them, nor have circumstances or surroundings anything to do with them
either. Look at Osburton. It has had the reputation of being a haunted
house for years, and it certainly has all the accessories of one. Look
at yourself, too, with all your nerves on edge, afraid to look round or
light a candle for fear of seeing something! Surely there was the right
man in the right place then, if ghosts are subjective.”
He got up and lit a cigarette, and looking at him--Hugh is about six
feet high, and as broad as he is long--I felt a retort on my lips, for I
could not help my mind going back to a certain period in his life, when,
from some cause which, as far as I knew, he had never told anybody, he
had become a mere quivering mass of disordered nerves. Oddly enough, at
the same moment and for the first time, he began, to speak of it
himself. “You may reply that it was not worth my while to go either,” he said,
“because I was so clearly the wrong man in the wrong place. But I
wasn’t. You for all your apprehensions and expectancy have never seen a
ghost. But I have, though I am the last person in the world you would
have thought likely to do so, and, though my nerves are steady enough
again now, it knocked me all to bits.”
He sat down again in his chair. “No doubt you remember my going to bits,” he said, “and since I believe
that I am sound again now, I should rather like to tell you about it. But before I couldn’t; I couldn’t speak of it at all to anybody. Yet
there ought to have been nothing frightening about it; what I saw was
certainly a most useful and friendly ghost. But it came from the shaded
side of things; it looked suddenly out of the night and the mystery with
which life is surrounded.”
“I want first to tell you quite shortly my theory about ghost-seeing,”
he continued, “and I can explain it best by a simile, an image. Imagine
then that you and I and everybody in the world are like people whose eye
is directly opposite a little tiny hole in a sheet of cardboard which is
continually shifting and revolving and moving about. Back to back with
that sheet of cardboard is another, which also, by laws of its own, is
in perpetual but independent motion. In it too there is another hole,
and when, fortuitously it would seem, these two holes, the one through
which we are always looking, and the other in the spiritual plane, come
opposite one another, we see through, and then only do the sights and
sounds of the spiritual world become visible or audible to us. With most
people these holes never come opposite each other during their life. But
at the hour of death they do, and then they remain stationary. That, I
fancy, is how we ‘pass over.’
“Now, in some natures, these holes are comparatively large, and are
constantly coming into opposition. Clairvoyants, mediums are like that. But, as far as I knew, I had no clairvoyant or mediumistic powers at
all. I therefore am the sort of person who long ago made up his mind
that he never would see a ghost. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
It was, so to speak, an incalculable
chance that my minute spy-hole should come into opposition with the
other. But it did: and it knocked me out of time.”
I had heard some such theory before, and though Hugh put it rather
picturesquely, there was nothing in the least convincing or practical
about it. It might be so, or again it might not. “I hope your ghost was more original than your theory,” said I, in order
to bring him to the point. “Yes, I think it was. You shall judge.”
I put on more coal and poked up the fire. Hugh has got, so I have always
considered, a great talent for telling stories, and that sense of drama
which is so necessary for the narrator. Indeed before now, I have
suggested to him that he should take this up as a profession, sit by the
fountain in Piccadilly Circus, when times are, as usual, bad, and tell
stories to the passers-by in the street, Arabian fashion, for reward. The most part of mankind, I am aware, do not like long stories, but to
the few, among whom I number myself, who really like to listen to
lengthy accounts of experiences, Hugh is an ideal narrator. I do not
care for his theories, or for his similes, but when it comes to facts,
to things that happened, I like him to be lengthy. “Go on, please, and slowly,” I said. “Brevity may be the soul of wit,
but it is the ruin of storytelling. I want to hear when and where and
how it all was, and what you had for lunch and where you had dined and
what----”
Hugh began:
“It was the 24th of June, just eighteen months ago,” he said. “I had let
my flat, you may remember, and came up from the country to stay with you
for a week. We had dined alone here----”
I could not help interrupting. “Did you see the ghost here?” I asked. “In this square little box of a
house in a modern street?”
“I was in the house when I saw it.”
I hugged myself in silence. “We had dined alone here in Graeme Street,” he said, “and after dinner I
went out to some party, and you stopped at home. At dinner your man did
not wait, and when I asked where he was, you told me he was ill, and, I
thought, changed the subject rather abruptly. You gave me your latch-key
when I went out, and on coming back, I found you had gone to bed. There
were, however, several letters for me, which required answers. I wrote
them there and then, and posted them at the pillar-box opposite. So I
suppose it was rather late when I went upstairs. “You had put me in the front room, on the third floor, overlooking the
street, a room which I thought you generally occupied yourself. It was a
very hot night, and though there had been a moon when I started to my
party, on my return the whole sky was cloud-covered, and it both looked
and felt as if we might have a thunderstorm before morning. I was
feeling very sleepy and heavy, and it was not till after I had got into
bed that I noticed by the shadows of the window-frames on the blind that
only one of the windows was open. But it did not seem worth while to get
out of bed in order to open it, though I felt rather airless and
uncomfortable, and I went to sleep. “What time it was when I awoke I do not know, but it was certainly not
yet dawn, and I never remember being conscious of such an extraordinary
stillness as prevailed. There was no sound either of foot-passengers or
wheeled traffic; the music of life appeared to be absolutely mute. But
now instead of being sleepy and heavy, I felt, though I must have slept
an hour or two at most, since it was not yet dawn, perfectly fresh and
wide-awake, and the effort which had seemed not worth making before,
that of getting out of bed and opening the other window, was quite easy
now, and I pulled up the blind, threw it wide open, and leaned out, for
somehow I parched and pined for air. Even outside the oppression was
very noticeable, and though, as you know, I am not easily given to feel
the mental effects of climate, I was aware of an awful creepiness coming
over me. I tried to analyse it away, but without success; the past day
had been pleasant, I looked forward to another pleasant day to-morrow,
and yet I was full of some nameless apprehension. I felt, too,
dreadfully lonely in this stillness before the dawn. “Then I heard suddenly and not very far away the sound of some
approaching vehicle; I could distinguish the tread of two horses walking
at a slow foot’s pace. They were, though yet invisible, coming up the
street, and yet this indication of life did not abate that dreadful
sense of loneliness which I have spoken of. Also in some dim
unformulated way that which was coming seemed to me to have something to
do with the cause of my oppression. “Then the vehicle came into sight. At first I could not distinguish what
it was. Then I saw that the horses were black and had long tails, and
that what they dragged was made of glass, but had a black frame. It was
a hearse. Empty. “It was moving up this side of the street. It stopped at your door. “Then the obvious solution struck me. You had said at dinner that your
man was ill, and you were, I thought, unwilling to speak more about his
illness. No doubt, so I imagined now, he was dead, and for some reason,
perhaps because you did not want me to know anything about it, you were
having the body removed at night. This, I must tell you, passed through
my mind quite instantaneously, and it did not occur to me how unlikely
it really was, before the next thing happened. “I was still leaning out of the window, and I remember also wondering,
yet only momentarily, how odd it was that I saw things--or rather the
one thing I was looking at--so very distinctly. Of course, there was a
moon behind the clouds, but it was curious how every detail of the
hearse and the horses was visible. There was only one man, the driver,
with it, and the street was otherwise absolutely empty. It was at him I
was looking now. I could see every detail of his clothes, but from where
I was, so high above him, I could not see his face. He had on grey
trousers, brown boots, a black coat buttoned all the way up, and a straw
hat. Over his shoulder there was a strap, which seemed to support some
sort of little bag. He looked exactly like--well, from my description
what did he look exactly like?”
“Why--a bus-conductor,” I said instantly. “So I thought, and even while I was thinking this, he looked up at me. He had a rather long thin face, and on his left cheek there was a mole
with a growth of dark hair on it. All this was as distinct as if it had
been noonday, and as if I was within a yard of him. But--so
instantaneous was all that takes so long in the telling--I had not time
to think it strange that the driver of a hearse should be so
unfunereally dressed. “Then he touched his hat to me, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.”
“‘Just room for one inside, sir,’ he said. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“There was something so odious, so coarse, so unfeeling about this that
I instantly drew my head in, pulled the blind down again, and then, for
what reason I do not know, turned on the electric light in order to see
what time it was. The hands of my watch pointed to half-past eleven. “It was then for the first time, I think, that a doubt crossed my mind
as to the nature of what I had just seen. But I put out the light again,
got into bed, and began to think. We had dined; I had gone to a party, I
had come back and written letters, had gone to bed and had slept. So how
could it be half-past eleven?... Or--_what_ half-past eleven was it? “Then another easy solution struck me; my watch must have stopped. But
it had not; I could hear it ticking. “There was stillness and silence again. I expected every moment to hear
muffled footsteps on the stairs, footsteps moving slowly and smally
under the weight of a heavy burden, but from inside the house there was
no sound whatever. Outside, too, there was the same dead silence, while
the hearse waited at the door. And the minutes ticked on and ticked on,
and at length I began to see a difference in the light in the room, and
knew that the dawn was beginning to break outside. But how had it
happened then that if the corpse was to be removed at night it had not
gone, and that the hearse still waited, when morning was already coming? “Presently I got out of bed again, and with the sense of strong physical
shrinking I went to the window and pulled back the blind. The dawn was
coming fast; the whole street was lit by that silver hueless light of
morning. But there was no hearse there. “Once again I looked at my watch. It was just a quarter-past four. But I
would swear that not half an hour had passed since it had told me that
it was half-past eleven. “Then a curious double sense, as if I was living in the present and at
the same moment had been living in some other time, came over me. It was
dawn on June 25th, and the street, as natural, was empty. But a little
while ago the driver of a hearse had spoken to me, and it was half-past
eleven. What was that driver, to what plane did he belong? And again
_what_ half-past eleven was it that I had seen recorded on the dial of
my watch? “And then I told myself that the whole thing had been a dream. But if
you ask me whether I believed what I told myself, I must confess that I
did not. “Your man did not appear at breakfast next morning, nor did I see him
again before I left that afternoon. I think if I had, I should have told
you about all this, but it was still possible, you see, that what I had
seen was a real hearse, driven by a real driver, for all the ghastly
gaiety of the face that had looked up to mine, and the levity of his
pointing hand. I might possibly have fallen asleep soon after seeing
him, and slumbered through the removal of the body and the departure of
the hearse. So I did not speak of it to you.”
* * * * *
There was something wonderfully straightforward and prosaic in all this;
here were no Jacobean houses oak-panelled and surrounded by weeping
pine-trees, and somehow the very absence of suitable surroundings made
the story more impressive. But for a moment a doubt assailed me. “Don’t tell me it was all a dream,” I said. “I don’t know whether it was or not. I can only say that I believe
myself to have been wide awake. In any case the rest of the story
is--odd.”
“I went out of town again that afternoon,” he continued, “and I may say
that I don’t think that even for a moment did I get the haunting sense
of what I had seen or dreamed that night out of my mind. It was present
to me always as some vision unfulfilled. It was as if some clock had
struck the four quarters, and I was still waiting to hear what the hour
would be. “Exactly a month afterwards I was in London again, but only for the day. I arrived at Victoria about eleven, and took the underground to Sloane
Square in order to see if you were in town and would give me lunch. It
was a baking hot morning, and I intended to take a bus from the King’s
Road as far as Graeme Street. There was one standing at the corner just
as I came out of the station, but I saw that the top was full, and the
inside appeared to be full also. Just as I came up to it the conductor
who, I suppose, had been inside, collecting fares or what not, came out
on to the step within a few feet of me. He wore grey trousers, brown
boots, a black coat buttoned, a straw hat, and over his shoulder was a
strap on which hung his little machine for punching tickets. I saw his
face, too; it was the face of the driver of the hearse, with a mole on
the left cheek. Then he spoke to me, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder. “‘Just room for one inside, sir,’ he said. “At that a sort of panic-terror took possession of me, and I knew I
gesticulated wildly with my arms, and cried, ‘No, no!’ But at that
moment I was living not in the hour that was then passing, but in that
hour which had passed a month ago, when I leaned from the window of your
bedroom here just before the dawn broke. At this moment too I knew that
my spy-hole had been opposite the spy-hole into the spiritual world. What I had seen there had some significance, now being fulfilled, beyond
the significance of the trivial happenings of to-day and to-morrow. The
Powers of which we know so little were visibly working before me. And I
stood there on the pavement shaking and trembling. “I was opposite the post-office at the corner, and just as the bus
started my eye fell on the clock in the window there. I need not tell
you what the time was. “Perhaps I need not tell you the rest, for you probably conjecture it,
since you will not have forgotten what happened at the corner of Sloane
Square at the end of July, the summer before last. The bus pulled out
from the pavement into the street in order to get round a van that was
standing in front of it. At the moment there came down the King’s Road a
big motor going at a hideously dangerous pace. It crashed full into the
bus, burrowing into it as a gimlet burrows into a board.”
He paused. “And that’s my story,” he said. THE MAN WHO WENT TOO FAR
The little village of St Faith’s nestles in a hollow of wooded hill up
on the north bank of the river Fawn in the county of Hampshire, huddling
close round its grey Norman church as if for spiritual protection
against the fays and fairies, the trolls and “little people,” who might
be supposed still to linger in the vast empty spaces of the New Forest,
and to come after dusk and do their doubtful businesses. Once outside
the hamlet you may walk in any direction (so long as you avoid the high
road which leads to Brockenhurst) for the length of a summer afternoon
without seeing sign of human habitation, or possibly even catching sight
of another human being. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Shaggy wild ponies may stop their feeding for a
moment as you pass, the white scuts of rabbits will vanish into their
burrows, a brown viper perhaps will glide from your path into a clump of
heather, and unseen birds will chuckle in the bushes, but it may easily
happen that for a long day you will see nothing human. But you will not
feel in the least lonely; in summer, at any rate, the sunlight will be
gay with butterflies, and the air thick with all those woodland sounds
which like instruments in an orchestra combine to play the great
symphony of the yearly festival of June. Winds whisper in the birches,
and sigh among the firs; bees are busy with their redolent labour among
the heather, a myriad birds chirp in the green temples of the forest
trees, and the voice of the river prattling over stony places, bubbling
into pools, chuckling and gulping round corners, gives you the sense
that many presences and companions are near at hand. Yet, oddly enough, though one would have thought that these benign and
cheerful influences of wholesome air and spaciousness of forest were
very healthful comrades for a man, in so far as nature can really
influence this wonderful human genus which has in these centuries
learned to defy her most violent storms in its well-established houses,
to bridle her torrents and make them light its streets, to tunnel her
mountains and plough her seas, the inhabitants of St Faith’s will not
willingly venture into the forest after dark. For in spite of the
silence and loneliness of the hooded night it seems that a man is not
sure in what company he may suddenly find himself, and though it is
difficult to get from these villagers any very clear story of occult
appearances, the feeling is widespread. One story indeed I have heard
with some definiteness, the tale of a monstrous goat that has been seen
to skip with hellish glee about the woods and shady places, and this
perhaps is connected with the story which I have here attempted to
piece together. It too is well-known to them; for all remember the young
artist who died here not long ago, a young man, or so he struck the
beholder, of great personal beauty, with something about him that made
men’s faces to smile and brighten when they looked on him. His ghost
they will tell you “walks” constantly by the stream and through the
woods which he loved so, and in especial it haunts a certain house, the
last of the village, where he lived, and its garden in which he was done
to death. For my part I am inclined to think that the terror of the
Forest dates chiefly from that day. So, such as the story is, I have set
it forth in connected form. It is based partly on the accounts of the
villagers, but mainly on that of Darcy, a friend of mine and a friend of
the man with whom these events were chiefly concerned. * * * * *
The day had been one of untarnished midsummer splendour, and as the sun
drew near to its setting, the glory of the evening grew every moment
more crystalline, more miraculous. Westward from St Faith’s the
beechwood which stretched for some miles toward the heathery upland
beyond already cast its veil of clear shadow over the red roofs of the
village, but the spire of the grey church, overtopping all, still
pointed a flaming orange finger into the sky. The river Fawn, which runs
below, lay in sheets of sky-reflected blue, and wound its dreamy
devious course round the edge of this wood, where a rough two-planked
bridge crossed from the bottom of the garden of the last house in the
village, and communicated by means of a little wicker gate with the wood
itself. Then once out of the shadow of the wood the stream lay in
flaming pools of the molten crimson of the sunset, and lost itself in
the haze of woodland distances. This house at the end of the village stood outside the shadow, and the
lawn which sloped down to the river was still flecked with sunlight. Garden-beds of dazzling colour lined its gravel walks, and down the
middle of it ran a brick pergola, half-hidden in clusters of
rambler-rose and purple with starry clematis. At the bottom end of it,
between two of its pillars, was slung a hammock containing a
shirt-sleeved figure. The house itself lay somewhat remote from the rest of the village, and a
footpath leading across two fields, now tall and fragrant with hay, was
its only communication with the high road. It was low-built, only two
stories in height, and like the garden, its walls were a mass of
flowering roses. A narrow stone terrace ran along the garden front, over
which was stretched an awning, and on the terrace a young silent-footed
man-servant was busied with the laying of the table for dinner. He was
neat-handed and quick with his job, and having finished it he went back
into the house, and reappeared again with a large rough bath-towel on
his arm. With this he went to the hammock in the pergola. “Nearly eight, sir,” he said. “Has Mr Darcy come yet?” asked a voice from the hammock. “No, sir.”
“If I’m not back when he comes, tell him that I’m just having a bathe
before dinner.”
The servant went back to the house, and after a moment or two Frank
Halton struggled to a sitting posture, and slipped out on to the grass. He was of medium height and rather slender in build, but the supple ease
and grace of his movements gave the impression of great physical
strength: even his descent from the hammock was not an awkward
performance. His face and hands were of very dark complexion, either
from constant exposure to wind and sun, or, as his black hair and dark
eyes tended to show, from some strain of southern blood. His head was
small, his face of an exquisite beauty of modelling, while the
smoothness of its contour would have led you to believe that he was a
beardless lad still in his teens. But something, some look which living
and experience alone can give, seemed to contradict that, and finding
yourself completely puzzled as to his age, you would next moment
probably cease to think about that, and only look at this glorious
specimen of young manhood with wondering satisfaction. He was dressed as became the season and the heat, and wore only a shirt
open at the neck, and a pair of flannel trousers. His head, covered very
thickly with a somewhat rebellious crop of short curly hair, was bare as
he strolled across the lawn to the bathing-place that lay below. Then
for a moment there was silence, then the sound of splashed and divided
waters, and presently after, a great shout of ecstatic joy, as he swam
up-stream with the foamed water standing in a frill round his neck. Then
after some five minutes of limb-stretching struggle with the flood, he
turned over on his back, and with arms thrown wide, floated down-stream,
ripple-cradled and inert. His eyes were shut, and between half-parted
lips he talked gently to himself. “I am one with it,” he said to himself, “the river and I, I and the
river. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
The coolness and splash of it is I, and the water-herbs that wave
in it are I also. And my strength and my limbs are not mine but the
river’s. It is all one, all one, dear Fawn.”
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later he appeared again at the bottom of the lawn,
dressed as before, his wet hair already drying into its crisp short
curls again. There he paused a moment, looking back at the stream with
the smile with which men look on the face of a friend, then turned
towards the house. Simultaneously his servant came to the door leading
on to the terrace, followed by a man who appeared to be some half-way
through the fourth decade of his years. Frank and he saw each other
across the bushes and garden-beds, and each quickening his step, they
met suddenly face to face round an angle of the garden walk, in the
fragrance of syringa. “My dear Darcy,” cried Frank, “I am charmed to see you.”
But the other stared at him in amazement. “Frank!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that is my name,” he said laughing, “what is the matter?”
Darcy took his hand. “What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “You are a boy again.”
