by Dion Fortune
Hugh was delighted. He would have a fascinating time piecing the bits together like a jigsaw puzzle and having them restored to their place in the tracery.
Standing beneath the west window, through which the last of the light struck upwards from the sunset, he was able to see the roof, which he had not been able to do at his previous visits, with the west window still boarded up. He saw that the roof was steep-pitched, and very lofty for the size of the building, and that it was divided into five bays by buttress pillars. In each bay, as the last light struck upwards from the western horizon, he could just discern the dim lines of a vast winged figure, evidently an angel.
The east end, contrary to the custom of churches, presented a blank wall instead of a window, and upon its great height Hugh could see the shadowy outlines of a painting. He walked slowly up the aisle, and as he advanced, the picture became clearer, and he saw that it represented a vast green tree bearing multi-coloured fruit. Ten of them, he counted, in the faded remains of crude primary colours, arranged in stiff triangles, three by three, with the odd one low down on the trunk at the bottom.
Immediately in the centre, as if it were a pot for the tree to grow in, was a square stone pedestal like a short pillar, waist-high. Hugh wondered what in the world this had been, for it was exactly where the altar ought to have stood, and supposed it was to carry some statue. On the stonework of the wall he could see clearly the marks where the altar had been fastened, and it evidently completely enclosed the stone pedestal.
Three steps led up from the nave of the chapel into the sanctuary, and there the tiling ended and mosaic began. He saw that the design on the mosaic represented the twelve signs of the Zodiac, with the seven planets within their circle, and the symbols of the four clements of earth, air, fire and water in the centre. It was an exact reproduction of a picture in one of Jelkes' books.
“This doesn't look to me a very Christian church,” said Hugh to himself.
Then the solution of the curious stone pedestal, enclosed in the altar, suddenly dawned on him. He had been reading about exactly the same thing in another of Jelkes' books. One of the charges against the Knights Templars was that they had made cubical stone altars to the goat-god, Baphorner, and concealed them underneath orthodox wooden table-altars, made to open up like cupboard doors, so that the uninitiated suspected nothing.
Hugh was thrilled to the marrow. This chapel, outwardly Christian, was inwardly pagan. No wonder they bricked up Ambrosius!
It was fast becoming too dark to see any details of the shadowy building, and Hugh sat down on a builder's barrow that stood conveniently to hand and asked himself what it was all about. And as he sat, he felt a curious sensation. It seemed to him as if the chapel were the focus of all the forces of the universe and they all converged upon it. He sat listening, as it were, to the sensation, and it went on steadily, like the sound of a waterfall. The chapel grew darker and darker, but he felt as if he could have sat all night, just listening. Then the thought crossed his mind that it must be getting late, and he ought to return to the supper Mrs Pascoe was preparing for him, and instantly the sensation vanished and he was back to normal in the empty barn. He rose, groped his way round the buildings, switched on the car headlights with a sense of relief, and returned to the Green Man, where Mrs Pascoe stood over him to make sure he ate his supper, as he had neglected his tea.
Settling down over the fire after his meal with a cup of tea and a cigarette, a trick he had learnt from Jelkes, Hugh set to work to puzzle out the situation. Unquestionably, Monks Farm was more than filling the bill; it had, in fact, got the upper hand completely. He had wanted the Old Gods of Greece, not medieval monasticism kicking over the traces. Then there was Ambrosius, whom he had found to be such an absorbing topic, and who finally, when he got his portrait enlarged, turned out to be his own double. And then there was Mona Wilton, whom at first sight he had not found to be particularly prepossessing, but who was gradually becoming—he did not quite know what. A friend, unquestionably, but that was an odd relationship to have with a youngish woman.