“Ah, I have a lot to tell you,” said Frank. “Lots that you will hardly
believe, but I shall convince you----”
He broke off suddenly, and held up his hand. “Hush, there is my nightingale,” he said. The smile of recognition and welcome with which he had greeted his
friend faded from his face, and a look of rapt wonder took its place, as
of a lover listening to the voice of his beloved. His mouth parted
slightly, showing the white line of teeth, and his eyes looked out and
out till they seemed to Darcy to be focussed on things beyond the vision
of man. Then something perhaps startled the bird, for the song ceased. “Yes, lots to tell you,” he said. “Really I am delighted to see you. But you look rather white and pulled down; no wonder after that fever. And there is to be no nonsense about this visit. It is June now, you
stop here till you are fit to begin work again. Two months at least.”
“Ah, I can’t trespass quite to that extent.”
Frank took his arm and walked him down the grass. “Trespass? Who talks of trespass? I shall tell you quite openly when I
am tired of you, but you know when we had the studio together, we used
not to bore each other. However, it is ill talking of going away on the
moment of your arrival. Just a stroll to the river, and then it will be
dinner-time.”
Darcy took out his cigarette case, and offered it to the other. Frank laughed. “No, not for me. Dear me, I suppose I used to smoke once. How very odd!”
“Given it up?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I must have. Anyhow I don’t do it now. I would
as soon think of eating meat.”
“Another victim on the smoking altar of vegetarianism?”
“Victim?” asked Frank. “Do I strike you as such?”
He paused on the margin of the stream and whistled softly. Next moment a
moor-hen made its splashing flight across the river, and ran up the
bank. Frank took it very gently in his hands and stroked its head, as
the creature lay against his shirt. “And is the house among the reeds still secure?” he half-crooned to it. “And is the missus quite well, and are the neighbours flourishing? There, dear, home with you,” and he flung it into the air. “That bird’s very tame,” said Darcy, slightly bewildered. “It is rather,” said Frank, following its flight. * * * * *
During dinner Frank chiefly occupied himself in bringing himself
up-to-date in the movements and achievements of this old friend whom he
had not seen for six years. Those six years, it now appeared, had been
full of incident and success for Darcy; he had made a name for himself
as a portrait painter which bade fair to outlast the vogue of a couple
of seasons, and his leisure time had been brief. Then some four months
previously he had been through a severe attack of typhoid, the result of
which as concerns this story was that he had come down to this
sequestered place to recruit. “Yes, you’ve got on,” said Frank at the end. “I always knew you would. A.R.A. with more in prospect. Money? You roll in it, I suppose, and, O
Darcy, how much happiness have you had all these years? That is the only
imperishable possession. And how much have you learned? Oh, I don’t mean
in Art. Even I could have done well in that.”
Darcy laughed. “Done well? My dear fellow, all I have learned in these six years you
knew, so to speak, in your cradle. Your old pictures fetch huge prices. Do you never paint now?”
Frank shook his head. “No, I’m too busy,” he said. “Doing what? Please tell me. That is what everyone is for ever asking
me.”
“Doing? I suppose you would say I do nothing.”
Darcy glanced up at the brilliant young face opposite him. “It seems to suit you, that way of being busy,” he said. “Now, it’s your
turn. Do you read? Do you study? I remember you saying that it would do
us all--all us artists, I mean--a great deal of good if we would study
any one human face carefully for a year, without recording a line. Have
you been doing that?”
Frank shook his head again. “I mean exactly what I say,” he said, “I have been _doing_ nothing. And
I have never been so occupied. Look at me; have I not done something to
myself to begin with?”
“You are two years younger than I,” said Darcy, “at least you used to
be. You therefore are thirty-five. But had I never seen you before I
should say you were just twenty. But was it worth while to spend six
years of greatly-occupied life in order to look twenty? Seems rather
like a woman of fashion.”
Frank laughed boisterously. “First time I’ve ever been compared to that particular bird of prey,” he
said. “No, that has not been my occupation--in fact I am only very
rarely conscious that one effect of my occupation has been that. Of
course, it must have been if one comes to think of it. It is not very
important. Quite true my body has become young. But that is very little;
I have become young.”
Darcy pushed back his chair and sat sideways to the table looking at the
other. “Has that been your occupation then?” he asked. “Yes, that anyhow is one aspect of it. Think what youth means! It is the
capacity for growth, mind, body, spirit, all grow, all get stronger, all
have a fuller, firmer life every day. That is something, considering
that every day that passes after the ordinary man reaches the full-blown
flower of his strength, weakens his hold on life. A man reaches his
prime, and remains, we say, in his prime, for ten years, or perhaps
twenty. But after his primest prime is reached, he slowly, insensibly
weakens. These are the signs of age in you, in your body, in your art
probably, in your mind. You are less electric than you were. But I, when
I reach my prime--I am nearing it--ah, you shall see.”
The stars had begun to appear in the blue velvet of the sky, and to the
east the horizon seen above the black silhouette of the village was
growing dove-coloured with the approach of moon-rise. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
White moths
hovered dimly over the garden-beds, and the footsteps of night tip-toed
through the bushes. Suddenly Frank rose. “Ah, it is the supreme moment,” he said softly. “Now more than at any
other time the current of life, the eternal imperishable current runs so
close to me that I am almost enveloped in it. Be silent a minute.”
He advanced to the edge of the terrace and looked out standing stretched
with arms outspread. Darcy heard him draw a long breath into his lungs,
and after many seconds expel it again. Six or eight times he did this,
then turned back into the lamplight. “It will sound to you quite mad, I expect,” he said, “but if you want to
hear the soberest truth I have ever spoken and shall ever speak, I will
tell you about myself. But come into the garden if it is not too damp
for you. I have never told anyone yet, but I shall like to tell you. It
is long, in fact, since I have even tried to classify what I have
learned.”
They wandered into the fragrant dimness of the pergola, and sat down. Then Frank began:
“Years ago, do you remember,” he said, “we used often to talk about the
decay of joy in the world. Many impulses, we settled, had contributed
to this decay, some of which were good in themselves, others that were
quite completely bad. Among the good things, I put what we may call
certain Christian virtues, renunciation, resignation, sympathy with
suffering, and the desire to relieve sufferers. But out of those things
spring very bad ones, useless renunciations, asceticism for its own
sake, mortification of the flesh with nothing to follow, no
corresponding gain that is, and that awful and terrible disease which
devastated England some centuries ago, and from which by heredity of
spirit we suffer now, Puritanism. That was a dreadful plague, the brutes
held and taught that joy and laughter and merriment were evil: it was a
doctrine the most profane and wicked. Why, what is the commonest crime
one sees? A sullen face. That is the truth of the matter. “Now all my life I have believed that we are intended to be happy, that
joy is of all gifts the most divine. And when I left London, abandoned
my career, such as it was, I did so because I intended to devote my life
to the cultivation of joy, and, by continuous and unsparing effort, to
be happy. Among people, and in constant intercourse with others, I did
not find it possible; there were too many distractions in towns and
work-rooms, and also too much suffering. So I took one step backwards or
forwards, as you may choose to put it, and went straight to Nature, to
trees, birds, animals, to all those things which quite clearly pursue
one aim only, which blindly follow the great native instinct to be happy
without any care at all for morality, or human law or divine law. I
wanted, you understand, to get all joy first-hand and unadulterated, and
I think it scarcely exists among men; it is obsolete.”
Darcy turned in his chair. “Ah, but what makes birds and animals happy?” he asked. “Food, food and
mating.”
Frank laughed gently in the stillness. “Do not think I became a sensualist,” he said. “I did not make that
mistake. For the sensualist carries his miseries pick-a-back, and round
his feet is wound the shroud that shall soon enwrap him. I may be mad,
it is true, but I am not so stupid anyhow as to have tried that. No,
what is it that makes puppies play with their own tails, that sends cats
on their prowling ecstatic errands at night?”
He paused a moment. “So I went to Nature,” he said. “I sat down here in this New Forest, sat
down fair and square, and looked. That was my first difficulty, to sit
here quiet without being bored, to wait without being impatient, to be
receptive and very alert, though for a long time nothing particular
happened. The change in fact was slow in those early stages.”
“Nothing happened?” asked Darcy rather impatiently, with the sturdy
revolt against any new idea which to the English mind is synonymous
with nonsense. “Why, what in the world _should_ happen?”
Now Frank as he had known him was the most generous but most
quick-tempered of mortal men; in other words his anger would flare to a
prodigious beacon, under almost no provocation, only to be quenched
again under a gust of no less impulsive kindliness. Thus the moment
Darcy had spoken, an apology for his hasty question was half-way up his
tongue. But there was no need for it to have travelled even so far, for
Frank laughed again with kindly, genuine mirth. “Oh, how I should have resented that a few years ago,” he said. “Thank
goodness that resentment is one of the things I have got rid of. I
certainly wish that you should believe my story--in fact, you are going
to--but that you at this moment should imply that you do not, does not
concern me.”
“Ah, your solitary sojournings have made you inhuman,” said Darcy, still
very English. “No, human,” said Frank. “Rather more human, at least rather less of an
ape.”
“Well, that was my first quest,” he continued, after a moment, “the
deliberate and unswerving pursuit of joy, and my method, the eager
contemplation of Nature. As far as motive went, I daresay it was purely
selfish, but as far as effect goes, it seems to me about the best thing
one can do for one’s fellow-creatures, for happiness is more infectious
than small-pox. So, as I said, I sat down and waited; I looked at happy
things, zealously avoided the sight of anything unhappy, and by degrees
a little trickle of the happiness of this blissful world began to filter
into me. The trickle grew more abundant, and now, my dear fellow, if I
could for a moment divert from me into you one half of the torrent of
joy that pours through me day and night, you would throw the world, art,
everything aside, and just live, exist. When a man’s body dies, it
passes into trees and flowers. Well, that is what I have been trying to
do with my soul before death.”
The servant had brought into the pergola a table with syphons and
spirits, and had set a lamp upon it. As Frank spoke he leaned forward
towards the other, and Darcy for all his matter-of-fact common-sense
could have sworn that his companion’s face shone, was luminous in
itself. His dark brown eyes glowed from within, the unconscious smile of
a child irradiated and transformed his face. Darcy felt suddenly
excited, exhilarated. “Go on,” he said. “Go on. I can feel you are somehow telling me sober
truth. I daresay you are mad; but I don’t see that matters.”
Frank laughed again. “Mad?” he said. “Yes, certainly, if you wish. But I prefer to call it
sane. However, nothing matters less than what anybody chooses to call
things. God never labels his gifts; He just puts them into our hands;
just as he put animals in the garden of Eden, for Adam to name if he
felt disposed.”
“So by the continual observance and study of things that were happy,”
continued he, “I got happiness, I got joy. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But seeking it, as I did,
from Nature, I got much more which I did not seek, but stumbled upon
originally by accident. It is difficult to explain, but I will try. “About three years ago I was sitting one morning in a place I will show
you to-morrow. It is down by the river brink, very green, dappled with
shade and sun, and the river passes there through some little clumps of
reeds. Well, as I sat there, doing nothing, but just looking and
listening, I heard the sound quite distinctly of some flute-like
instrument playing a strange unending melody. I thought at first it was
some musical yokel on the highway and did not pay much attention. But
before long the strangeness and indescribable beauty of the tune struck
me. It never repeated itself, but it never came to an end, phrase after
phrase ran its sweet course, it worked gradually and inevitably up to a
climax, and having attained it, it went on; another climax was reached
and another and another. Then with a sudden gasp of wonder I localised
where it came from. It came from the reeds and from the sky and from the
trees. It was everywhere, it was the sound of life. It was, my dear
Darcy, as the Greeks would have said, it was Pan playing on his pipes,
the voice of Nature. It was the life-melody, the world-melody.”
Darcy was far too interested to interrupt, though there was a question
he would have liked to ask, and Frank went on:
“Well, for the moment I was terrified, terrified with the impotent
horror of nightmare, and I stopped my ears and just ran from the place
and got back to the house panting, trembling, literally in a panic. Unknowingly, for at that time I only pursued joy, I had begun, since I
drew my joy from Nature, to get in touch with Nature. Nature, force,
God, call it what you will, had drawn across my face a little gossamer
web of essential life. I saw that when I emerged from my terror, and I
went very humbly back to where I had heard the Pan-pipes. But it was
nearly six months before I heard them again.”
“Why was that?” asked Darcy. “Surely because I had revolted, rebelled, and worst of all been
frightened. For I believe that just as there is nothing in the world
which so injures one’s body as fear, so there is nothing that so much
shuts up the soul. I was afraid, you see, of the one thing in the world
which has real existence. No wonder its manifestation was withdrawn.”
“And after six months?”
“After six months one blessed morning I heard the piping again. I wasn’t
afraid that time. And since then it has grown louder, it has become more
constant. I now hear it often, and I can put myself into such an
attitude towards Nature that the pipes will almost certainly sound. And
never yet have they played the same tune, it is always something new,
something fuller, richer, more complete than before.”
“What do you mean by ‘such an attitude towards Nature’?” asked Darcy. “I can’t explain that; but by translating it into a bodily attitude it
is this.”
Frank sat up for a moment quite straight in his chair, then slowly sunk
back with arms outspread and head drooped. “That;” he said, “an effortless attitude, but open, resting, receptive. It is just that which you must do with your soul.”
Then he sat up again. “One word more,” he said, “and I will bore you no further. Nor unless
you ask me questions shall I talk about it again. You will find me, in
fact, quite sane in my mode of life. Birds and beasts, you will see
behaving somewhat intimately to me, like that moor-hen, but that is all. I will walk with you, ride with you, play golf with you, and talk with
you on any subject you like. But I wanted you on the threshold to know
what has happened to me. And one thing more will happen.”
He paused again, and a slight look of fear crossed his eyes. “There will be a final revelation,” he said, “a complete and blinding
stroke which will throw open to me, once and for all, the full
knowledge, the full realisation and comprehension that I am one, just as
you are, with life. In reality there is no ‘me,’ no ‘you,’ no ‘it.’
Everything is part of the one and only thing which is life. I know that
that is so, but the realisation of it is not yet mine. But it will be,
and on that day, so I take it, I shall see Pan. It may mean death, the
death of my body, that is, but I don’t care. It may mean immortal,
eternal life lived here and now and for ever. Then having gained that,
ah, my dear Darcy, I shall preach such a gospel of joy, showing myself
as the living proof of the truth, that Puritanism, the dismal religion
of sour faces, shall vanish like a breath of smoke, and be dispersed and
disappear in the sunlit air. But first the full knowledge must be mine.”
Darcy watched his face narrowly. “You are afraid of that moment,” he said. Frank smiled at him. “Quite true; you are quick to have seen that. But when it comes I hope I
shall not be afraid.”
For some little time there was silence; then Darcy rose. “You have bewitched me, you extraordinary boy,” he said. “You have been
telling me a fairy-story, and I find myself saying, ‘Promise me it is
true.’”
“I promise you that,” said the other. “And I know I shan’t sleep,” added Darcy. Frank looked at him with a sort of mild wonder as if he scarcely
understood. “Well, what does that matter?” he said. “I assure you it does. I am wretched unless I sleep.”
“Of course I can make you sleep if I want,” said Frank in a rather bored
voice. “Well do.”
“Very good: go to bed. I’ll come upstairs in ten minutes.”
Frank busied himself for a little after the other had gone, moving the
table back under the awning of the verandah and quenching the lamp. Then
he went with his quick silent tread upstairs and into Darcy’s room. The
latter was already in bed, but very wide-eyed and wakeful, and Frank
with an amused smile of indulgence, as for a fretful child, sat down on
the edge of the bed. “Look at me,” he said, and Darcy looked. “The birds are sleeping in the brake,” said Frank softly, “and the winds
are asleep. The sea sleeps, and the tides are but the heaving of its
breast. The stars swing slow, rocked in the great cradle of the Heavens,
and----”
He stopped suddenly, gently blew out Darcy’s candle, and left him
sleeping. Morning brought to Darcy a flood of hard common-sense, as clear and
crisp as the sunshine that filled his room. Slowly as he woke he
gathered together the broken threads of the memories of the evening
which had ended, so he told himself, in a trick of common hypnotism. That accounted for it all; the whole strange talk he had had was under a
spell of suggestion from the extraordinary vivid boy who had once been a
man; all his own excitement, his acceptance of the incredible had been
merely the effect of a stronger, more potent will imposed on his own. How strong that will was, he guessed from his own instantaneous
obedience to Frank’s suggestion of sleep. And armed with impenetrable
common-sense he came down to breakfast. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Frank had already begun, and was
consuming a large plateful of porridge and milk with the most prosaic
and healthy appetite. “Slept well?” he asked. “Yes, of course. Where did you learn hypnotism?”
“By the side of the river.”
“You talked an amazing quantity of nonsense last night,” remarked Darcy,
in a voice prickly with reason. “Rather. I felt quite giddy. Look, I remembered to order a dreadful
daily paper for you. You can read about money markets or politics or
cricket matches.”
Darcy looked at him closely. In the morning light Frank looked even
fresher, younger, more vital than he had done the night before, and the
sight of him somehow dinted Darcy’s armour of common-sense. “You are the most extraordinary fellow I ever saw,” he said. “I want to
ask you some more questions.”
“Ask away,” said Frank. * * * * *
For the next day or two Darcy plied his friend with many questions,
objections and criticisms on the theory of life and gradually got out of
him a coherent and complete account of his experience. In brief then,
Frank believed that “by lying naked,” as he put it, to the force which
controls the passage of the stars, the breaking of a wave, the budding
of a tree, the love of a youth and maiden, he had succeeded in a way
hitherto undreamed of in possessing himself of the essential principle
of life. Day by day, so he thought, he was getting nearer to, and in
closer union with the great power itself which caused all life to be,
the spirit of nature, of force, or the spirit of God. For himself, he
confessed to what others would call paganism; it was sufficient for him
that there existed a principle of life. He did not worship it, he did
not pray to it, he did not praise it. Some of it existed in all human
beings, just as it existed in trees and animals, to realise and make
living to himself the fact that it was all one, was his sole aim and
object. Here perhaps Darcy would put in a word of warning. “Take care,” he said. “To see Pan meant death, did it not.”
Frank’s eyebrows would rise at this. “What does that matter?” he said. “True, the Greeks were always right,
and they said so, but there is another possibility. For the nearer I get
to it, the more living, the more vital and young I become.”
“What then do you expect the final revelation will do for you?”
“I have told you,” said he. “It will make me immortal.”
But it was not so much from speech and argument that Darcy grew to grasp
his friend’s conception, as from the ordinary conduct of his life. They
were passing, for instance, one morning down the village street, when an
old woman, very bent and decrepit, but with an extraordinary
cheerfulness of face, hobbled out from her cottage. Frank instantly
stopped when he saw her. “You old darling! How goes it all?” he said. But she did not answer, her dim old eyes were rivetted on his face; she
seemed to drink in like a thirsty creature the beautiful radiance which
shone there. Suddenly she put her two withered old hands on his
shoulders. “You’re just the sunshine itself,” she said, and he kissed her and
passed on. But scarcely a hundred yards further a strange contradiction of such
tenderness occurred. A child running along the path towards them fell on
its face, and set up a dismal cry of fright and pain. A look of horror
came into Frank’s eyes, and, putting his fingers in his ears, he fled at
full speed down the street, and did not pause till he was out of
hearing. Darcy, having ascertained that the child was not really hurt,
followed him in bewilderment. “Are you without pity then?” he asked. Frank shook his head impatiently. “Can’t you see?” he asked. “Can’t you understand that that sort of
thing, pain, anger, anything unlovely throws me back, retards the coming
of the great hour! Perhaps when it comes I shall be able to piece that
side of life on to the other, on to the true religion of joy. At present
I can’t.”
“But the old woman. Was she not ugly?”
Frank’s radiance gradually returned. “Ah, no. She was like me. She longed for joy, and knew it when she saw
it, the old darling.”
Another question suggested itself. “Then what about Christianity?” asked Darcy. “I can’t accept it. I can’t believe in any creed of which the central
doctrine is that God who is Joy should have had to suffer. Perhaps it
was so; in some inscrutable way I believe it may have been so, but I
don’t understand how it was possible. So I leave it alone; my affair is
joy.”