Hugh was accustomed to women who took lovemaking as a matter of course, but Mona obviously did not want him to flirt with her, in fact, would have strongly objected to any attempt at so doing. He also suspected that even as a friend, she intended to keep him at arm's length, for which he respected her, for he knew what friendship under such circumstances might be expected to imply, and how was Mona to know that that was not his game? In one way he liked the unacknowledged friendship, with its steady sense of fidelity and goodwill, better than any more explicit and open relationship, which might have proved embarrassing; but on the other hand, the manhood in him, waking up for the first time since it had been knocked on the head and left for dead on his honeymoon, wanted to press on with the friendship, though it was very careful not to call it anything save friendship.
Ambrosius, Pan, and Mr Pinker receded together into the limbo of things forgotten as Hugh studied the problem of Mona Wilton, for it slowly dawned on him that he was getting awfully fond of her. Not in love with her, as he had been with his wife, who had been a very beautiful and very sensual woman, but just fond of her, he couldn't describe it in any other way, even to himself. Mona Wilton was very far from being a sensual woman. She treated him like a brother man, and nothing more. Hugh was so used to that deep, inner, spiritual loneliness of the soul which lies so heavily upon those who live in an unsympathetic environment, that he had accepted it as the natural lot of man, never having known anything else. The lines he had read as a schoolboy stuck in his head when all the Imagists were forgotten—
“Yes, in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless, watery wild,
We million mortals live alone.”
These seemed to him, even when he read them first, to enshrine an ineluctable truth, and life had confirmed it. As much contact as he had ever had with anybody he had had with Trevor Wilmott—because Trevor knew just how to handle him. Naturally Trevor would keep in touch with the milch-cow! And then, when the revelation of the inquest had torn from him the last shreds of any human contact, had come the meeting with old jelkes, and the instant, unreasoning upspringing of affection between them. And the odd thing was that Jelkes wanted nothing from him, but on the contrary considered himself as the bestower of benefits-and so he was. Even Hugh's offer of a telephone had met with a poor reception. Hugh was accustomed to hear the offer of anything, from a cocktail to a car, greeted with riotous applause. He had gradually acquired the state of mind when he could not conceive of any way of pleasing anybody save by giving them something far handsomer than they had any right to expect. He had speedily discovered, however, that if he applied this method to Jelkes and Mona, Mona would be embarrassed and Jelkes would be rude.
Wanting desperately to make friends with Mona, he did not know how to approach her. His one attempt at a gift, the green coat, was religiously treated as a loan— “Oh dear, I've marked your coat—!” said Mona when she found some engine-oil on the hem—and carefully folded and left in the car after each run. He knew that Mona was tacitly saying, ‘Not for sale'; he knew that her code was entirely different to the one to which he was accustomed, whereunder, having given a coat, he was surely entitled to put his arm round it. Mona would simply throw the coat back at him if he did that. Hugh felt more acutely than ever that the only thing he had to offer anybody was his money, and if they did not want that-well, poor lad, what had he to give them?
Hugh went to bed very depressed; lay on his back and tried to dream of Greece, but only succeeded in dreaming of his mother, who seemed to be angry with him. It is a curious, and melancholy, fact that uninteresting people have the same capacity for suffering as attractive ones.
CHAPTER XVII
MR PINKER, under the stimulus of Hugh's constant presence, bestirred himself in a way he might not have done if left to his own devices, and the smaller house was fast approaching
habitability. Hugh dropped Mrs Macintosh a line requesting her presence, and that lady duly turned up in the local taxi, dressed in impeccable housekeeper's black, as was her invariable custom. She had entirely recovered her poise, and expressed neither approval nor disapproval when Hugh introduced her to the farm, but merely acquiesced. She measured and took notes as bidden, and finally, equally professionally, took her seat in Hugh's unhandy racing car and permitted him to run her down to the station. He lacked the courage to invite her to lunch at the Green Man in the face of her unyielding professionalism.
As they waited on the platform for the train, she said to him: “How much longer do you think you will want me, Mr Paston?”
“I was wondering whether you would care to take charge at the farm, Mrs Macintosh?”
“No,” said Mrs Macintosh emphatically, “I would not.”
“Why ever not?” demanded Hugh, startled, and rather annoyed, by her emphasis.
“I don't like the feel of it. I could never settle there.”
“What's wrong with it?”
“It feels sinister to me. Sinister and wicked. I don't know how you can stand it. I wouldn't live there for anything you could offer me.”
Hugh, who had not counted on Highland psychism backed by Highland Calvinism, was nonplussed. His plans were going astray. How was he going to get Mona Wilton to come to the farm unless Mrs Macintosh were there to play propriety and look after her while she was still convalescent?
“I think I ought to tell you, Mr Paston, that Lady Paston came to the books hop to enquire after you, and Mr Jelkes was very short with her. She is very anxious about you, and I do not think that Mr Jelkes' attitude allayed her anxiety.”
Hugh groaned.
“Does she know about the farm?”
“She knows nothing. Mr Jelkes refused to tell her a thing, and was, if you will pardon my saying so, very rude to her.”
“What did she say to your being there?”
“She did not know of my presence, nor Miss Wilton's. I thought it wiser that she should not. Miss Wilton and I sat in the kitchenette with the light out while she was there.”
“Why ever did you do that?”
“I thought the position of Miss Wilton might be misunderstood, and involve you in unpleasantness.”
“I don't see why the dickens it should be.”
“Well, it will be, to a certainty, Mr Paston.”
“Oh, well, no good worrying about that. Here is your train.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Paston. And if it is convenient to you, I would like to get off at the end of the week. I have the offer of another post, and I want to pay a visit to some friends in Scotland before accepting it. I do not think Miss Wilton needs me any longer.”
“Yes, certainly, Mrs Macintosh. Get off by all means.”
Hugh put her into the train with a sigh of relief. She was a good woman. She was a kind woman. She was trustworthy. She was efficient. He liked and respected her. He classed her with his old nurse as one of the best women he had ever known. And yet he heaved a sigh of relief as he put her into the train. He wondered what would have been the upshot if she had accepted his offer to housekeep at the farm. And then it suddenly occurred to him to wonder why he had made such an offer to such an utterly unsuitable person. One could not associate Mrs Macintosh with attendance at a rite of Pan. If she came at all, she would bring her knitting. She represented to him duty and the fear of God. She was awfully like his old nurse, who had really stood to him in the place of the mother who was always out. He supposed psychologists would call his offer the fruit of a mother-fixation. The presence of Mrs Macintosh at the farm would have been a sop to what was left of his conscience—and effectually prevented Pan from appearing even if invoked. His conscious mind might desire her as a housekeeper, but his subconscious wanted her as fire-insurance.
He was greatly cheered by the news that she would be leaving the bookshop at the end of the week. He had a feeling that the estrangements would clear up when she went. She was a prayerful woman, and he fancied that she did not do the atmosphere any good. He wondered how she had got on with Jelkes. There had been a veiled tone of disapproval in her voice, and she had never referred to Miss Wilton, save to answer his enquiry primly and briefly.
In response to his instructions, sufficient mass-production furniture arrived in the course of the week to make the small house habitable for three people. There were also cretonnes covered with rosebuds.
Knowing that Mrs Macintosh meant to go North, and that she had a long journey before her, for he believed she came from Ross-shire, or thereabouts, he thought he would be quite safe in putting in an appearance at the bookshop round about lunch-time on Saturday, and seeing if he could cadge a week-end out of the old bookseller. So with Mrs Pascoe's help he got a few things into a suit-case, for it was a terrible effort for Hugh to pack, and set off for London; to be delayed, however, by a screaming figure rushing across the common waving its arms and crying: “You've forgotten your 'air-oil, sir!” It was Hugh's one social asset to awaken maternal feelings in the souls of the motherly.