They had come to the weir above the village, and the thunder of riotous
cool water was heavy in the air. Trees dipped into the translucent
stream with slender trailing branches, and the meadow where they stood
was starred with midsummer blossomings. Larks shot up carolling into the
crystal dome of blue, and a thousand voices of June sang round them. Frank, bare-headed as was his wont, with his coat slung over his arm and
his shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbow, stood there like some
beautiful wild animal with eyes half-shut and mouth half-open, drinking
in the scented warmth of the air. Then suddenly he flung himself face
downwards on the grass at the edge of the stream, burying his face in
the daisies and cowslips, and lay stretched there in wide-armed ecstasy,
with his long fingers pressing and stroking the dewy herbs of the field. Never before had Darcy seen him thus fully possessed by his idea; his
caressing fingers, his half-buried face pressed close to the grass, even
the clothed lines of his figure were instinct with a vitality that
somehow was different from that of other men. And some faint glow from
it reached Darcy, some thrill, some vibration from that charged
recumbent body passed to him, and for a moment he understood as he had
not understood before, despite his persistent questions and the candid
answers they received, how real, and how realised by Frank, his idea
was. Then suddenly the muscles in Frank’s neck became stiff and alert, and he
half-raised his head. “The Pan-pipes, the Pan-pipes,” he whispered. “Close, oh, so close.”
Very slowly, as if a sudden movement might interrupt the melody, he
raised himself and leaned on the elbow of his bent arm. His eyes opened
wider, the lower lids drooped as if he focussed his eyes on something
very far away, and the smile on his face broadened and quivered like
sunlight on still water, till the exultance of its happiness was
scarcely human. So he remained motionless and rapt for some minutes,
then the look of listening died from his face, and he bowed his head
satisfied. “Ah, that was good,” he said. “How is it possible you did not hear? Oh,
you poor fellow! Did you really hear nothing?”
A week of this outdoor and stimulating life did wonders in restoring to
Darcy the vigour and health which his weeks of fever had filched from
him, and as his normal activity and higher pressure of vitality
returned, he seemed to himself to fall even more under the spell which
the miracle of Frank’s youth cast over him. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Twenty times a day he found
himself saying to himself suddenly at the end of some ten minutes’
silent resistance to the absurdity of Frank’s idea: “But it isn’t
possible; it can’t be possible,” and from the fact of his having to
assure himself so frequently of this, he knew that he was struggling and
arguing with a conclusion which already had taken root in his mind. For
in any case a visible living miracle confronted him, since it was
equally impossible that this youth, this boy, trembling on the verge of
manhood, was thirty-five. Yet such was the fact. July was ushered in by a couple of days of blustering and fretful rain,
and Darcy, unwilling to risk a chill, kept to the house. But to Frank
this weeping change of weather seemed to have no bearing on the
behaviour of man, and he spent his days exactly as he did under the suns
of June, lying in his hammock, stretched on the dripping grass, or
making huge rambling excursions into the forest, the birds hopping from
tree to tree after him, to return in the evening, drenched and soaked,
but with the same unquenchable flame of joy burning within him. “Catch cold?” he would ask, “I’ve forgotten how to do it, I think. I
suppose it makes one’s body more sensible always to sleep out-of-doors. People who live indoors always remind me of something peeled and
skinless.”
“Do you mean to say you slept out-of-doors last night in that deluge?”
asked Darcy. “And where, may I ask?”
Frank thought a moment. “I slept in the hammock till nearly dawn,” he said. “For I remember the
light blinked in the east when I awoke. Then I went--where did I go--oh,
yes, to the meadow where the Pan-pipes sounded so close a week ago. You
were with me, do you remember? But I always have a rug if it is wet.”
And he went whistling upstairs. Somehow that little touch, his obvious effort to recall where he had
slept, brought strangely home to Darcy the wonderful romance of which he
was the still half-incredulous beholder. Sleep till close on dawn in a
hammock, then the tramp--or probably scamper--underneath the windy and
weeping heavens to the remote and lonely meadow by the weir! The picture
of other such nights rose before him; Frank sleeping perhaps by the
bathing-place under the filtered twilight of the stars, or the white
blaze of moon-shine, a stir and awakening at some dead hour, perhaps a
space of silent wide-eyed thought, and then awandering through the
hushed woods to some other dormitory, alone with his happiness, alone
with the joy and the life that suffused and enveloped him, without other
thought or desire or aim except the hourly and never-ceasing communion
with the joy of nature. They were in the middle of dinner that night, talking on indifferent
subjects, when Darcy suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence. “I’ve got it,” he said. “At last I’ve got it.”
“Congratulate you,” said Frank. “But what?”
“The radical unsoundness of your idea. It is this: ‘All Nature from
highest to lowest is full, crammed full of suffering; every living
organism in nature preys on another, yet in your aim to get close to,
to be one with nature, you leave suffering altogether out; you run away
from it, you refuse to recognise it. And you are waiting, you say, for
the final revelation.”
Frank’s brow clouded slightly. “Well,” he asked, rather wearily. “Cannot you guess then when the final revelation will be? In joy you are
supreme, I grant you that; I did not know a man could be so master of
it. You have learned perhaps practically all that nature can teach. And
if, as you think, the final revelation is coming to you, it will be the
revelation of horror, suffering, death, pain in all its hideous forms. Suffering does exist: you hate it and fear it.”
Frank held up his hand. “Stop; let me think,” he said. There was silence for a long minute. “That never struck me,” he said at length. “It is possible that what you
suggest is true. Does the sight of Pan mean that, do you think? Is it
that nature, take it altogether, suffers horribly, suffers to a hideous
inconceivable extent? Shall I be shown all the suffering?”
He got up and came round to where Darcy sat. “If it is so, so be it,” he said. “Because, my dear fellow, I am near,
so splendidly near to the final revelation. To-day the pipes have
sounded almost without pause. I have even heard the rustle in the
bushes, I believe, of Pan’s coming. I have seen, yes, I saw to-day, the
bushes pushed aside as if by a hand, and piece of a face, not human,
peered through. But I was not frightened, at least I did not run away
this time.”
He took a turn up to the window and back again. “Yes, there is suffering all through,” he said, “and I have left it all
out of my search. Perhaps, as you say, the revelation will be that. And
in that case, it will be good-bye. I have gone on one line. I shall have
gone too far along one road, without having explored the other. But I
can’t go back now. I wouldn’t if I could; not a step would I retrace! In
any case, whatever the revelation is, it will be God. I’m sure of that.”
* * * * *
The rainy weather soon passed, and with the return of the sun Darcy
again joined Frank in long rambling days. It grew extraordinarily
hotter, and with the fresh bursting of life, after the rain, Frank’s
vitality seemed to blaze higher and higher. Then, as is the habit of the
English weather, one evening clouds began to bank themselves up in the
west, the sun went down in a glare of coppery thunder-rack, and the
whole earth broiling under an unspeakable oppression and sultriness
paused and panted for the storm. After sunset the remote fires of
lightning began to wink and flicker on the horizon, but when bed-time
came the storm seemed to have moved no nearer, though a very low
unceasing noise of thunder was audible. Weary and oppressed by the
stress of the day, Darcy fell at once into a heavy uncomforting sleep. He woke suddenly into full consciousness, with the din of some appalling
explosion of thunder in his ears, and sat up in bed with racing heart. Then for a moment, as he recovered himself from the panic-land which
lies between sleeping and waking, there was silence, except for the
steady hissing of rain on the shrubs outside his window. But suddenly
that silence was shattered and shredded into fragments by a scream from
somewhere close at hand outside in the black garden, a scream of supreme
and despairing terror. Again and once again it shrilled up, and then a
babble of awful words was interjected. A quivering sobbing voice that he
knew, said:
“My God, oh, my God; oh, Christ!”
And then followed a little mocking, bleating laugh. Then was silence
again; only the rain hissed on the shrubs. All this was but the affair of a moment, and without pause either to put
on clothes or light a candle, Darcy was already fumbling at his
door-handle. Even as he opened it he met a terror-stricken face outside,
that of the man-servant who carried a light. “Did you hear?” he asked. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
The man’s face was bleached to a dull shining whiteness. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It was the master’s voice.”
* * * * *
Together they hurried down the stairs, and through the dining-room where
an orderly table for breakfast had already been laid, and out on to the
terrace. The rain for the moment had been utterly stayed, as if the tap
of the heavens had been turned off, and under the lowering black sky,
not quite dark, since the moon rode somewhere serene behind the
conglomerated thunder-clouds, Darcy stumbled into the garden, followed
by the servant with the candle. The monstrous leaping shadow of himself
was cast before him on the lawn; lost and wandering odours of rose and
lily and damp earth were thick about him, but more pungent was some
sharp and acrid smell that suddenly reminded him of a certain chalet in
which he had once taken refuge in the Alps. In the blackness of the hazy
light from the sky, and the vague tossing of the candle behind him, he
saw that the hammock in which Frank so often lay was tenanted. A gleam
of white shirt was there, as if a man sitting up in it, but across that
there was an obscure dark shadow, and as he approached the acrid odour
grew more intense. He was now only some few yards away, when suddenly the black shadow
seemed to jump into the air, then came down with tappings of hard hoofs
on the brick path that ran down the pergola, and with frolicsome
skippings galloped off into the bushes. When that was gone Darcy could
see quite clearly that a shirted figure sat up in the hammock. For one
moment, from sheer terror of the unseen, he hung on his step, and the
servant joining him they walked together to the hammock. It was Frank. He was in shirt and trousers only, and he sat up with
braced arms. For one half-second he stared at them, his face a mask of
horrible contorted terror. His upper lip was drawn back so that the gums
of the teeth appeared, and his eyes were focussed not on the two who
approached him but on something quite close to him; his nostrils were
widely expanded, as if he panted for breath, and terror incarnate and
repulsion and deathly anguish ruled dreadful lines on his smooth cheeks
and forehead. Then even as they looked the body sank backwards, and the
ropes of the hammock wheezed and strained. Darcy lifted him out and carried him indoors. Once he thought there was
a faint convulsive stir of the limbs that lay with so dead a weight in
his arms, but when they got inside, there was no trace of life. But the
look of supreme terror and agony of fear had gone from his face, a boy
tired with play but still smiling in his sleep was the burden he laid on
the floor. His eyes had closed, and the beautiful mouth lay in smiling
curves, even as when a few mornings ago, in the meadow by the weir, it
had quivered to the music of the unheard melody of Pan’s pipes. Then
they looked further. Frank had come back from his bathe before dinner that night in his usual
costume of shirt and trousers only. He had not dressed, and during
dinner, so Darcy remembered, he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt
to above the elbow. Later, as they sat and talked after dinner on the
close sultriness of the evening, he had unbuttoned the front of his
shirt to let what little breath of wind there was play on his skin. The
sleeves were rolled up now, the front of the shirt was unbuttoned, and
on his arms and on the brown skin of his chest were strange
discolorations which grew momently more clear and defined, till they saw
that the marks were pointed prints, as if caused by the hoofs of some
monstrous goat that had leaped and stamped upon him. BETWEEN THE LIGHTS
The day had been one unceasing fall of snow from sunrise until the
gradual withdrawal of the vague white light outside indicated that the
sun had set again. But as usual at this hospitable and delightful house
of Everard Chandler where I often spent Christmas, and was spending it
now, there had been no lack of entertainment, and the hours had passed
with a rapidity that had surprised us. A short billiard tournament had
filled up the time between breakfast and lunch, with Badminton and the
morning papers for those who were temporarily not engaged, while
afterwards, the interval till teatime had been occupied by the majority
of the party in a huge game of hide-and-seek all over the house, barring
the billiard-room, which was sanctuary for any who desired peace. But
few had done that; the enchantment of Christmas, I must suppose, had,
like some spell, made children of us again, and it was with palsied
terror and trembling misgivings that we had tip-toed up and down the dim
passages, from any corner of which some wild screaming form might dart
out on us. Then, wearied with exercise and emotion, we had assembled
again for tea in the hall, a room of shadows and panels on which the
light from the wide open fireplace, where there burned a divine mixture
of peat and logs, flickered and grew bright again on the walls. Then, as
was proper, ghost-stories, for the narration of which the electric light
was put out, so that the listeners might conjecture anything they
pleased to be lurking in the corners, succeeded, and we vied with each
other in blood, bones, skeletons, armour and shrieks. I had just given
my contribution, and was reflecting with some complacency that probably
the worst was now known, when Everard, who had not yet administered to
the horror of his guests, spoke. He was sitting opposite me in the full
blaze of the fire, looking, after the illness he had gone through during
the autumn, still rather pale and delicate. All the same he had been
among the boldest and best in the exploration of dark places that
afternoon, and the look on his face now rather startled me. “No, I don’t mind that sort of thing,” he said. “The paraphernalia of
ghosts has become somehow rather hackneyed, and when I hear of screams
and skeletons I feel I am on familiar ground, and can at least hide my
head under the bed-clothes.”
“Ah, but the bed-clothes were twitched away by my skeleton,” said I, in
self-defence. “I know, but I don’t even mind that. Why, there are seven, eight
skeletons in this room now, covered with blood and skin and other
horrors. No, the nightmares of one’s childhood were the really
frightening things, because they were vague. There was the true
atmosphere of horror about them because one didn’t know what one feared. Now if one could recapture that----”
Mrs Chandler got quickly out of her seat. “Oh, Everard,” she said, “surely you don’t wish to recapture it again. I
should have thought once was enough.”
This was enchanting. A chorus of invitation asked him to proceed: the
real true ghost-story first-hand, which was what seemed to be indicated,
was too precious a thing to lose. Everard laughed. “No, dear, I don’t want to recapture it again at all,”
he said to his wife. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Then to us: “But really the--well, the nightmare
perhaps, to which I was referring, is of the vaguest and most
unsatisfactory kind. It has no apparatus about it at all. You will
probably all say that it was nothing, and wonder why I was frightened. But I was; it frightened me out of my wits. And I only just saw
something, without being able to swear what it was, and heard something
which might have been a falling stone.”
“Anyhow tell us about the falling stone,” said I. There was a stir of movement about the circle round the fire, and the
movement was not of purely physical order. It was as if--this is only
what I personally felt--it was as if the childish gaiety of the hours
we had passed that day was suddenly withdrawn; we had jested on certain
subjects, we had played hide-and-seek with all the power of earnestness
that was in us. But now--so it seemed to me--there was going to be real
hide-and-seek, real terrors were going to lurk in dark corners, or if
not real terrors, terrors so convincing as to assume the garb of
reality, were going to pounce on us. And Mrs Chandler’s exclamation as
she sat down again, “Oh, Everard, won’t it excite you?” tended in any
case to excite us. The room still remained in dubious darkness except
for the sudden lights disclosed on the walls by the leaping flames on
the hearth, and there was wide field for conjecture as to what might
lurk in the dim corners. Everard, moreover, who had been sitting in
bright light before, was banished by the extinction of some flaming log
into the shadows. A voice alone spoke to us, as he sat back in his low
chair, a voice rather slow but very distinct. “Last year,” he said, “on the twenty-fourth of December, we were down
here, as usual, Amy and I, for Christmas. Several of you who are here
now were here then. Three or four of you at least.”
I was one of these, but like the others kept silence, for the
identification, so it seemed to me, was not asked for. And he went on
again without a pause. “Those of you who were here then,” he said, “and are here now, will
remember how very warm it was this day year. You will remember, too,
that we played croquet that day on the lawn. It was perhaps a little
cold for croquet, and we played it rather in order to be able to
say--with sound evidence to back the statement--that we had done so.”
Then he turned and addressed the whole little circle. “We played ties of half-games,” he said, “just as we have played
billiards to-day, and it was certainly as warm on the lawn then as it
was in the billiard-room this morning directly after breakfast, while
to-day I should not wonder if there was three feet of snow outside. More, probably; listen.”
A sudden draught fluted in the chimney, and the fire flared up as the
current of air caught it. The wind also drove the snow against the
windows, and as he said “Listen,” we heard a soft scurry of the falling
flakes against the panes, like the soft tread of many little people who
stepped lightly, but with the persistence of multitudes who were
flocking to some rendezvous. Hundreds of little feet seemed to be
gathering outside; only the glass kept them out. And of the eight
skeletons present four or five anyhow turned and looked at the windows. These were small-paned, with leaden bars. On the leaden bars little
heaps of snow had accumulated, but there was nothing else to be seen. “Yes, last Christmas Eve was very warm and sunny,” went on Everard. “We
had had no frost that autumn, and a temerarious dahlia was still in
flower. I have always thought that it must have been mad.”
He paused a moment. “And I wonder if I were not mad too,” he added. No one interrupted him; there was something arresting, I must suppose,
in what he was saying; it chimed in anyhow with the hide-and-seek, with
the suggestions of the lonely snow. Mrs Chandler had sat down again, but
I heard her stir in her chair. But never was there a gay party so
reduced as we had been in the last five minutes. Instead of laughing at
ourselves for playing silly games, we were all taking a serious game
seriously. “Anyhow I was sitting out,” he said to me, “while you and my wife played
your half-game of croquet. Then it struck me that it was not so warm as
I had supposed, because quite suddenly I shivered. And shivering I
looked up. But I did not see you and her playing croquet at all. I saw
something which had no relation to you and her--at least I hope not.”
Now the angler lands his fish, the stalker kills his stag, and the
speaker holds his audience. And as the fish is gaffed, and as the stag
is shot, so were we held. There was no getting away till he had finished
with us. “You all know the croquet lawn,” he said, “and how it is bounded all
round by a flower border with a brick wall behind it, through which,
you will remember, there is only one gate. Well, I looked up and saw
that the lawn--I could for one moment see it was still a lawn--was
shrinking, and the walls closing in upon it. As they closed in too, they
grew higher, and simultaneously the light began to fade and be sucked
from the sky, till it grew quite dark overhead and only a glimmer of
light came in through the gate. “There was, as I told you, a dahlia in flower that day, and as this
dreadful darkness and bewilderment came over me, I remember that my eyes
sought it in a kind of despair, holding on, as it were, to any familiar
object. But it was no longer a dahlia, and for the red of its petals I
saw only the red of some feeble firelight. And at that moment the
hallucination was complete. I was no longer sitting on the lawn watching
croquet, but I was in a low-roofed room, something like a cattle-shed,
but round. Close above my head, though I was sitting down, ran rafters
from wall to wall. It was nearly dark, but a little light came in from
the door opposite to me, which seemed to lead into a passage that
communicated with the exterior of the place. Little, however, of the
wholesome air came into this dreadful den; the atmosphere was oppressive
and foul beyond all telling, it was as if for years it had been the
place of some human menagerie, and for those years had been uncleaned
and unsweetened by the winds of heaven. Yet that oppressiveness was
nothing to the awful horror of the place from the view of the spirit. Some dreadful atmosphere of crime and abomination dwelt heavy in it, its
denizens, whoever they were, were scarce human, so it seemed to me, and
though men and women, were akin more to the beasts of the field. And in
addition there was present to me some sense of the weight of years; I
had been taken and thrust down into some epoch of dim antiquity.”
He paused a moment, and the fire on the hearth leaped up for a second
and then died down again. But in that gleam I saw that all faces were
turned to Everard, and that all wore some look of dreadful expectancy. Certainly I felt it myself, and waited in a sort of shrinking horror for
what was coming. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“As I told you,” he continued, “where there had been that unseasonable
dahlia, there now burned a dim firelight, and my eyes were drawn there. Shapes were gathered round it; what they were I could not at first see. Then perhaps my eyes got more accustomed to the dusk, or the fire burned
better, for I perceived that they were of human form, but very small,
for when one rose, with a horrible chattering, to his feet, his head was
still some inches off the low roof. He was dressed in a sort of shirt
that came to his knees, but his arms were bare and covered with hair. Then the gesticulation and chattering increased, and I knew that they
were talking about me, for they kept pointing in my direction. At that
my horror suddenly deepened, for I became aware that I was powerless and
could not move hand or foot; a helpless, nightmare impotence had
possession of me. I could not lift a finger or turn my head. And in the
paralysis of that fear I tried to scream, but not a sound could I utter. “All this I suppose took place with the instantaneousness of a dream,
for at once, and without transition, the whole thing had vanished, and I
was back on the lawn again, while the stroke for which my wife was
aiming was still unplayed. But my face was dripping with perspiration,
and I was trembling all over. “Now you may all say that I had fallen asleep, and had a sudden
nightmare. That may be so; but I was conscious of no sense of sleepiness
before, and I was conscious of none afterwards. It was as if someone had
held a book before me, whisked the pages open for a second and closed
them again.”
Somebody, I don’t know who, got up from his chair with a sudden movement
that made me start, and turned on the electric light. I do not mind
confessing that I was rather glad of this. Everard laughed. “Really I feel like Hamlet in the play-scene,” he said, “and as if there
was a guilty uncle present. Shall I go on?”
I don’t think anyone replied, and he went on:
“Well, let us say for the moment that it was not a dream exactly, but a
hallucination. Whichever it was, in any case it haunted me; for months,
I think, it was never quite out of my mind, but lingered somewhere in
the dusk of consciousness, sometimes sleeping quietly, so to speak, but
sometimes stirring in its sleep. It was no good my telling myself that I
was disquieting myself in vain, for it was as if something had actually
entered into my very soul, as if some seed of horror had been planted
there. And as the weeks went on the seed began to sprout, so that I
could no longer even tell myself that that vision had been a moment’s
disorderment only. I can’t say that it actually affected my health. I
did not, as far as I know, sleep or eat insufficiently, but morning
after morning I used to wake, not gradually and through pleasant dozings
into full consciousness, but with absolute suddenness, and find myself
plunged in an abyss of despair. Often too, eating or drinking, I used to
pause and wonder if it was worth while. “Eventually I told two people about my trouble, hoping that perhaps the
mere communication would help matters, hoping also, but very distantly,
that though I could not believe at present that digestion or the
obscurities of the nervous system were at fault, a doctor by some simple
dose might convince me of it. In other words I told my wife, who laughed
at me, and my doctor who laughed also, and assured me that my health
was quite unnecessarily robust. At the same time he suggested that
change of air and scene does wonders for the delusions that exist merely
in the imagination. He also told me, in answer to a direct question,
that he would stake his reputation on the certainty that I was not going
mad. “Well, we went up to London as usual for the season, and though nothing
whatever occurred to remind me in any way of that single moment on
Christmas Eve, the reminding was seen to all right, the moment itself
took care of that, for instead of fading as is the way of sleeping or
waking dreams, it grew every day more vivid, and ate, so to speak, like
some corrosive acid into my mind, etching itself there. And to London
succeeded Scotland. “I took last year for the first time a small forest up in Sutherland,
called Glen Callan, very remote and wild, but affording excellent
stalking. It was not far from the sea, and the gillies used always to
warn me to carry a compass on the hill, because sea-mists were liable to
come up with frightful rapidity, and there was always a danger of being
caught by one, and of having perhaps to wait hours till it cleared
again. This at first I always used to do, but, as every one knows, any
precaution that one takes which continues to be unjustified gets
gradually relaxed, and at the end of a few weeks, since the weather had
been uniformly clear, it was natural that, as often as not, my compass
remained at home. “One day the stalk took me on to a part of my ground that I had seldom
been on before, a very high table-land on the limit of my forest, which
went down very steeply on one side to a loch that lay below it, and on
the other, by gentler gradations, to the river that came from the loch,
six miles below which stood the lodge. The wind had necessitated our
climbing up--or so my stalker had insisted--not by the easier way, but
up the crags from the loch. I had argued the point with him, for it
seemed to me that it was impossible that the deer could get our scent if
we went by the more natural path, but he still held to his opinion, and
therefore, since after all this was his part of the job, I yielded. A
dreadful climb we had of it, over big boulders with deep holes in
between, masked by clumps of heather, so that a wary eye and a prodding
stick were necessary for each step if one wished to avoid broken bones. Adders also literally swarmed in the heather; we must have seen a dozen
at least on our way up, and adders are a beast for which I have no
manner of use. But a couple of hours saw us to the top, only to find
that the stalker had been utterly at fault, and that the deer must quite
infallibly have got wind of us, if they had remained in the place where
we last saw them. That, when we could spy the ground again, we saw had
happened; in any case they had gone. The man insisted the wind had
changed, a palpably stupid excuse, and I wondered at that moment what
other reason he had--for reason I felt sure there must be--for not
wishing to take what would clearly now have been a better route. But
this piece of bad management did not spoil our luck, for within an hour
we had spied more deer, and about two o’clock I got a shot, killing a
heavy stag. Then sitting on the heather I ate lunch, and enjoyed a
well-earned bask and smoke in the sun. The pony meantime had been
saddled with the stag, and was plodding homewards. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“The morning had been extraordinarily warm, with a little wind blowing
off the sea, which lay a few miles off sparkling beneath a blue haze,
and all morning in spite of our abominable climb I had had an extreme
sense of peace, so much so that several times I had probed my mind, so
to speak, to find if the horror still lingered there. But I could
scarcely get any response from it. Never since Christmas had I been so
free of fear, and it was with a great sense of repose, both physical and
spiritual, that I lay looking up into the blue sky, watching my
smoke-whorls curl slowly away into nothingness. But I was not allowed to
take my ease long, for Sandy came and begged that I would move. The
weather had changed, he said, the wind had shifted again, and he wanted
me to be off this high ground and on the path again as soon as possible,
because it looked to him as if a sea-mist would presently come up. “‘And yon’s a bad place to get down in the mist,’ he added, nodding
towards the crags we had come up. “I looked at the man in amazement, for to our right lay a gentle slope
down on to the river, and there was now no possible reason for again
tackling those hideous rocks up which we had climbed this morning. More
than ever I was sure he had some secret reason for not wishing to go the
obvious way. But about one thing he was certainly right, the mist was
coming up from the sea, and I felt in my pocket for the compass, and
found I had forgotten to bring it. “Then there followed a curious scene which lost us time that we could
really ill afford to waste, I insisting on going down by the way that
common-sense directed, he imploring me to take his word for it that the
crags were the better way. Eventually, I marched off to the easier
descent, and told him not to argue any more but follow. What annoyed me
about him was that he would only give the most senseless reasons for
preferring the crags. There were mossy places, he said, on the way I
wished to go, a thing patently false, since the summer had been one
spell of unbroken weather; or it was longer, also obviously untrue; or
there were so many vipers about. But seeing that none of these arguments
produced any effect, at last he desisted, and came after me in silence. “We were not yet half down when the mist was upon us, shooting up from
the valley like the broken water of a wave, and in three minutes we were
enveloped in a cloud of fog so thick that we could barely see a dozen
yards in front of us. It was therefore another cause for
self-congratulation that we were not now, as we should otherwise have
been, precariously clambering on the face of those crags up which we had
come with such difficulty in the morning, and as I rather prided myself
on my powers of generalship in the matter of direction, I continued
leading, feeling sure that before long we should strike the track by the
river. More than all, the absolute freedom from fear elated me; since
Christmas I had not known the instinctive joy of that; I felt like a
school-boy home for the holidays. But the mist grew thicker and thicker,
and whether it was that real rain-clouds had formed above it, or that it
was of an extraordinary density itself, I got wetter in the next hour
than I have ever been before or since. The wet seemed to penetrate the
skin, and chill the very bones. And still there was no sign of the track
for which I was making. Behind me, muttering to himself, followed the
stalker, but his arguments and protestations were dumb, and it seemed as
if he kept close to me, as if afraid. “Now there are many unpleasant companions in this world; I would not for
instance care to be on the hill with a drunkard or a maniac, but worse
than either, I think, is a frightened man, because his trouble is
infectious, and, insensibly, I began to be afraid of being frightened
too. From that it is but a short step to fear. Other perplexities too
beset us. At one time we seemed to be walking on flat ground, at another
I felt sure we were climbing again, whereas all the time we ought to
have been descending, unless we had missed the way very badly indeed. Also, for the month was October, it was beginning to get dark, and it
was with a sense of relief that I remembered that the full moon would
rise soon after sunset. But it had grown very much colder, and soon,
instead of rain, we found we were walking through a steady fall of snow. “Things were pretty bad, but then for the moment they seemed to mend,
for, far away to the left, I suddenly heard the brawling of the river. It should, it is true, have been straight in front of me and we were
perhaps a mile out of our way, but this was better than the blind
wandering of the last hour, and turning to the left, I walked towards
it. But before I had gone a hundred yards, I heard a sudden choked cry
behind me, and just saw Sandy’s form flying as if in terror of pursuit,
into the mists. I called to him but got no reply, and heard only the
spurned stones of his running. What had frightened him I had no idea,
but certainly with his disappearance, the infection of his fear
disappeared also, and I went on, I may almost say, with gaiety. On the
moment, however, I saw a sudden well-defined blackness in front of me,
and before I knew what I was doing I was half stumbling, half walking up
a very steep grass slope. “During the last few minutes the wind had got up, and the driving snow
was peculiarly uncomfortable, but there had been a certain consolation
in thinking that the wind would soon disperse these mists, and I had
nothing more than a moonlight walk home. But as I paused on this slope,
I became aware of two things, one, that the blackness in front of me was
very close, the other that, whatever it was, it sheltered me from the
snow. So I climbed on a dozen yards into its friendly shelter, for it
seemed to me to be friendly. “A wall some twelve feet high crowned the slope, and exactly where I
struck it there was a hole in it, or door rather, through which a little
light appeared. Wondering at this I pushed on, bending down, for the
passage was very low, and in a dozen yards came out on the other side. Just as I did this the sky suddenly grew lighter, the wind, I suppose,
having dispersed the mists, and the moon, though not yet visible through
the flying skirts of cloud, made sufficient illumination. “I was in a circular enclosure, and above me there projected from the
walls some four feet from the ground, broken stones which must have been
intended to support a floor. Then simultaneously two things occurred. “The whole of my nine months’ terror came back to me, for I saw that the
vision in the garden was fulfilled, and at the same moment I saw
stealing towards me a little figure as of a man, but only about three
foot six in height. That my eyes told me; my ears told me that he
stumbled on a stone; my nostrils told me that the air I breathed was of
an overpowering foulness, and my soul told me that it was sick unto
death. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
I think I tried to scream, but could not, I know I tried to move
and could not. And it crept closer. “Then I suppose the terror which held me spellbound so spurred me that I
must move, for next moment I heard a cry break from my lips, and was
stumbling through the passage. I made one leap of it down the grass
slope, and ran as I hope never to have to run again. What direction I
took I did not pause to consider, so long as I put distance between me
and that place. Luck, however, favoured me, and before long I struck the
track by the river, and an hour afterwards reached the lodge. “Next day I developed a chill, and as you know pneumonia laid me on my
back for six weeks. “Well, that is my story, and there are many explanations. You may say
that I fell asleep on the lawn, and was reminded of that by finding
myself, under discouraging circumstances, in an old Picts’ castle, where
a sheep or a goat that, like myself, had taken shelter from the storm,
was moving about. Yes, there are hundreds of ways in which you may
explain it. But the coincidence was an odd one, and those who believe in
second sight might find an instance of their hobby in it.”
“And that is all?” I asked. “Yes, it was nearly too much for me. I think the dressing-bell has
sounded.”
OUTSIDE THE DOOR
The rest of the small party staying with my friend Geoffrey Aldwych in
the charming old house which he had lately bought at a little village
north of Sheringham on the Norfolk coast had drifted away soon after
dinner to bridge and billiards, and Mrs Aldwych and myself had for the
time been left alone in the drawing-room, seated one on each side of a
small round table which we had very patiently and unsuccessfully been
trying to turn. But such pressure, psychical or physical, as we had put
upon it, though of the friendliest and most encouraging nature had not
overcome in the smallest degree the very slight inertia which so small
an object might have been supposed to possess, and it had remained as
fixed as the most constant of the stars. No tremor even had passed
through its slight and spindle-like legs. In consequence we had, after a
really considerable period of patient endeavour, left it to its wooden
repose, and proceeded to theorise about psychical matters instead, with
no stupid table to contradict in practice all our ideas on the subject. This I had added with a certain bitterness born of failure, for if we
could not move so insignificant an object, we might as well give up all
idea of moving anything. But hardly were the words out of my mouth when
there came from the abandoned table, a single peremptory rap, loud and
rather startling. “What’s that?” I asked. “Only a rap,” said she. “I thought something would happen before long.”
“And do you really think that is a spirit rapping?” I asked. “Oh dear no. I don’t think it has anything whatever to do with spirits.”
“More perhaps with the very dry weather we have been having. Furniture
often cracks like that in the summer.”
Now this, in point of fact, was not quite the case. Neither in summer
nor in winter have I heard ever furniture crack as the table had
cracked, for the sound, whatever it was, did not at all resemble the
husky creak of contracting wood. It was a loud sharp crack like the
smart concussion of one hard object with another. “No, I don’t think it had much to do with dry weather either,” said she
smiling. “I think, if you wish to know, that it was the direct result of
our attempt to turn the table. Does that sound nonsense?”
“At present, yes,” said I, “though I have no doubt that if you tried you
could make it sound sense. There is, I notice, a certain plausibility
about you and your theories----”
“Now you are being merely personal,” she observed. “For the good motive, to goad you into explanations and enlargements. Please go on.”
“Let us stroll outside, then,” said she, “and sit in the garden, if you
are sure you prefer my plausibilities to bridge. It is deliciously warm,
and----”
“And the darkness will be more suitable for the propagation of psychical
phenomena. As at séances,” said I. “Oh, there is nothing psychical about my plausibilities,” said she. “The
phenomena I mean are purely physical, according to my theory.”
So we wandered out into the transparent half light of multitudinous
stars. The last crimson feather of sunset, which had hovered long in the
West, had been blown away with the breath of the night wind, and the
moon, which would presently rise, had not yet cut the dim horizon of the
sea, which lay very quiet, breathing gently in its sleep with stir of
whispering ripples. Across the dark velvet of the close-cropped lawn,
which stretched seawards from the house, blew a little breeze full of
the savour of salt and the freshness of night, with, every now and then,
a hint so subtly conveyed as to be scarcely perceptible of its travel
across the sleeping fragrance of drowsy garden-beds, over which the
white moths hovered seeking their night-honey. The house itself, with
its two battlemented towers of Elizabethan times, gleamed with many
windows, and we passed out of sight of it, and into the shadow of a
box-hedge, clipped into shapes and monstrous fantasies, and found chairs
by the striped tent at the top of the sheltered bowling-alley. “And this is all very plausible,” said I. “Theories, if you please, at
length, and, if possible, a full length illustration also.”
“By which you mean a ghost-story, or something to that effect?”
“Precisely: and, without presuming to dictate, if possible, first-hand.”
“Oddly enough, I can supply that also,” said she. “So first I will tell
you my general theory, and follow it by a story that seems to bear it
out. It happened to me, and it happened here.”
“I am sure it will fill the bill,” said I. She paused a moment while I lit a cigarette, and then began in her very
clear, pleasant voice. She has the most lucid voice I know, and to me
sitting there in the deep-dyed dusk, the words seemed the very
incarnation of clarity, for they dropped into the still quiet of the
darkness, undisturbed by impressions conveyed to other senses. * * * * *
“We are only just beginning to conjecture,” she said, “how inextricable
is the interweaving between mind, soul, life, call it what you
will--and the purely material part of the created world. That such
interweaving existed has, of course, been known for centuries; doctors,
for instance, knew that a cheerful optimistic spirit on the part of
their patients conduced towards recovery; that fear, the mere emotion,
had a definite effect on the beat of the heart, that anger produced
chemical changes in the blood, that anxiety led to indigestion, that
under the influence of strong passion a man can do things which in his
normal state he is physically incapable of performing. Here we have
mind, in a simple and familiar manner, producing changes and effects in
tissue, in that which is purely material. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
By an extension of
this--though, indeed, it is scarcely an extension--we may expect to find
that mind can have an effect, not only on what we call living tissue,
but on dead things, on pieces of wood or stone. At least it is hard to
see why that should not be so.”
“Table-turning, for instance?” I asked. “That is one instance of how some force, out of that innumerable cohort
of obscure mysterious forces with which we human beings are garrisoned,
can pass, as it is constantly doing, into material things. The laws of
its passing we do not know; sometimes we wish it to pass and it does
not. Just now, for instance, when you and I tried to turn the table,
there was some impediment in the path, though I put down that rap which
followed as an effect of our efforts. But nothing seems more natural to
my mind than that these forces should be transmissible to inanimate
things. Of the manner of its passing we know next to nothing, any more
than we know the manner of the actual process by which fear accelerates
the beating of the heart, but as surely as a Marconi message leaps along
the air by no visible or tangible bridge, so through some subtle gateway
of the body these forces can march from the citadel of the spirit into
material forms, whether that material is a living part of ourselves or
that which we choose to call inanimate nature.”
She paused a moment. “Under certain circumstances,” she went on, “it seems that the force
which has passed from us into inanimate things can manifest its presence
there. The force that passes into a table can show itself in movements
or in noises coming from the table. The table has been charged with
physical energy. Often and often I have seen a table or a chair move
apparently of its own accord, but only when some outpouring of force,
animal magnetism--call it what you will--has been received by it. A
parallel phenomenon to my mind is exhibited in what we know as haunted
houses, houses in which, as a rule, some crime or act of extreme emotion
or passion has been committed, and in which some echo or re-enactment of
the deed is periodically made visible or audible. A murder has been
committed, let us say, and the room where it took place is haunted. The
figure of the murdered, or less commonly of the murderer, is seen there
by sensitives, and cries are heard, or steps run to and fro. The
atmosphere has somehow been charged with the scene, and the scene in
whole or part repeats itself, though under what laws we do not know,
just as a phonograph will repeat, when properly handled, what has been
said into it.”
“This is all theory,” I remarked. “But it appears to me to cover a curious set of facts, which is all we
ask of a theory. Otherwise, we must frankly state our disbelief in
haunted houses altogether, or suppose that the spirit of the murdered,
poor wretch, is bound under certain circumstances to re-enact the horror
of its body’s tragedy. It was not enough that its body was killed there,
its soul has to be dragged back and live through it all again with such
vividness that its anguish becomes visible or audible to the eyes or
ears of the sensitive. That to me is unthinkable, whereas my theory is
not. Do I make it at all clear?”
“It is clear enough,” said I, “but I want support for it, the full-sized
illustration.”
“I promised you that, a ghost-story of my own experience.”