Arrived at the bookshop, he found that Jelkes, who interpreted the Shop Hours Act in a liberal spirit, had already bolted the door against customers, and knocked in vain, Jelkes concluding that someone wanted some Sunday reading, and not being ofan obliging disposition, declined to let him have it. Hugh was seriously considering smashing a pane of glass in order to get in, when he heard a window overhead being raised, and looking up, saw Mrs Macintosh's head coming out. She smiled her non-committal smile, as if trying to make it appear orthodox for a person in Hugh's position to be applying his toe to the door while his housekeeper surveyed him from a point of vantage. She withdrew her head, and in a moment he heard her on the stair.
But it was not jelkes' chicken-ladder she was descending, but the stair of the maisonette, which led down outside the shop, and Hugh turned in surprise to find the door behind him opening instead of the one at which he stood.
“Might I have a word with you, Mr Paston?” said Mrs Macintosh.
Hugh acquiesced, wondering what in the world the word might be. Mrs Macintosh led the way up the maisonette stairs by which she had just descended, and then was nonplussed. She could not take him into her bedroom to talk to him, for that would not have been proper, though what harm either Mrs Macintosh's reputation or her person were likely to suffer at his hands was unimaginable. So they stood up solemnly on the dusty landing while she prepared to say her say, Mrs Macintosh bolt upright and Hugh draped over the nearest piece of furniture, as was his invariable custom.
“I wish to apologise to you, Mr Paston,” she said.
“Good Lord, there's nothing I know of for you to apologise for.”
“I wish to apologise for the way I spoke of your new house. And I hope, I hope very much, that I have not put you to inconvenience if you were counting on me to look after it for you, but I couldn't—I really couldn't go there, Mr Paston. You know, we have second sight in our family, and I am certain I should see things.”
“Did you see anything there?”
Mrs Macintosh flinched. She would not tell a lie, and she did not want to tell the truth. Such people are at a great disadvantage.
“I did not exactly see anything in the house,” she said hesitating.
“Did you see anything outside?”
“No, nor there either.”
“Well then, what did you see?” Hugh was too eager in his quest to heed her discomfort.
She hesitated, then came to the point.
“It was your face I saw, Mr Paston.”
“My face? What do you mean?”
“Your face changed completely as you went into the old part of the house.” She looked at him sharply. “Did you know that?”
The tables were turned on Hugh, and he too had either to lie or give information he had no mind to. For as he had crossed the threshold he had thought of Ambrosius, and for a brief second the curious sensation had come
to him that, he sometimes got when he thought of the renegade monk.
“I think it must have been this that Miss Wilton spoke of when she was light-headed one night,” continued Mrs Macintosh. “I could not think at the time why it had frightened her so badly, but I understood as soon as I saw it. It is very alarming, Mr Paston, I don't think you quite realise how you look when you do that.”
“But look here, Mrs Macintosh, you've been with us over two years, and I've never done anything desperate that I know of, why are you suddenly getting scared of me now?”
“I am not scared of you, Mr Paston.” Mrs Macintosh bridled indignantly at this aspersion. “But when you change before my very eyes into somebody else—I think you will admit that is enough to alarm anybody.”
“Did I change into someone very alarming?”
“Not exactly—. Well, Mr Paston, I'll tell you how it impressed me: I went to a circle once, very much against my better judgment, and the medium went just like that.”
“Oh, so you think I'm mediumistic, do you?”
“Well, really, I don't know what to say. It was gone in a minute. I hardly had time to look at it. But it was very marked while it lasted. You were certainly somebody else for a moment.”
“You think that was what scared Miss Wilton?”
“Yes, I'm certain it was. You seemed to get into her dreams when her temperature was up, and she called out in her sleep, not once but several times, ‘Don't turn into Ambrosius again—!' She was badly frightened, Mr Paston; and I don't mind telling you, so was I when I saw you do it.”
Hugh was thankful he was draped over the furniture, for he was certain he would have staggered if he had been standing without support. But before he could reply, even had he been able to, a battery of knocks sounded on the shop door.