Mrs Aldwych paused again, and then began the story which was to
illustrate her theory. “It is just a year,” she said, “since Jack bought this house from old
Mrs Denison. We had both heard, both he and I, that it was supposed to
be haunted, but neither of us knew any particulars of the haunt
whatever. A month ago I heard what I believe to have been the ghost,
and, when Mrs Denison was staying with us last week, I asked her exactly
what it was, and found it tallied completely with my experience. I will
tell you my experience first, and give her account of the haunt
afterwards. “A month ago Jack was away for a few days and I remained here alone. One
Sunday evening, I, in my usual health and spirits, as far as I am aware,
both of which are serenely excellent, went up to bed about eleven. My
room is on the first floor, just at the foot of the staircase that leads
to the floor above. There are four more rooms on my passage, all of
which that night were empty, and at the far end of it a door leads into
the landing at the top of the front staircase. On the other side of
that, as you know, are more bedrooms, all of which that night were also
unoccupied; I, in fact, was the only sleeper on the first floor. “The head of my bed is close behind my door, and there is an electric
light over it. This is controlled by a switch at the bed-head, and
another switch there turns on a light in the passage just outside my
room. That was Jack’s plan: if by chance you want to leave your room
when the house is dark, you can light up the passage before you go out,
and not grope blindly for a switch outside. “Usually I sleep solidly: it is very rarely indeed that I wake, when
once I have gone to sleep, before I am called. But that night I woke,
which was rare; what was rarer was that I woke in a state of shuddering
and unaccountable terror; I tried to localise my panic, to run it to
earth and reason it away, but without any success. Terror of something I
could not guess at stared me in the face, white, shaking terror. So, as
there was no use in lying quaking in the dark, I lit my lamp, and, with
the view of composing this strange disorder of my fear, began to read
again in the book I had brought up with me. The volume happened to be
‘The Green Carnation,’ a work one would have thought to be full of tonic
to twittering nerves. But it failed of success, even as my reasoning had
done, and after reading a few pages, and finding that the heart-hammer
in my throat grew no quieter, and that the grip of terror was in no way
relaxed, I put out my light and lay down again. I looked at my watch,
however, before doing this, and remember that the time was ten minutes
to two. “Still matters did not mend: terror, that was slowly becoming a little
more definite, terror of some dark and violent deed that was momently
drawing nearer to me held me in its vice. Something was coming, the
advent of which was perceived by the sub-conscious sense, and was
already conveyed to my conscious mind. And then the clock struck two
jingling chimes, and the stable-clock outside clanged the hour more
sonorously. “I still lay there, abject and palpitating. Then I heard a sound just
outside my room on the stairs that lead, as I have said, to the second
story, a sound which was perfectly commonplace and unmistakable. Feet
feeling their way in the dark were coming downstairs to my passage: I
could hear also the groping hand slip and slide along the bannisters. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
The footfalls came along the few yards of passage between the bottom of
the stairs and my door, and then against my door itself came the brush
of drapery, and on the panels the blind groping of fingers. The handle
rattled as they passed over it, and my terror nearly rose to screaming
point. “Then a sensible hope struck me. The midnight wanderer might be one of
the servants, ill or in want of something, and yet--why the shuffling
feet and the groping hand? But on the instant of the dawning of that
hope (for I knew that it was of the step and that which was moving in
the dark passage of which I was afraid) I turned on both the light at my
bed-head, and the light of the passage outside, and, opening the door,
looked out. The passage was quite bright from end to end, but it was
perfectly empty. Yet as I looked, seeing nothing of the walker, I still
heard. Down the bright boards I heard the shuffle growing fainter as it
receded, until, judging by the ear, it turned into the gallery at the
end and died away. And with it there died also all my sense of terror. It was It of which I had been afraid: now It and my terror had passed. And I went back to bed and slept till morning.”
* * * * *
Again Mrs Aldwych paused, and I was silent. Somehow it was in the
extreme simplicity of her experience that the horror lay. She went on
almost immediately. “Now for the sequel,” she said, “or what I choose to call the
explanation. Mrs Denison, as I told you, came down to stay with us not
long ago, and I mentioned that we had heard, though only vaguely, that
the house was supposed to be haunted, and asked for an account of it. This is what she told me:
“‘In the year 1610 the heiress to the property was a girl Helen Denison,
who was engaged to be married to young Lord Southern. In case therefore
of her having children, the property would pass away from Denisons. In
case of her death, childless, it would pass to her first cousin. A week
before the marriage took place, he and a brother of his entered the
house, riding here from thirty miles away, after dark, and made their
way to her room on the second storey. There they gagged her and
attempted to kill her, but she escaped from them, groped her way along
this passage, and into the room at the end of the gallery. They followed
her there, and killed her. The facts were known by the younger brother
turning king’s evidence.’
“Now Mrs Denison told me that the ghost had never been seen, but that it
was occasionally heard coming downstairs or going along the passage. She
told me that it was never heard except between the hours of two and
three in the morning, the hour during which the murder took place.”
“And since then have you heard it again?” I asked. “Yes, more than once. But it has never frightened me again. I feared, as
we all do, what was unknown.”
“I feel that I should fear the known, if I knew it was that,” said I. “I don’t think you would for long. Whatever theory you adopt about it,
the sounds of the steps and the groping hand, I cannot see that there is
anything to shock or frighten one. My own theory you know----”
“Please apply it to what you heard,” I asked. “Simply enough. The poor girl felt her way along this passage in the
despair of her agonised terror, hearing no doubt the soft footsteps of
her murderers gaining on her, as she groped along her lost way. The
waves of that terrible brain-storm raging within her, impressed
themselves in some subtle yet physical manner on the place. It would
only be by those people whom we call sensitives that the wrinkles, so
to speak, made by those breaking waves on the sands would be perceived,
and by them not always. But they are there, even as when a Marconi
apparatus is working the waves are there, though they can only be
perceived by a receiver that is in tune. If you believe in brain-waves
at all, the explanation is not so difficult.”
“Then the brain-wave is permanent?”
“Every wave of whatever kind leaves its mark, does it not? If you
disbelieve the whole thing, shall I give you a room on the route of that
poor murdered harmless walker?”
I got up. “I am very comfortable, thanks, where I am,” I said. THE TERROR BY NIGHT
The transference of emotion is a phenomenon so common, so constantly
witnessed, that mankind in general have long ceased to be conscious of
its existence, as a thing worth our wonder or consideration, regarding
it as being as natural and commonplace as the transference of things
that act by the ascertained laws of matter. Nobody, for instance, is
surprised, if, when the room is too hot, the opening of a window causes
the cold fresh air of outside to be transferred into the room, and in
the same way no one is surprised when into the same room, perhaps, which
we will imagine as being peopled with dull and gloomy persons, there
enters some one of fresh and sunny mind, who instantly brings into the
stuffy mental atmosphere a change analogous to that of the opened
windows. Exactly how this infection is conveyed we do not know;
considering the wireless wonders (that act by material laws) which are
already beginning to lose their wonder now that we have our newspaper
brought as a matter of course every morning in mid-Atlantic, it would
not perhaps be rash to conjecture that in some subtle and occult way the
transference of emotion is in reality material too. Certainly (to take
another instance) the sight of definitely material things, like writing
on a page, conveys emotion apparently direct to our minds, as when our
pleasure or pity is stirred by a book, and it is therefore possible that
mind may act on mind by means as material as that. Occasionally, however, we come across phenomena, which, though they may
easily be as material as any of these things, are rarer, and therefore
more astounding. Some people call them ghosts, some conjuring tricks,
and some nonsense. It seems simpler to group them under the head of
transferred emotions, and they may appeal to any of the senses. Some
ghosts are seen, some heard, some felt, and though I know of no instance
of a ghost being tasted, yet it will seem in the following pages that
these occult phenomenon may appeal at any rate to the senses that
perceive heat, cold, or smell. For, to take the analogy of wireless
telegraphy, we are all of us probably ‘receivers’ to some extent, and
catch now and then a message or part of a message that the eternal waves
of emotion are ceaselessly shouting aloud to those who have ears to
hear, and materializing themselves for those who have eyes to see. Not
being, as a rule, perfectly tuned, we grasp but pieces and fragments of
such messages, a few coherent words it may be, or a few words which seem
to have no sense. The following story, however, to my mind, is
interesting, because it shows how different pieces of what no doubt was
one message were received and recorded by several different people
simultaneously. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Ten years have elapsed since the events recorded took
place, but they were written down at the time. * * * * *
Jack Lorimer and I were very old friends before he married, and his
marriage to a first cousin of mine did not make, as so often happens, a
slackening in our intimacy. Within a few months after, it was found out
that his wife had consumption, and, without any loss of time, she was
sent off to Davos, with her sister to look after her. The disease had
evidently been detected at a very early stage, and there was excellent
ground for hoping that with proper care and strict regime she would be
cured by the life-giving frosts of that wonderful valley. The two had gone out in the November of which I am speaking, and Jack
and I joined them for a month at Christmas, and found that week after
week she was steadily and quickly gaining ground. We had to be back in
town by the end of January, but it was settled that Ida should remain
out with her sister for a week or two more. They both, I remember, came
down to the station to see us off, and I am not likely to forget the
last words that passed:
“Oh, don’t look so woebegone Jack,” his wife had said; “you’ll see me
again before long.”
Then the fussy little mountain engine squeaked, as a puppy squeaks when
its toe is trodden on, and we puffed our way up the pass. London was in its usual desperate February plight, when we got back,
full of fogs and still-born frosts that seemed to produce a cold far
more bitter than the piercing temperature of those sunny altitudes from
which we had come. We both, I think, felt rather lonely, and even before
we had got to our journey’s end we had settled that for the present it
was ridiculous that we should keep open two houses when one would
suffice, and would also be far more cheerful for us both. So, as we both
lived in almost identical houses in the same street in Chelsea, we
decided to “toss,” live in the house which the coin indicated (heads
mine, tails his) share expenses, attempt to let the other house, and, if
successful, share the proceeds. A French five-franc piece of the second
empire told us it was “heads.”
We had been back some ten days, receiving every day the most excellent
accounts from Davos, when, first on him, then on me, there descended
like some tropical storm, a feeling of indefinable fear. Very possibly
this sense of apprehension (for there is nothing in the world so
virulently infectious) reached me through him: on the other hand both
these attacks of vague foreboding may have come from the same source. But it is true that it did not attack me till he spoke of it, so the
possibility perhaps inclines to my having caught it from him. He spoke
of it first, I remember, one evening when we had met for a good-night
talk, after having come back from separate houses where we had dined. “I have felt most awfully down all day,” he said; “and just after
receiving this splendid account from Daisy, I can’t think what is the
matter.”
He poured himself out some whisky and soda as he spoke. “Oh, touch of liver,” I said. “I shouldn’t drink that if I were you. Give it me instead.”
“I was never better in my life,” he said. I was opening letters, as we talked, and came across one from the house
agent, which, with trembling eagerness I read. “Hurrah,” I cried, “offer of five guᵃˢ--why can’t he write it in proper
English--five guineas a week till Easter for number 31. We shall roll in
guineas!”
“Oh, but I can’t stop here till Easter,” he said. “I don’t see why not. Nor by the way does Daisy. I heard from her this
morning, and she told me to persuade you to stop. That’s to say, if you
like. It really is more cheerful for you here. I forgot, you were
telling me something.”
The glorious news about the weekly guineas did not cheer him up in the
least. “Thanks awfully. Of course I’ll stop.”
He moved up and down the room once or twice. “No, it’s not me that is wrong,” he said, “it’s It, whatever It is. The
terror by night.”
“Which you are commanded not to be afraid of,” I remarked. “I know: it’s easy commanding. I’m frightened: something’s coming.”
“Five guineas a week are coming,” I said. “I shan’t sit up and be
infected by your fears. All that matters, Davos, is going as well as it
can. What was the last report? Incredibly better. Take that to bed with
you.”
The infection--if infection it was--did not take hold of me then, for I
remember going to sleep feeling quite cheerful, but I awoke in some dark
still hour and It, the terror by night, had come while I slept. Fear and
misgiving, blind, unreasonable, and paralysing, had taken and gripped
me. What was it? Just as by an aneroid we can foretell the approach of
storm, so by this sinking of the spirit, unlike anything I had ever felt
before, I felt sure that disaster of some sort was presaged. Jack saw it at once when we met at breakfast next morning, in the brown
haggard light of a foggy day, not dark enough for candles, but dismal
beyond all telling. “So it has come to you too,” he said. And I had not even the fighting-power left to tell him that I was merely
slightly unwell. Besides, never in my life had I felt better. All next day, all the day after that fear lay like a black cloak over my
mind; I did not know what I dreaded, but it was something very acute,
something that was very near. It was coming nearer every moment,
spreading like a pall of clouds over the sky; but on the third day,
after miserably cowering under it, I suppose some sort of courage came
back to me: either this was pure imagination, some trick of disordered
nerves or what not, in which case we were both “disquieting ourselves in
vain,” or from the immeasurable waves of emotion that beat upon the
minds of men, something within both of us had caught a current, a
pressure. In either case it was infinitely better to try, however
ineffectively, to stand up against it. For these two days I had neither
worked nor played; I had only shrunk and shuddered; I planned for myself
a busy day, with diversion for us both in the evening. “We will dine early,” I said, “and go to the ‘Man from Blankley’s.’ I
have already asked Philip to come, and he is coming, and I have
telephoned for tickets. Dinner at seven.”
Philip, I may remark, is an old friend of ours, neighbour in this
street, and by profession a much-respected doctor. Jack laid down his paper. “Yes, I expect you’re right,” he said. “It’s no use doing nothing, it
doesn’t help things. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, beautifully,” I said rather snappishly, for I was all on edge
with the added burden of an almost sleepless night. “I wish I had,” said he. This would not do at all. “We have got to play up!” I said. “Here are we two strong and stalwart
persons, with as much cause for satisfaction with life as any you can
mention, letting ourselves behave like worms. Our fear may be over
things imaginary or over things that are real, but it is the fact of
being afraid that is so despicable. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
There is nothing in the world to
fear except fear. You know that as well as I do. Now let’s read our
papers with interest. Which do you back, Mr Druce, or the Duke of
Portland, or the Times Book Club?”
That day, therefore, passed very busily for me; and there were enough
events moving in front of that black background, which I was conscious
was there all the time, to enable me to keep my eyes away from it, and I
was detained rather late at the office, and had to drive back to
Chelsea, in order to be in time to dress for dinner, instead of walking
back as I had intended. Then the message, which for these three days, had been twittering in our
minds, the receivers, just making them quiver and rattle came through. * * * * *
I found Jack already dressed, since it was within a minute or two of
seven when I got in, and sitting in the drawing-room. The day had been
warm and muggy, but when I looked in on the way up to my room, it
seemed to me to have grown suddenly and bitterly cold, not with the
dampness of English frost, but with the clear and stinging exhilaration
of such days as we had recently spent in Switzerland. Fire was laid in
the grate but not lit, and I went down on my knees on the hearth-rug to
light it. “Why, it’s freezing in here,” I said. “What donkeys servants are! It
never occurs to them that you want fires in cold weather, and no fires
in hot weather.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t light the fire,” said he, “it’s the warmest
muggiest evening I ever remember.”
I stared at him in astonishment. My hands were shaking with the cold. He
saw this. “Why, you are shivering!” he said. “Have you caught a chill? But as to
the room being cold let us look at the thermometer.”
There was one on the writing-table. “Sixty-five,” he said. There was no disputing that, nor did I want to, for at that moment, it
suddenly struck us, dimly and distantly that It was “coming through.” I
felt it like some curious internal vibration. “Hot or cold, I must go and dress,” I said. Still shivering, but feeling as if I was breathing some rarefied
exhilarating air, I went up to my room. My clothes were already laid
out, but, by an oversight, no hot water had been brought up, and I rang
for my man. He came up almost at once, but he looked scared, or, to my
already-startled senses, he appeared so. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Nothing, sir,” he said, and he could hardly articulate the words. “I
thought you rang.”
“Yes. Hot water. But what’s the matter?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “I thought I saw a lady on the stairs,” he said, “coming up close behind
me. And the front door bell hadn’t rung that I heard.”
“Where did you think you saw her?” I asked. “On the stairs. Then on the landing outside the drawing-room door, sir,”
he said. “She stood there as if she didn’t know whether to go in or
not.”
“One--one of the servants,” I said. But again I felt that It was coming
through. “No, sir. It was none of the servants,” he said. “Who was it then?”
“Couldn’t see distinctly sir, it was dim-like. But I thought it was Mrs
Lorimer.”
“Oh, go and get me some hot water,” I said. But he lingered; he was quite clearly frightened. * * * * *
At this moment the front-door bell rang. It was just seven, and already
Philip had come with brutal punctuality while I was not yet
half-dressed. “That’s Dr Enderly,” I said. “Perhaps if he is on the stairs you may be
able to pass the place where you saw the lady.”
Then quite suddenly there rang through the house a scream, so terrible,
so appalling in its agony and supreme terror, that I simply stood still
and shuddered, unable to move. Then by an effort so violent that I felt
as if something must break, I recalled the power of motion, and ran
downstairs, my man at my heels, to meet Philip who was running up from
the ground floor. He had heard it too. “What’s the matter?” he said. “What was that?”
* * * * *
Together we went into the drawing-room, Jack was lying in front of the
fireplace, with the chair in which he had been sitting a few minutes
before overturned. Philip went straight to him and bent over him,
tearing open his white shirt. “Open all the windows,” he said, “the place reeks.”
We flung open the windows, and there poured in, so it seemed to me, a
stream of hot air into the bitter cold. Eventually Philip got up. “He is dead,” he said. “Keep the windows open. The place is still thick
with chloroform.”
Gradually to my sense the room got warmer, to Philip’s the drug-laden
atmosphere dispersed. But neither my servant nor I had smelt anything at
all. A couple of hours later there came a telegram from Davos for me. It was
to tell me to break the news of Daisy’s death to Jack, and was sent by
her sister. She supposed he would come out immediately. But he had been
gone two hours now. I left for Davos next day, and learned what had happened. Daisy had been
suffering for three days from a little abscess which had to be opened,
and, though the operation was of the slightest, she had been so nervous
about it that the doctor gave her chloroform. She made a good recovery
from the anæsthetic, but an hour later had a sudden attack of syncope,
and had died that night at a few minutes before eight, by central
European time, corresponding to seven in English time. She had insisted
that Jack should be told nothing about this little operation till it was
over, since the matter was quite unconnected with her general health,
and she did not wish to cause him needless anxiety. And there the story ends. To my servant there came the sight of a woman
outside the drawing-room door, where Jack was, hesitating about her
entrance, at the moment when Daisy’s soul hovered between the two
worlds; to me there came--I do not think it is fanciful to suppose
this--the keen exhilarating cold of Davos; to Philip there came the
fumes of chloroform. And to Jack, I must suppose, came his wife. So he
joined her. THE OTHER BED
I had gone out to Switzerland just before Christmas, expecting, from
experience, a month of divinely renovating weather, of skating all day
in brilliant sun, and basking in the hot frost of that windless
atmosphere. Occasionally, as I knew, there might be a snowfall, which
would last perhaps for forty-eight hours at the outside, and would be
succeeded by another ten days of cloudless perfection, cold even to zero
at night, but irradiated all day long by the unflecked splendour of the
sun. Instead the climatic conditions were horrible. Day after day a gale
screamed through this upland valley that should have been so windless
and serene, bringing with it a tornado of sleet that changed to snow by
night. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
For ten days there was no abatement of it, and evening after
evening, as I consulted my barometer, feeling sure that the black finger
would show that we were coming to the end of these abominations, I found
that it had sunk a little lower yet, till it stayed, like a homing
pigeon, on the S of storm. I mention these things in depreciation of the
story that follows, in order that the intelligent reader may say at
once, if he wishes, that all that occurred was merely a result of the
malaise of nerves and digestion that perhaps arose from those
storm-bound and disturbing conditions. And now to go back to the
beginning again. I had written to engage a room at the Hôtel Beau Site, and had been
agreeably surprised on arrival to find that for the modest sum of twelve
francs a day I was allotted a room on the first floor with two beds in
it. Otherwise the hotel was quite full. Fearing to be billeted in a
twenty-two-franc room, by mistake, I instantly confirmed my arrangements
at the bureau. There was no mistake: I had ordered a twelve-franc room
and had been given one. The very civil clerk hoped that I was satisfied
with it, for otherwise there was nothing vacant. I hastened to say that
I was more than satisfied, fearing the fate of Esau. I arrived about three in the afternoon of a cloudless and glorious day,
the last of the series. I hurried down to the rink, having had the
prudence to put skates in the forefront of my luggage, and spent a
divine but struggling hour or two, coming up to the hotel about sunset. I had letters to write, and after ordering tea to be sent up to my
gorgeous apartment, No. 23, on the first floor, I went straight up
there. The door was ajar and--I feel certain I should not even remember this
now except in the light of what followed--just as I got close to it, I
heard some faint movement inside the room and instinctively knew that
my servant was there unpacking. Next moment I was in the room myself,
and it was empty. The unpacking had been finished, and everything was
neat, orderly, and comfortable. My barometer was on the table, and I
observed with dismay that it had gone down nearly half an inch. I did
not give another thought to the movement I thought I had heard from
outside. Certainly I had a delightful room for my twelve francs a day. There
were, as I have said, two beds in it, on one of which were already laid
out my dress-clothes, while night-things were disposed on the other. There were two windows, between which stood a large washing-stand, with
plenty of room on it; a sofa with its back to the light stood
conveniently near the pipes of central heating, there were a couple of
good arm-chairs, a writing table, and, rarest of luxuries, another
table, so that every time one had breakfast it was not necessary to pile
up a drift of books and papers to make room for the tray. My window
looked east, and sunset still flamed on the western faces of the virgin
snows, while above, in spite of the dejected barometer, the sky was bare
of clouds, and a thin slip of pale crescent moon was swung high among
the stars that still burned dimly in these first moments of their
kindling. Tea came up for me without delay, and, as I ate, I regarded my
surroundings with extreme complacency. Then, quite suddenly and without cause, I saw that the disposition of
the beds would never do; I could not possibly sleep in the bed that my
servant had chosen for me, and without pause I jumped up, transferred my
dress clothes to the other bed, and put my night things where they had
been. It was done breathlessly almost, and not till then did I ask
myself why I had done it. I found I had not the slightest idea. I had
merely felt that I could not sleep in the other bed. But having made the
change I felt perfectly content. My letters took me an hour or so to finish, and I had yawned and blinked
considerably over the last one or two, in part from their inherent
dullness, in part from quite natural sleepiness. For I had been in the
train for twenty-four hours, and was fresh to these bracing airs which
so conduce to appetite, activity, and sleep, and as there was still an
hour before I need dress, I lay down on my sofa with a book for excuse,
but the intention to slumber as reason. And consciousness ceased as if a
tap had been turned off. Then--I dreamed. I dreamed that my servant came very quietly into the
room, to tell me no doubt that it was time to dress. I supposed there
were a few minutes to spare yet, and that he saw I was dozing, for,
instead of rousing me, he moved quietly about the room, setting things
in order. The light appeared to me to be very dim, for I could not see
him with any distinctness, indeed, I only knew it was he because it
could not be anybody else. Then he paused by my washing-stand, which had
a shelf for brushes and razors above it, and I saw him take a razor from
its case and begin stropping it; the light was strongly reflected on the
blade of the razor. He tried the edge once or twice on his thumbnail,
and then to my horror I saw him trying it on his throat. Instantaneously
one of those deafening dream-crashes awoke me, and I saw the door half
open, and my servant in the very act of coming in. No doubt the opening
of the door had constituted the crash. I had joined a previously-arrived party of five, all of us old friends,
and accustomed to see each other often, and at dinner, and afterwards in
intervals of bridge, the conversation roamed agreeably over a variety of
topics, rocking-turns and the prospects of weather (a thing of vast
importance in Switzerland, and not a commonplace subject) and the
performances at the opera, and under what circumstances as revealed in
dummy’s hand, is it justifiable for a player to refuse to return his
partner’s original lead in no trumps. Then over whisky and soda and the
repeated “last cigarette,” it veered back via the Zantzigs to thought
transference and the transference of emotion. Here one of the party,
Harry Lambert, put forward the much discussed explanation of haunted
houses based on this principle. He put it very concisely. “Everything that happens,” he said, “whether it is a step we take, or a
thought that crosses our mind, makes some change in its immediate
material world. Now the most violent and concentrated emotion we can
imagine is the emotion that leads a man to take so extreme a step as
killing himself or somebody else. I can easily imagine such a deed so
eating into the material scene, the room or the haunted heath, where it
happens, that its mark lasts an enormous time. The air rings with the
cry of the slain and still drips with his blood. It is not everybody who
will perceive it, but sensitives will. By the way, I am sure that man
who waits on us at dinner is a sensitive.”
It was already late, and I rose. “Let us hurry him to the scene of a crime,” I said. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
“For myself I shall
hurry to the scene of sleep.”
* * * * *
Outside the threatening promise of the barometer was already finding
fulfilment, and a cold ugly wind was complaining among the pines, and
hooting round the peaks, and snow had begun to fall. The night was
thickly overcast, and it seemed as if uneasy presences were going to and
fro in the darkness. But there was no use in ill augury, and certainly
if we were to be house-bound for a few days I was lucky in having so
commodious a lodging. I had plenty to occupy myself with indoors, though
I should vastly have preferred to be engaged outside, and in the
immediate present how good it was to lie free in a proper bed after a
cramped night in the train. * * * * *
I was half-undressed when there came a tap at my door, and the waiter
who had served us at dinner came in carrying a bottle of whisky. He was
a tall young fellow, and though I had not noticed him at dinner, I saw
at once now, as he stood in the glare of the electric light, what Harry
had meant when he said he was sure he was a sensitive. There is no
mistaking that look: it is exhibited in a peculiar “inlooking” of the
eye. Those eyes, one knows, see further than the surface....
“The bottle of whisky for monsieur,” he said, putting it down on the
table. “But I ordered no whisky,” said I. He looked puzzled. “Number twenty-three?” he said. Then he glanced at the other bed. “Ah, for the other gentleman, without doubt,” he said. “But there is no other gentleman,” said I. “I am alone here.”
He took up the bottle again. “Pardon, monsieur,” he said. “There must be a mistake. I am new here; I
only came to-day. But I thought----”
“Yes?” said I. “I thought that number twenty-three had ordered a bottle of whisky,” he
repeated. “Good-night, monsieur, and pardon.”
* * * * *
I got into bed, extinguished the light, and feeling very sleepy and
heavy with the oppression, no doubt, of the snow that was coming,
expected to fall asleep at once. Instead my mind would not quite go to
roost, but kept sleepily stumbling about among the little events of the
day, as some tired pedestrian in the dark stumbles over stones instead
of lifting his feet. And as I got sleepier it seemed to me that my mind
kept moving in a tiny little circle. At one moment it drowsily
recollected how I had thought I had heard movement inside my room, at
the next it remembered my dream of some figure going stealthily about
and stropping a razor, at a third it wondered why this Swiss waiter with
the eyes of a “sensitive” thought that number twenty-three had ordered a
bottle of whisky. But at the time I made no guess as to any coherence
between these little isolated facts; I only dwelt on them with drowsy
persistence. Then a fourth fact came to join the sleepy circle, and I
wondered why I had felt a repugnance against using the other bed. But
there was no explanation of this forthcoming, either, and the outlines
of thought grew more blurred and hazy, until I lost consciousness
altogether. * * * * *
Next morning began the series of awful days, sleet and snow falling
relentlessly with gusts of chilly wind, making any out-of-door
amusement next to impossible. The snow was too soft for toboganning, it
balled on the skies, and as for the rink it was but a series of pools of
slushy snow. This in itself, of course, was quite enough to account for
any ordinary depression and heaviness of spirit, but all the time I felt
there was something more than that to which I owed the utter blackness
that hung over those days. I was beset too by fear that at first was
only vague, but which gradually became more definite, until it resolved
itself into a fear of number twenty-three and in particular a terror of
the other bed. I had no notion why or how I was afraid of it, the thing
was perfectly causeless, but the shape and the outline of it grew slowly
clearer, as detail after detail of ordinary life, each minute and
trivial in itself, carved and moulded this fear, till it became
definite. Yet the whole thing was so causeless and childish that I could
speak to no one of it; I could but assure myself that it was all a
figment of nerves disordered by this unseemly weather. However, as to the details, there were plenty of them. Once I woke up
from strangling nightmare, unable at first to move, but in a panic of
terror, believing that I was sleeping in the other bed. More than once,
too, awaking before I was called, and getting out of bed to look at the
aspect of the morning, I saw with a sense of dreadful misgiving that the
bed-clothes on the other bed were strangely disarranged, as if some one
had slept there, and smoothed them down afterwards, but not so well as
not to give notice of the occupation. So one night I laid a trap, so to
speak, for the intruder, of which the real object was to calm my own
nervousness (for I still told myself that I was frightened of nothing),
and tucked in the sheet very carefully, laying the pillow on the top of
it. But in the morning it seemed as if my interference had not been to
the taste of the occupant, for there was more impatient disorder than
usual in the bed-clothes, and on the pillow was an indentation, round
and rather deep, such as we may see any morning in our own beds. Yet by
day these things did not frighten me, but it was when I went to bed at
night that I quaked at the thought of further developments. It happened also from time to time that I wanted something brought me,
or wanted my servant. On three or four of these occasions my bell was
answered by the “Sensitive,” as we called him, but the Sensitive, I
noticed, never came into the room. He would open the door a chink to
receive my order, and on returning would again open it a chink to say
that my boots, or whatever it was, were at the door. Once I made him
come in, but I saw him cross himself as, with a face of icy terror, he
stepped into the room, and the sight somehow did not reassure me. Twice
also he came up in the evening, when I had not rung at all, even as he
came up the first night, and opened the door a chink to say that my
bottle of whisky was outside. But the poor fellow was in a state of such
bewilderment when I went out and told him that I had not ordered whisky,
that I did not press for an explanation. He begged my pardon profusely;
he thought a bottle of whisky had been ordered for number twenty-three. It was his mistake, entirely--I should not be charged for it; it must
have been the other gentleman. Pardon again; he remembered there was no
other gentleman, the other bed was unoccupied. It was on the night when this happened for the second time that I
definitely began to wish that I too was quite certain that the other bed
was unoccupied. The ten days of snow and sleet were at an end, and
to-night the moon once more, grown from a mere slip to a shining shield,
swung serenely among the stars. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But though at dinner everyone exhibited
an extraordinary change of spirit, with the rising of the barometer and
the discharge of this huge snow-fall, the intolerable gloom which had
been mine so long but deepened and blackened. The fear was to me now
like some statue, nearly finished, modelled by the carving hands of
these details, and though it still stood below its moistened sheet, any
moment, I felt, the sheet might be twitched away, and I be confronted
with it. Twice that evening I had started to go to the bureau, to ask to
have a bed made up for me, anywhere, in the billiard-room or the
smoking-room, since the hotel was full, but the intolerable childishness
of the proceeding revolted me. What was I afraid of? A dream of my own,
a mere nightmare? Some fortuitous disarrangement of bed-linen? The fact
that a Swiss waiter made mistakes about bottles of whisky? It was an
impossible cowardice. But equally impossible that night were billiards or bridge, or any form
of diversion. My only salvation seemed to lie in downright hard work,
and soon after dinner I went to my room (in order to make my first real
counter-move against fear) and sat down solidly to several hours of
proof-correcting, a menial and monotonous employment, but one which is
necessary, and engages the entire attention. But first I looked
thoroughly round the room, to reassure myself, and found all modern and
solid; a bright paper of daisies on the wall, a floor parquetted, the
hot-water pipes chuckling to themselves in the corner, my bed-clothes
turned down for the night, the other bed----
The electric light was burning brightly, and there seemed to me to be a
curious stain, as of a shadow, on the lower part of the pillow and the
top of the sheet, definite and suggestive, and for a moment I stood
there again throttled by a nameless terror. Then taking my courage in my
hands I went closer and looked at it. Then I touched it; the sheet,
where the stain or shadow was, seemed damp to the hand, so also was the
pillow. And then I remembered; I had thrown some wet clothes on the bed
before dinner. No doubt that was the reason. And fortified by this
extremely simple dissipation of my fear, I sat down and began on my
proofs. But my fear had been this, that the stain had not in that first
moment looked like the mere greyness of water-moistened linen. From below, at first, came the sound of music, for they were dancing
to-night, but I grew absorbed in my work, and only recorded the fact
that after a time there was no more music. Steps went along the
passages, and I heard the buzz of conversation on landings, and the
closing of doors till by degrees the silence became noticeable. The
loneliness of night had come. It was after the silence had become lonely that I made the first pause
in my work, and by the watch on my table saw that it was already past
midnight. But I had little more to do; another half-hour would see the
end of the business, but there were certain notes I had to make for
future reference, and my stock of paper was already exhausted. However,
I had bought some in the village that afternoon, and it was in the
bureau downstairs, where I had left it, when I came in and had
subsequently forgotten to bring it upstairs. It would be the work of a
minute only to get it. The electric light had brightened considerably during the last hour,
owing no doubt to many burners being put out in the hotel, and as I left
the room I saw again the stain on the pillow and sheet of the other bed. I had really forgotten all about it for the last hour, and its presence
there came as an unwelcome surprise. Then I remembered the explanation
of it, which had struck me before, and for purposes of self-reassurement
I again touched it. It was still damp, but--Had I got chilly with my
work? For it was warm to the hand. Warm, and surely rather sticky. It
did not seem like the touch of the water-damp. And at the same moment I
knew I was not alone in the room. There was something there, something
silent as yet, and as yet invisible. But it was there. Now for the consolation of persons who are inclined to be fearful, I may
say at once that I am in no way brave, but that terror which, God knows,
was real enough, was yet so interesting, that interest overruled it. I
stood for a moment by the other bed, and, half-consciously only, wiped
the hand that had felt the stain, for the touch of it, though all the
time I told myself that it was but the touch of the melted snow on the
coat I had put there, was unpleasant and unclean. More than that I did
not feel, because in the presence of the unknown and the perhaps awful,
the sense of curiosity, one of the strongest instincts we have, came to
the fore. So, rather eager to get back to my room again, I ran
downstairs to get the packet of paper. There was still a light in the
bureau, and the Sensitive, on night-duty, I suppose, was sitting there
dozing. My entrance did not disturb him, for I had on noiseless felt
slippers, and seeing at once the package I was in search of, I took it,
and left him still unawakened. That was somehow of a fortifying nature. The Sensitive anyhow could sleep in his hard chair; the occupant of the
unoccupied bed was not calling to him to-night. I closed my door quietly, as one does at night when the house is silent,
and sat down at once to open my packet of paper and finish my work. It
was wrapped up in an old news-sheet, and struggling with the last of the
string that bound it, certain words caught my eye. Also the date at the
top of the paper caught my eye, a date nearly a year old, or, to be
quite accurate, a date fifty-one weeks old. It was an American paper and
what it recorded was this:
“The body of Mr Silas R. Hume, who committed suicide last week at the
Hôtel Beau Site, Moulin sur Chalons, is to be buried at his house in
Boston, Mass. The inquest held in Switzerland showed that he cut his
throat with a razor, in an attack of delirium tremens induced by drink. In the cupboard of his room were found three dozen empty bottles of
Scotch whisky....”
So far I had read when without warning the electric light went out, and
I was left in, what seemed for the moment, absolute darkness. And again
I knew I was not alone, and I knew now who it was who was with me in the
room. Then the absolute paralysis of fear seized me. As if a wind had blown
over my head, I felt the hair of it stir and rise a little. My eyes
also, I suppose, became accustomed to the sudden darkness, for they
could now perceive the shape of the furniture in the room from the light
of the starlit sky outside. They saw more too than the mere furniture. There was standing by the wash-stand between the two windows a figure,
clothed only in night-garments, and its hands moved among the objects on
the shelf above the basin. Then with two steps it made a sort of dive
for the other bed, which was in shadow. And then the sweat poured on to
my forehead. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Though the other bed stood in shadow I could still see dimly, but
sufficiently, what was there. The shape of a head lay on the pillow, the
shape of an arm lifted its hand to the electric bell that was close by
on the wall, and I fancied I could hear it distantly ringing. Then a
moment later came hurrying feet up the stairs and along the passage
outside, and a quick rapping at my door. “Monsieur’s whisky, monsieur’s whisky,” said a voice just outside. “Pardon, monsieur, I brought it as quickly as I could.”
The impotent paralysis of cold terror was still on me. Once I tried to
speak and failed, and still the gentle tapping went on at the door, and
the voice telling some one that his whisky was there. Then at a second
attempt, I heard a voice which was mine saying hoarsely:
“For God’s sake come in; I am alone with it.”
* * * * *
There was the click of a turned door-handle, and as suddenly as it had
gone out a few seconds before, the electric light came back again, and
the room was in full illumination. I saw a face peer round the corner of
the door, but it was at another face I looked, the face of a man sallow
and shrunken, who lay in the other bed, staring at me with glazed eyes. He lay high in bed, and his throat was cut from ear to ear; and the
lower part of the pillow was soaked in blood, and the sheet streamed
with it. * * * * *
Then suddenly that hideous vision vanished, and there was only a
sleepy-eyed waiter looking into the room. But below the sleepiness
terror was awake, and his voice shook when he spoke. “Monsieur rang?” he asked. No, monsieur had not rung. But monsieur made himself a couch in the
billiard-room. THE THING IN THE HALL
The following pages are the account given me by Dr Assheton of the Thing
in the Hall. I took notes, as copious as my quickness of hand allowed
me, from his dictation, and subsequently read to him this narrative in
its transcribed and connected form. This was on the day before his
death, which indeed probably occurred within an hour after I had left
him, and, as readers of inquests and such atrocious literature may
remember, I had to give evidence before the coroner’s jury. Only a week
before Dr Assheton had to give similar evidence, but as a medical
expert, with regard to the death of his friend, Louis Fielder, which
occurred in a manner identical with his own. As a specialist, he said he
believed that his friend had committed suicide while of unsound mind,
and the verdict was brought in accordingly. But in the inquest held over
Dr Assheton’s body, though the verdict eventually returned was the same,
there was more room for doubt. For I was bound to state that only shortly before his death, I read what
follows to him; that he corrected me with extreme precision on a few
points of detail, that he seemed perfectly himself, and that at the end
he used these words:
“I am quite certain as a brain specialist that I am completely sane, and
that these things happened not merely in my imagination, but in the
external world. If I had to give evidence again about poor Louis, I
should be compelled to take a different line. Please put that down at
the end of your account, or at the beginning, if it arranges itself
better so.”
There will be a few words I must add at the end of this story, and a few
words of explanation must precede it. Briefly, they are these. Francis Assheton and Louis Fielder were up at Cambridge together, and
there formed the friendship that lasted nearly till their death. In
general attributes no two men could have been less alike, for while Dr
Assheton had become at the age of thirty-five the first and final
authority on his subject, which was the functions and diseases of the
brain, Louis Fielder at the same age was still on the threshold of
achievement. Assheton, apparently without any brilliance at all, had by
careful and incessant work arrived at the top of his profession, while
Fielder, brilliant at school, brilliant at college and brilliant ever
afterwards, had never done anything. He was too eager, so it seemed to
his friends, to set about the dreary work of patient investigation and
logical deductions; he was for ever guessing and prying, and striking
out luminous ideas, which he left burning, so to speak, to illumine the
work of others. But at bottom, the two men had this compelling interest
in common, namely, an insatiable curiosity after the unknown, perhaps
the most potent bond yet devised between the solitary units that make up
the race of man. Both--till the end--were absolutely fearless, and Dr
Assheton would sit by the bedside of the man stricken with bubonic
plague to note the gradual surge of the tide of disease to the reasoning
faculty with the same absorption as Fielder would study X-rays one week,
flying machines the next, and spiritualism the third. The rest of the
story, I think, explains itself--or does not quite do so. This, anyhow,
is what I read to Dr Assheton, being the connected narrative of what he
had himself told me. It is he, of course, who speaks. * * * * *
“After I returned from Paris, where I had studied under Charcot, I set
up practice at home. The general doctrine of hypnotism, suggestion, and
cure by such means had been accepted even in London by this time, and,
owing to a few papers I had written on the subject, together with my
foreign diplomas, I found that I was a busy man almost as soon as I had
arrived in town. Louis Fielder had his ideas about how I should make my
début (for he had ideas on every subject, and all of them original), and
entreated me to come and live not in the stronghold of doctors,
‘Chloroform Square,’ as he called it, but down in Chelsea, where there
was a house vacant next his own. ‘Who cares where a doctor lives,’ he said, ‘so long as he cures people? Besides you don’t believe in old methods; why believe in old localities? Oh, there is an atmosphere of painless death in Chloroform Square! Come
and make people live instead! And on most evenings I shall have so much
to tell you; I can’t “drop in” across half London.’
Now if you have been abroad for five years, it is a great deal to know
that you have any intimate friend at all still left in the metropolis,
and, as Louis said, to have that intimate friend next door, is an
excellent reason for going next door. Above all, I remembered from
Cambridge days, what Louis’ ‘dropping in’ meant. Towards bed-time, when
work was over, there would come a rapid step on the landing, and for an
hour, or two hours, he would gush with ideas. He simply diffused life,
which is ideas, wherever he went. He fed one’s brain, which is the one
thing which matters. Most people who are ill, are ill because their
brain is starving, and the body rebels, and gets lumbago or cancer. That
is the chief doctrine of my work such as it has been. All bodily disease
springs from the brain. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
It is merely the brain that has to be fed and
rested and exercised properly to make the body absolutely healthy, and
immune from all disease. But when the brain is affected, it is as useful
to pour medicines down the sink, as make your patient swallow them,
unless--and this is a paramount limitation--unless he believes in them. I said something of the kind to Louis one night, when, at the end of a
busy day, I had dined with him. We were sitting over coffee in the hall,
or so it is called, where he takes his meals. Outside, his house is just
like mine, and ten thousand other small houses in London, but on
entering, instead of finding a narrow passage with a door on one side,
leading into the dining-room, which again communicates with a small back
room called ‘the study,’ he has had the sense to eliminate all
unnecessary walls, and consequently the whole ground floor of his house
is one room, with stairs leading up to the first floor. Study,
dining-room and passage have been knocked into one; you enter a big room
from the front door. The only drawback is that the postman makes loud
noises close to you, as you dine, and just as I made these commonplace
observations to him about the effect of the brain on the body and the
senses, there came a loud rap, somewhere close to me, that was
startling. ‘You ought to muffle your knocker,’ I said, ‘anyhow during the time of
meals.’
Louis leaned back and laughed. ‘There isn’t a knocker,’ he said. ‘You were startled a week ago, and
said the same thing. So I took the knocker off. The letters slide in
now. But you heard a knock, did you?’
‘Didn’t you?’ said I. ‘Why, certainly. But it wasn’t the postman. It was the Thing. I don’t
know what it is. That makes it so interesting.’
Now if there is one thing that the hypnotist, the believer in
unexplained influences, detests and despises, it is the whole
root-notion of spiritualism. Drugs are not more opposed to his belief
than the exploded, discredited idea of the influence of spirits on our
lives. And both are discredited for the same reason; it is easy to
understand how brain can act on brain, just as it is easy to understand
how body can act on body, so that there is no more difficulty in the
reception of the idea that the strong mind can direct the weak one, than
there is in the fact of a wrestler of greater strength overcoming one of
less. But that spirits should rap at furniture and divert the course of
events is as absurd as administering phosphorus to strengthen the brain. That was what I thought then. However, I felt sure it was the postman, and instantly rose and went to
the door. There were no letters in the box, and I opened the door. The
postman was just ascending the steps. He gave the letters into my hand. Louis was sipping his coffee when I came back to the table. ‘Have you ever tried table-turning?’ he asked. ‘It’s rather odd.’
‘No, and I have not tried violet-leaves as a cure for cancer,’ I said. ‘Oh, try everything,’ he said. ‘I know that that is your plan, just as
it is mine. All these years that you have been away, you have tried all
sorts of things, first with no faith, then with just a little faith, and
finally with mountain-moving faith. Why, you didn’t believe in hypnotism
at all when you went to Paris.’
He rang the bell as he spoke, and his servant came up and cleared the
table. While this was being done we strolled about the room, looking at
prints, with applause for a Bartolozzi that Louis had bought in the New
Cut, and dead silence over a ‘Perdita’ which he had acquired at
considerable cost. Then he sat down again at the table on which we had
dined. It was round, and mahogany-heavy, with a central foot divided
into claws. ‘Try its weight,’ he said; ‘see if you can push it about.’
So I held the edge of it in my hands, and found that I could just move
it. But that was all; it required the exercise of a good deal of
strength to stir it. ‘Now put your hands on the top of it,’ he said, ‘and see what you can
do.’
I could not do anything, my fingers merely slipped about on it. But I
protested at the idea of spending the evening thus. ‘I would much sooner play chess or noughts and crosses with you,’ I
said, ‘or even talk about politics, than turn tables. You won’t mean to
push, nor shall I, but we shall push without meaning to.’
Louis nodded. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, ‘let us both put our fingers only on the top
of the table and push for all we are worth, from right to left.’
We pushed. At least I pushed, and I observed his finger-nails. From pink
they grew to white, because of the pressure he exercised. So I must
assume that he pushed too. Once, as we tried this, the table creaked. But it did not move. Then there came a quick peremptory rap, not I thought on the front door,
but somewhere in the room. ‘It’s the Thing,’ said he. To-day, as I speak to you, I suppose it was. But on that evening it
seemed only like a challenge. I wanted to demonstrate its absurdity. ‘For five years, on and off, I’ve been studying rank spiritualism,’ he
said. ‘I haven’t told you before, because I wanted to lay before you
certain phenomena, which I can’t explain, but which now seem to me to be
at my command. You shall see and hear, and then decide if you will help
me.’
‘And in order to let me see better, you are proposing to put out the
lights,’ I said. ‘Yes; you will see why.’
‘I am here as a sceptic,’ said I. ‘Scep away,’ said he. Next moment the room was in darkness, except for a very faint glow of
firelight. The window-curtains were thick, and no street-illumination
penetrated them, and the familiar, cheerful sounds of pedestrians and
wheeled traffic came in muffled. I was at the side of the table towards
the door; Louis was opposite me, for I could see his figure dimly
silhouetted against the glow from the smouldering fire. ‘Put your hands on the table,’ he said, ‘quite lightly, and--how shall I
say it--expect.’
Still protesting in spirit, I expected. I could hear his breathing
rather quickened, and it seemed to me odd that anybody could find
excitement in standing in the dark over a large mahogany table,
expecting. Then--through my finger-tips, laid lightly on the table,
there began to come a faint vibration, like nothing so much as the
vibration through the handle of a kettle when water is beginning to boil
inside it. This got gradually more pronounced and violent till it was
like the throbbing of a motor-car. It seemed to give off a low humming
note. Then quite suddenly the table seemed to slip from under my fingers
and began very slowly to revolve. ‘Keep your hands on it and move with it,’ said Louis, and as he spoke I
saw his silhouette pass away from in front of the fire, moving as the
table moved. For some moments there was silence, and we continued, rather absurdly,
to circle round keeping step, so to speak, with the table. Then Louis
spoke again, and his voice was trembling with excitement. ‘Are you there?’ he said. There was no reply, of course, and he asked it again. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
This time there
came a rap like that which I had thought during dinner to be the
postman. But whether it was that the room was dark, or that despite
myself I felt rather excited too, it seemed to me now to be far louder
than before. Also it appeared to come neither from here nor there, but
to be diffused through the room. Then the curious revolving of the table ceased, but the intense, violent
throbbing continued. My eyes were fixed on it, though owing to the
darkness I could see nothing, when quite suddenly a little speck of
light moved across it, so that for an instant I saw my own hands. Then
came another and another, like the spark of matches struck in the dark,
or like fire-flies crossing the dusk in southern gardens. Then came
another knock of shattering loudness, and the throbbing of the table
ceased, and the lights vanished. * * * * *
Such were the phenomena at the first séance at which I was present, but
Fielder, it must be remembered, had been studying, ‘expecting,’ he
called it, for some years. To adopt spiritualistic language (which at
that time I was very far from doing), he was the medium, I merely the
observer, and all the phenomena I had seen that night were habitually
produced or witnessed by him. I make this limitation since he told me
that certain of them now appeared to be outside his own control
altogether. The knockings would come when his mind, as far as he knew,
was entirely occupied in other matters, and sometimes he had even been
awakened out of sleep by them. The lights were also independent of his
volition. Now my theory at the time was that all these things were purely
subjective in him, and that what he expressed by saying that they were
out of his control, meant that they had become fixed and rooted in the
unconscious self, of which we know so little, but which, more and more,
we see to play so enormous a part in the life of a man. In fact, it is
not too much to say that the vast majority of our deeds spring,
apparently without volition, from this unconscious self. All hearing is
the unconscious exercise of the aural nerve, all seeing of the optic,
all walking, all ordinary movement seem to be done without the exercise
of will on our part. Nay more, should we take to some new form of
progression, skating, for instance, the beginner will learn with falls
and difficulty the outside edge, but within a few hours of his having
learned his balance on it, he will give no more thought to what he
learned so short a time ago as an acrobatic feat, than he gives to the
placing of one foot before the other. But to the brain specialist all this was intensely interesting, and to
the student of hypnotism, as I was, even more so, for (such was the
conclusion I came to after this first séance), the fact that I saw and
heard just what Louis saw and heard was an exhibition of
thought-transference which in all my experience in the Charcot-schools I
had never seen surpassed, if indeed rivalled. I knew that I was myself
extremely sensitive to suggestion, and my part in it this evening I
believed to be purely that of the receiver of suggestions so vivid that
I visualised and heard these phenomena which existed only in the brain
of my friend. We talked over what had occurred upstairs. His view was that the Thing
was trying to communicate with us. According to him it was the Thing
that moved the table and tapped, and made us see streaks of light. ‘Yes, but the Thing,’ I interrupted, ‘what do you mean? Is it a
great-uncle--oh, I have seen so many relatives appear at séances, and
heard so many of their dreadful platitudes--or what is it? A spirit? Whose spirit?’
Louis was sitting opposite to me, and on the little table before us
there was an electric light. Looking at him I saw the pupil of his eye
suddenly dilate. To the medical man--provided that some violent change
in the light is not the cause of the dilation--that meant only one
thing, terror. But it quickly resumed its normal proportion again. Then he got up, and stood in front of the fire. ‘No, I don’t think it is great-uncle anybody,’ he said, ‘I don’t know,
as I told you, what the Thing is. But if you ask me what my conjecture
is, it is that the Thing is an Elemental.’
‘And pray explain further. What is an Elemental?’
Once again his eye dilated. ‘It will take two minutes,’ he said. ‘But, listen. There are good things
in this world, are there not, and bad things? Cancer, I take it is bad,
and--and fresh air is good; honesty is good, lying is bad. Impulses of
some sort direct both sides, and some power suggests the impulses. Well,
I went into this spiritualistic business impartially. I learned to
“expect,” to throw open the door into the soul, and I said, “Anyone may
come in.” And I think Something has applied for admission, the Thing
that tapped and turned the table and struck matches, as you saw, across
it. Now the control of the evil principle in the world is in the hands
of a power which entrusts its errands to the things which I call
Elementals. Oh, they have been seen; I doubt not that they will be seen
again. I did not, and do not ask good spirits to come in. I don’t want
“The Church’s one foundation” played on a musical box. Nor do I _want_
an Elemental. I only threw open the door. I believe the Thing has come
into my house, and is establishing communication with me. Oh, I want to
go the whole hog. What is it? In the name of Satan, if necessary, what
is it? I just want to know.’
* * * * *
What followed I thought then might easily be an invention of the
imagination, but what I believed to have happened was this. A piano with
music on it was standing at the far end of the room by the door, and a
sudden draught entered the room, so strong that the leaves turned. Next
the draught troubled a vase of daffodils, and the yellow heads nodded. Then it reached the candles that stood close to us, and they fluttered,
burning blue and low. Then it reached me, and the draught was cold, and
stirred my hair. Then it eddied, so to speak, and went across to Louis,
and his hair also moved, as I could see. Then it went downwards towards
the fire, and flames suddenly started up in its path, blown upwards. The
rug by the fireplace flapped also. ‘Funny, wasn’t it?’ he asked. ‘And has the Elementa gone up the chimney?’ said I. ‘Oh, no,’ said he, ‘the Thing only passed us.’
Then suddenly he pointed at the wall just behind my chair, and his voice
cracked as he spoke. ‘Look, what’s that?’ he said. ‘There on the wall.’
Considerably startled I turned in the direction of his shaking finger. The wall was pale grey in tone, and sharp-cut against it was a shadow
that, as I looked, moved. It was like the shadow of some enormous slug,
legless and fat, some two feet high by about four feet long. Only at one
end of it was a head shaped like the head of a seal, with open mouth and
panting tongue. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
Then even as I looked it faded, and from somewhere close at hand there
sounded another of those shattering knocks. For a moment after there was silence between us, and horror was thick as
snow in the air. But, somehow neither Louis or I were frightened for
more than one moment. The whole thing was so absorbingly interesting. ‘That’s what I mean by its being outside my control,’ he said. ‘I said I
was ready for any--any visitor to come in, and by God, we’ve got a
beauty.’
* * * * *
Now I was still, even in spite of the appearance of this shadow, quite
convinced that I was only taking observations of a most curious case of
disordered brain accompanied by the most vivid and remarkable
thought-transference. I believed that I had not seen a slug-like shadow
at all, but that Louis had visualised this dreadful creature so
intensely that I saw what he saw. I found also that his spiritualistic
trash-books which I thought a truer nomenclature than text-books,
mentioned this as a common form for Elementals to take. He on the other
hand was more firmly convinced than ever that we were dealing not with a
subjective but an objective phenomenon. * * * * *
For the next six months or so we sat constantly, but made no further
progress, nor did the Thing or its shadow appear again, and I began to
feel that we were really wasting time. Then it occurred to me, to get in
a so-called medium, induce hypnotic sleep, and see if we could learn
anything further. This we did, sitting as before round the dining-room
table. The room was not quite dark, and I could see sufficiently clearly
what happened. The medium, a young man, sat between Louis and myself, and without the
slightest difficulty I put him into a light hypnotic sleep. Instantly
there came a series of the most terrific raps, and across the table
there slid something more palpable than a shadow, with a faint luminance
about it, as if the surface of it was smouldering. At the moment the
medium’s face became contorted to a mask of hellish terror; mouth and
eyes were both open, and the eyes were focussed on something close to
him. The Thing waving its head came closer and closer to him, and
reached out towards his throat. Then with a yell of panic, and warding
off this horror with his hands, the medium sprang up, but It had already
caught hold, and for the moment he could not get free. Then
simultaneously Louis and I went to his aid, and my hands touched
something cold and slimy. But pull as we could we could not get it away. There was no firm hand-hold to be taken; it was as if one tried to grasp
slimy fur, and the touch of it was horrible, unclean, like a leper. Then, in a sort of despair, though I still could not believe that the
horror was real, for it must be a vision of diseased imagination, I
remembered that the switch of the four electric lights was close to my
hand. I turned them all on. There on the floor lay the medium, Louis was
kneeling by him with a face of wet paper, but there was nothing else
there. Only the collar of the medium was crumpled and torn, and on his
throat were two scratches that bled. The medium was still in hypnotic sleep, and I woke him. He felt at his
collar, put his hand to his throat and found it bleeding, but, as I
expected, knew nothing whatever of what had passed. We told him that
there had been an unusual manifestation, and he had, while in sleep,
wrestled with something. We had got the result we wished for, and were
much obliged to him. I never saw him again. A week after that he died of blood-poisoning. * * * * *
From that evening dates the second stage of this adventure. The Thing
had materialised (I use again spiritualistic language which I still did
not use at the time). The huge slug, the Elemental, manifested itself
no longer by knocks and waltzing tables, nor yet by shadows. It was
there in a form that could be seen and felt. But it still--this was my
strong point--was only a thing of twilight; the sudden kindling of the
electric light had shown us that there was nothing there. In this
struggle perhaps the medium had clutched his own throat, perhaps I had
grasped Louis’ sleeve, he mine. But though I said these things to
myself, I am not sure that I believed them in the same way that I
believe the sun will rise to-morrow. Now as a student of brain-functions and a student in hypnotic affairs, I
ought perhaps to have steadily and unremittingly pursued this
extraordinary series of phenomena. But I had my practice to attend to,
and I found that with the best will in the world, I could think of
nothing else except the occurrence in the hall next door. So I refused
to take part in any further séance with Louis. I had another reason
also. For the last four or five months he was becoming depraved. I have
been no prude or Puritan in my own life, and I hope I have not turned a
Pharisaical shoulder on sinners. But in all branches of life and morals,
Louis had become infamous. He was turned out of a club for cheating at
cards, and narrated the event to me with gusto. He had become cruel; he
tortured his cat to death; he had become bestial. I used to shudder as I
passed his house, expecting I knew not what fiendish thing to be
looking at me from the window. Then came a night only a week ago, when I was awakened by an awful cry,
swelling and falling and rising again. It came from next door. I ran
downstairs in my pyjamas, and out into the street. The policeman on the
beat had heard it too, and it came from the hall of Louis’ house, the
window of which was open. Together we burst the door in. You know what
we found. The screaming had ceased but a moment before, but he was dead
already. Both jugulars were severed, torn open. * * * * *
It was dawn, early and dusky when I got back to my house next door. Even
as I went in something seemed to push by me, something soft and slimy. It could not be Louis’ imagination this time. Since then I have seen
glimpses of it every evening. I am awakened at night by tappings, and in
the shadows in the corner of my room there sits something more
substantial than a shadow.”
* * * * *
Within an hour of my leaving Dr Assheton, the quiet street was once more
aroused by cries of terror and agony. He was already dead, and in no
other manner than his friend, when they got into the house. THE HOUSE WITH THE BRICK-KILN
The hamlet of Trevor Major lies very lonely and sequestered in a hollow
below the north side of the south downs that stretch westward from
Lewes, and run parallel with the coast. It is a hamlet of some three or
four dozen inconsiderable houses and cottages much girt about with
trees, but the big Norman church and the manor house which stands a
little outside the village are evidence of a more conspicuous past. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
This
latter, except for a tenancy of rather less than three weeks, now four
years ago, has stood unoccupied since the summer of 1896, and though it
could be taken at a rent almost comically small, it is highly improbable
that either of its last tenants, even if times were very bad, would
think of passing a night in it again. For myself--I was one of the
tenants--I would far prefer living in a workhouse to inhabiting those
low-pitched oak-panelled rooms, and I would sooner look from my garret
windows on to the squalor and grime of Whitechapel than from the
diamond-shaped and leaded panes of the Manor of Trevor Major on to the
boskage of its cool thickets, and the glimmering of its clear
chalk-streams where the quick trout glance among the waving water-weeds
and over the chalk and gravel of its sliding rapids. It was the news of these trout that led Jack Singleton and myself to
take the house for the month between mid-May and mid-June, but as I have
already mentioned a short three weeks was all the time we passed there,
and we had more than a week of our tenancy yet unexpired when we left
the place, though on the very last afternoon we enjoyed the finest
dry-fly fishing that has ever fallen to my lot. Singleton had originally
seen the advertisement of the house in a Sussex paper, with the
statement that there was good dry-fly fishing belonging to it, but it
was with but faint hopes of the reality of the dry-fly fishing that we
went down to look at the place, since we had before this so often
inspected depopulated ditches which were offered to the unwary under
high-sounding titles. Yet after a half-hour’s stroll by the stream, we
went straight back to the agent, and before nightfall had taken it for a
month with option of renewal. * * * * *
We arrived accordingly from town at about five o’clock on a cloudless
afternoon in May, and through the mists of horror that now stand between
me and the remembrance of what occurred later, I cannot forget the
exquisite loveliness of the impression then conveyed. The garden, it is
true, appeared to have been for years untended; weeds half-choked the
gravel paths, and the flower-beds were a congestion of mingled wild and
cultivated vegetations. It was set in a wall of mellowed brick, in which
snap-dragon and stone-crop had found an anchorage to their liking, and
beyond that there stood sentinel a ring of ancient pines in which the
breeze made music as of a distant sea. Outside that the ground sloped
slightly downwards in a bank covered with a jungle of wild-rose to the
stream that ran round three sides of the garden, and then followed a
meandering course through the two big fields which lay towards the
village. Over all this we had fishing-rights; above, the same rights
extended for another quarter of a mile to the arched bridge, over which
there crossed the road which led to the house. In this field above the
house on the fourth side, where the ground had been embanked to carry
the road, stood a brick-kiln in a ruinous state. A shallow pit, long
overgrown with tall grasses and wild field-flowers, showed where the
clay had been digged. The house itself was long and narrow; entering, you passed direct into a
square panelled hall, on the left of which was the dining-room which
communicated with the passage leading to the kitchen and offices. On the
right of the hall were two excellent sitting-rooms looking out, the one
on to the gravel in front of the house, the other on to the garden. From
the first of these you could see, through the gap in the pines by which
the road approached the house, the brick-kiln of which I have already
spoken. An oak staircase went up from the hall, and round it ran a
gallery on to which the three principal bedrooms opened. These were
commensurate with the dining-room and the two sitting-rooms below. From
this gallery there led a long narrow passage shut off from the rest of
the house by a red-baize door, which led to a couple more guestrooms and
the servant’s quarters. Jack Singleton and I share the same flat in town, and we had sent down
in the morning Franklyn and his wife, two old and valued servants, to
get things ready at Trevor Major, and procure help from the village to
look after the house, and Mrs Franklyn with her stout comfortable face
all wreathed in smiles opened the door to us. She had had some previous
experience of the “comfortable quarters” which go with fishing, and had
come down prepared for the worst, but found it all of the best. The
kitchen-boiler was not furred; hot and cold water were laid on in the
most convenient fashion, and could be obtained from taps that neither
stuck nor leaked. Her husband, it appeared, had gone into the village to
buy a few necessaries, and she brought up tea for us, and then went
upstairs to the two rooms over the dining-room and bigger sitting-room,
which we had chosen for our bedrooms, to unpack. The doors of these were
exactly opposite one another to right and left of the gallery, and Jack
who chose the bedroom above the sitting-room had thus a smaller room,
above the second sitting-room, unoccupied, next his and opening out from
it. We had a couple of hours’ fishing before dinner, each of us catching
three or four brace of trout, and came back in the dusk to the house. Franklyn had returned from the village from his errand, reported that he
had got a woman to come in to do housework in the mornings, and
mentioned that our arrival had seemed to arouse a good deal of interest. The reason for this was obscure; he could only tell us that he was
questioned a dozen times as to whether we really intended to live in the
house, and his assurance that we did produced silence and a shaking of
heads. But the country-folk of Sussex are notable for their silence and
chronic attitude of disapproval, and we put this down to local
idiosyncrasy. The evening was exquisitely warm, and after dinner we pulled out a
couple of basket-chairs on to the gravel by the front door, and sat for
an hour or so, while the night deepened in throbs of gathering darkness. The moon was not risen and the ring of pines cut off much of the pale
starlight, so that when we went in, allured by the shining of the lamp
in the sitting-room, it was curiously dark for a clear night in May. And
at that moment of stepping from the darkness into the cheerfulness of
the lighted house, I had a sudden sensation, to which, during the next
fortnight, I became almost accustomed, of there being something unseen
and unheard and dreadful near me. In spite of the warmth, I felt myself
shiver, and concluded instantly that I had sat out-of-doors long enough,
and without mentioning it to Jack, followed him into the smaller
sitting-room in which we had scarcely yet set foot. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
It like the hall was
oak-panelled, and in the panels hung some half-dozen of water-colour
sketches, which we examined, idly at first, and then with growing
interest, for they were executed with extraordinary finish and delicacy,
and each represented some aspect of the house or garden. Here you looked
up the gap in the fir-trees into a crimson sunset; here the garden, trim
and carefully tended, dozed beneath some languid summer noon; here an
angry wreath of storm-cloud brooded over the meadow where the
trout-stream ran grey and leaden below a threatening sky, while another,
the most careful and arresting of all, was a study of the brick-kiln. In
this, alone of them all, was there a human figure; a man, dressed in
grey, peered into the open door from which issued a fierce red glow. The
figure was painted with miniature-like elaboration; the face was in
profile, and represented a youngish man, clean-shaven with a long
aquiline nose and singularly square chin. The sketch was long and narrow
in shape, and the chimney of the kiln appeared against a dark sky. From
it there issued a thin streamer of grey smoke. Jack looked at this with attention. “What a horrible picture,” he said, “and how beautifully painted. I feel
as if it meant something, as if it was a representation of something
that happened, not a mere sketch. By Jove!----”
He broke off suddenly, and went in turn to each of the other pictures. “That’s a queer thing,” he said. “See if you notice what I mean.”
With the brick-kiln rather vividly impressed on my mind, it was not
difficult to see what he had noticed. In each of the pictures appeared
the brick-kiln, chimney and all, now seen faintly between trees, now in
full view, and in each the chimney was smoking. “And the odd part is that from the garden side, you can’t really see the
kiln at all,” observed Jack, “it’s hidden by the house, and yet the
artist F. A., as I see by his signature, puts it in just the same.”
“What do you make of that?” I asked. “Nothing. I suppose he had a fancy for brick-kilns. Let’s have a game of
picquet.”
* * * * *
A fortnight of our three weeks passed without incident, except that
again and again the curious feeling of something dreadful being close at
hand was present in my mind. In a way, as I said, I got used to it, but
on the other hand the feeling itself seemed to gain in poignancy. Once
just at the end of the fortnight I mentioned it to Jack. “Odd you should speak of it,” he said, “because I’ve felt the same. When
do you feel it? Do you feel it now for instance?”
We were again sitting out after dinner, and as he spoke I felt it with
far greater intensity than ever before. And at the same moment the
house-door which had been closed, though probably not latched, swung
gently open, letting out a shaft of light from the hall, and as gently
swung to again, as if something had stealthily entered. “Yes,” I said. “I felt it then. I only feel it in the evening. It was
rather bad that time.”
Jack was silent a moment. “Funny thing the door opening and shutting like that,” he said. “Let’s
go indoors.”
We got up and I remember seeing at that moment that the windows of my
bedroom were lit; Mrs Franklyn probably was making things ready for the
night. Simultaneously, as we crossed the gravel, there came from just
inside the house the sound of a hurried footstep on the stairs, and
entering we found Mrs Franklyn in the hall, looking rather white and
startled. “Anything wrong?” I asked. She took two or three quick breaths before she answered:
“No, sir,” she said, “at least nothing that I can give an account of. I
was tidying up in your room, and I thought you came in. But there was
nobody, and it gave me a turn. I left my candle there; I must go up for
it.”
I waited in the hall a moment, while she again ascended the stairs, and
passed along the gallery to my room. At the door, which I could see was
open, she paused, not entering. “What is the matter?” I asked from below. “I left the candle alight,” she said, “and it’s gone out.”
Jack laughed. “And you left the door and window open,” said he. “Yes, sir, but not a breath of wind is stirring,” said Mrs Franklyn,
rather faintly. This was true, and yet a few moments ago the heavy hall-door had swung
open and back again. Jack ran upstairs. “We’ll brave the dark together, Mrs Franklyn,” he said. He went into my room, and I heard the sound of a match struck. Then
through the open door came the light of the rekindled candle and
simultaneously I heard a bell ring in the servant’s quarters. In a
moment came steps, and Franklyn appeared. “What bell was that?” I asked. “Mr Jack’s bedroom, sir,” he said. I felt there was a marked atmosphere of nerves about for which there was
really no adequate cause. All that had happened of a disturbing nature
was that Mrs Franklyn had thought I had come into my bedroom, and had
been startled by finding I had not. She had then left the candle in a
draught, and it had been blown out. As for a bell ringing, that, even if
it had happened, was a very innocuous proceeding. “Mouse on a wire,” I said. “Mr Jack is in my room this moment lighting
Mrs Franklyn’s candle for her.”
Jack came down at this juncture, and we went into the sitting-room. But
Franklyn apparently was not satisfied, for we heard him in the room
above us, which was Jack’s bedroom, moving about with his slow and
rather ponderous tread. Then his steps seemed to pass into the bedroom
adjoining, and we heard no more. I remember feeling hugely sleepy that night, and went to bed earlier
than usual, to pass rather a broken night with stretches of dreamless
sleep interspersed with startled awakenings, in which I passed very
suddenly into complete consciousness. Sometimes the house was absolutely
still, and the only sound to be heard was the sighing of the night
breeze outside in the pines, but sometimes the place seemed full of
muffled movements, and once I could have sworn that the handle of my
door turned. That required verification, and I lit my candle, but found
that my ears must have played me false. Yet even as I stood there, I
thought I heard steps just outside, and with a considerable qualm, I
must confess, I opened the door and looked out. But the gallery was
quite empty, and the house quite still. Then from Jack’s room opposite I
heard a sound that was somehow comforting, the snorts of the snorer, and
I went back to bed and slept again, and when next I woke, morning was
already breaking in red lines on the horizon, and the sense of trouble
that had been with me ever since last evening had gone. Heavy rain set in after lunch next day, and as I had arrears of
letter-writing to do, and the water was soon both muddy and rising, I
came home alone about five, leaving Jack still sanguine by the stream,
and worked for a couple of hours sitting at a writing-table in the room
overlooking the gravel at the front of the house, where hung the
water-colours. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
By seven I had finished, and just as I got up to light
candles, since it was already dusk, I saw, as I thought, Jack’s figure
emerge from the bushes that bordered the path to the stream, on to the
space in front of the house. Then instantaneously and with a sudden
queer sinking of the heart, quite unaccountable, I saw that it was not
Jack at all, but a stranger. He was only some six yards from the window,
and after pausing there a moment he came close up to the window, so that
his face nearly touched the glass, looking intently at me. In the light
from the freshly-kindled candles I could distinguish his features with
great clearness, but though, as far as I knew, I had never seen him
before, there was something familiar about both his face and figure. He
appeared to smile at me, but the smile was one of inscrutable evil and
malevolence, and immediately he walked on, straight towards the
house-door opposite him, and out of sight of the sitting-room window. Now, little though I liked the look of the man, he was, as I have said,
familiar to my eye, and I went out into the hall, since he was clearly
coming to the front-door, to open it to him and learn his business. So
without waiting for him to ring, I opened it, feeling sure I should find
him on the step. Instead, I looked out into the empty gravel-sweep, the
heavy-falling rain, the thick dusk. And even as I looked, I felt
something that I could not see push by me through the half-opened door
and pass into the house. Then the stairs creaked, and a moment after a
bell rang. Franklyn is the quickest man to answer a bell I have ever seen, and next
instant he passed me going upstairs. He tapped at Jack’s door, entered,
and then came down again. “Mr Jack still out, sir?” he asked. “Yes. His bell ringing again?”
“Yes, sir,” said Franklyn, quite imperturbably. I went back into the sitting-room, and soon Franklyn brought a lamp. He
put it on the table above which hung the careful and curious picture of
the brick-kiln, and then with a sudden horror I saw why the stranger on
the gravel outside had been so familiar to me. In all respects he
resembled the figure that peered into the kiln; it was more than a
resemblance, it was an identity. And what had happened to this man who
had inscrutably and evilly smiled at me? And what had pushed in through
the half-closed door? At that moment I saw the face of Fear; my mouth went dry, and I heard my
heart leaping and cracking in my throat. That face was only turned on me
for a moment, and then away again, but I knew it to be the genuine
thing; not apprehension, not foreboding, not a feeling of being
startled, but Fear, cold Fear. And then though nothing had occurred to
assuage the Fear, it passed, and a certain sort of reason usurped--for
so I must say--its place. I had certainly seen somebody on the gravel
outside the house; I had supposed he was going to the front-door. I had
opened it, and found he had not come to the front-door. Or--and once
again the terror resurged--had the invisible pushing thing been that
which I had seen outside? And if so, what was it? And how came it that
the face and figure of the man I had seen was the same as that which was
so scrupulously painted in the picture of the brick-kiln? I set myself to argue down the Fear for which there was no more
foundation than this, this and the repetition of the ringing bell, and
my belief is that I did so. I told myself, till I believed it, that a
man--a human man--had been walking across the gravel outside, and that
he had not come to the front-door but had gone, as he might easily have
done, up the drive into the high-road. I told myself that it was mere
fancy that was the cause of the belief that Something had pushed in by
me, and as for the ringing of the bell, I said to myself, as was true,
that this had happened before. And I must ask the reader to believe also
that I argued these things away, and looked no longer on the face of
Fear itself. I was not comfortable, but I fell short of being terrified. I sat down again by the window looking on to the gravel in front of the
house, and finding another letter that asked, though it did not demand
an answer, proceeded to occupy myself with it. Straight in front led the
drive through the gap in the pines, and passed through the field where
lay the brick-kiln. In a pause of page-turning I looked up and saw
something unusual about it; at the same moment an unusual smell came to
my nostril. What I saw was smoke coming out of the chimney of the kiln,
what I smelt was the odour of roasting meat. The wind--such as there
was--set from the kiln to the house. But as far as I knew the smell of
roast meat probably came from the kitchen where dinner, so I supposed,
was cooking. I had to tell myself this: I wanted reassurance, lest the
face of Fear should look whitely on me again. Then there came a crisp step on the gravel, a rattle at the front-door,
and Jack came in. “Good sport,” he said, “you gave up too soon.”
And he went straight to the table above which hung the picture of the
man at the brick-kiln, and looked at it. Then there was silence; and
eventually I spoke, for I wanted to know one thing. “Seen anybody?” I asked. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have also; the man in that picture.”
Jack came and sat down near me. “It’s a ghost, you know,” he said. “He came down to the river about dusk
and stood near me for an hour. At first I thought he was--was real, and
I warned him that he had better stand further off if he didn’t want to
be hooked. And then it struck me he wasn’t real, and I cast, well, right
through him, and about seven he walked up towards the house.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No. It was so tremendously interesting. So you saw him here too. Whereabouts?”
“Just outside. I think he is in the house now.”
Jack looked round. “Did you see him come in?” he asked. “No, but I felt him. There’s another queer thing too; the chimney of the
brick-kiln is smoking.”
Jack looked out of the window. It was nearly dark but the wreathing
smoke could just be seen. “So it is,” he said, “fat, greasy smoke. I think I’ll go up and see
what’s on. Come too?”
“I think not,” I said. “Are you frightened? It isn’t worth while. Besides, it is so
tremendously interesting.”
Jack came back from his little expedition still interested. He had found
nothing stirring at the kiln, but though it was then nearly dark the
interior was faintly luminous, and against the black of the sky he could
see a wisp of thick white smoke floating northwards. But for the rest of
the evening we neither heard nor saw anything of abnormal import, and
the next day ran a course of undisturbed hours. Then suddenly a hellish
activity was manifested. That night, while I was undressing for bed, I heard a bell ring
furiously, and I thought I heard a shout also. I guessed where the ring
came from, since Franklyn and his wife had long ago gone to bed, and
went straight to Jack’s room. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |
But as I tapped at the door I heard his
voice from inside calling loud to me. “Take care,” it said, “he’s close
to the door.”
A sudden qualm of blank fear took hold of me, but mastering it as best I
could, I opened the door to enter, and once again something pushed
softly by me, though I saw nothing. Jack was standing by his bed, half-undressed. I saw him wipe his
forehead with the back of his hand. “He’s been here again,” he said. “I was standing just here, a minute
ago, when I found him close by me. He came out of the inner room, I
think. Did you see what he had in his hand?”
“I saw nothing.”
“It was a knife; a great long carving knife. Do you mind my sleeping on
the sofa in your room to-night? I got an awful turn then. There was
another thing too. All round the edge of his clothes, at his collar and
at his wrists, there were little flames playing, little white licking
flames.”
* * * * *
But next day, again, we neither heard nor saw anything, nor that night
did the sense of that dreadful presence in the house come to us. And
then came the last day. We had been out till it was dark, and as I said,
had a wonderful day among the fish. On reaching home we sat together in
the sitting-room, when suddenly from overhead came a tread of feet, a
violent pealing of the bell, and the moment after yell after yell as of
someone in mortal agony. The thought occurred to both of us that this
might be Mrs Franklyn in terror of some fearful sight, and together we
rushed up and sprang into Jack’s bedroom. The doorway into the room beyond was open, and just inside it we saw the
man bending over some dark huddled object. Though the room was dark we
could see him perfectly, for a light stale and impure seemed to come
from him. He had again a long knife in his hand, and as we entered he
was wiping it on the mass that lay at his feet. Then he took it up, and
we saw what it was, a woman with head nearly severed. But it was not Mrs
Franklyn. And then the whole thing vanished, and we were standing looking into a
dark and empty room. We went downstairs without a word, and it was not
till we were both in the sitting-room below that Jack spoke. “And he takes her to the brick-kiln,” he said rather unsteadily. “I say,
have you had enough of this house? I have. There is hell in it.”
* * * * *
About a week later Jack put into my hand a guidebook to Sussex open at
the description of Trevor Major, and I read:
“Just outside the village stands the picturesque manor house, once the
home of the artist and notorious murderer, Francis Adam. It was here he
killed his wife, in a fit, it is believed, of groundless jealousy,
cutting her throat and disposing of her remains by burning them in a
brick-kiln. Certain charred fragments found six months afterwards led to
his arrest and execution.”
* * * * *
So I prefer to leave the house with the brick-kiln and the pictures
signed F. A. to others. TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
OBSERVER.--“_Miss Stevens has really leaped to the front rank among
writers of fiction._”
THE LURE
BY
E. S. STEVENS
Author of “The Veil” and “The Mountain of God,” etc. _Crown 8vo_, =6s.=
The lure of adventure, the lure of a strong and unscrupulous
personality, and the lure of the Dark Continent, play their parts in
this story. Anne, the woman of the book, comes under the influence of
all three, to learn at the last that they have only enchained her
imagination and not her heart. A great part of this notable novel takes
place in the less known parts of the Soudan, where the main actors in
the drama meet and work out their destinies. The background is that vast
land of the elephant, the crocodile, and the hippopotamus, where
solitary Englishmen are loyally serving their country and civilisation,
without vainglory or hope of reward. THE LURE will be one of the most
remarkable novels of 1912. _Novels by E. S. Stevens_
THE VEIL. 6_s._ (Cloth.) Do. 1_s._ (Paper.) THE MOUNTAIN OF GOD. 6_s._ (Cloth.) Do. 1_s._ (Paper.) THE EARTHEN DRUM. 6_s._ (Eastern Stories.) _Make the acquaintance of E. S. Stevens immediately_
MILLS & BOON, LTD., 49 RUPERT ST., LONDON, W.
_A Remarkable Indian Romance_
THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA
By I. A. R. WYLIE
Author of “The Rajah’s People” and “Dividing Waters”
_Crown 8vo_, =6s.=
In THE DAUGHTER OF BRAHMA we are transported back to the mysterious
atmosphere and brilliant Oriental colourings which marked the author’s
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and religion in India are faced from another standpoint--that of the
woman. With profound sympathy we follow the wonderful moral and
spiritual growth of the daughter of Brahma, whose fate becomes so
strangely linked with that of the hero. With an equal interest,
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which all the hidden religious and political life of India is revealed
in striking colours, until the final crisis is reached. The crisis,
indeed, is an intensely dramatic and tragic one; but it satisfies not
only by its truth, but by the promise of future happiness which it
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the two chief figures, win both interest and sympathy by their
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of the finest novels of 1912._
MILLS & BOON, LTD., 49 RUPERT ST., LONDON, W.
_A Notable Novel_
Some years ago there appeared a very notable novel which Mills & Boon
believe has got lost sight of in the rush of Fiction so energetically
published by almost every firm. It was entitled--
AN ENGLISHMAN
By MARY PENDERED
How many readers of to-day remember it? Mills & Boon will shortly issue
a new and revised edition at =6s.=, and they hope the public will not miss
this chance of reading one of the finest novels of the last fifteen
years. Some reviews are here given which appeared when the book was
originally published. “We have nothing but admiration for this very noble book. It is by
far the most important the season has yet produced. It is filled
with wisdom and sympathy, and in the Englishman of the title the
author has created a _man_.”--_Literary World._
* * * * *
“As thoroughly English as ‘Middlemarch’ or ‘Cranford.’”--_Sunday
Times._
* * * * *
“A thoroughly wholesome, sympathetic, effective story, the interest
of which is sustained with unbroken continuity from its opening to
its close.... Handled with remarkable adroitness, and manifesting
no inconsiderable originality of characterisation. | Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic) - The room in the tower, and other stories |