by A. C. Benson
Then it came at last to All Souls’ Day; and Roderick, going to his bed that night, had a strange dizziness and cried out, and found the room swim round him. Then he got up into his bed, for he thought that he must be ill, and soon fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed a dreadful dream. He thought that he lay on the hills beside the pool; and yet he was out of the body, for he could see himself lying there. The pool was very dark, and a cold wind ruffled the waves. And again the water was troubled, and the man stepped out; but behind him came another man, like a hunchback, very swarthy of face, with long thin arms, that looked both strong and evil. Then it seemed as if the first man pointed to Roderick where he lay and said, ‘You can take him hence, for he is mine now, and I have need of him,’ adding, ‘Who could have thought it would be so easy?’ and then he smiled very bitterly. And the hunchback went towards himself; and he tried to cry out in warning, and straining woke; and in the chilly dawn he saw the cat sit in his room, but very different from what it had been. It was gaunt and famished, and the fur was all marred; its yellow eyes gleamed horribly, and Roderick saw that it hated him, he knew not why; and such fear came upon him that he screamed out, and as he screamed the cat rose as if furious, twitching its tail and opening its mouth; but he heard steps without, and screamed again, and his mother came in haste into the room, and the cat was gone in a moment, and Roderick held out his hands to his mother, and she soothed and quieted him, and presently with many sobs he told her all the story.
She did not reproach him, nor say a word of his disobedience, the fear was too urgent upon her; she tried to think for a little that it was the sight of some real creature lingering in a mind that was wrought upon by illness; but those were not the days when men preferred to call the strange afflictions of body and spirit, the sad scars that stain the fair works of God, by reasonable names. She did not doubt that by some dreadful hap her own child had somehow crept within the circle of darkness, and she only thought of how to help and rescue him; that he was sorry and that he did not wholly consent was her hope.
So she merely kissed and quieted him, and then she told him that she would return anon and he must rest quietly; but he would not let her leave him, so she stood in the door and called a servant softly. Sir James was long abed, for he had been in ill-health that day, and she gave word that some one must be found at once and go to call the priest, saying that Roderick was ill and she was uneasy. Then she came back to the bed, and holding Roderick’s hand she said that he must try to sleep. Roderick said to her, ‘Mother, say that you forgive me.’ To which she only replied, ‘Dear child, do I not love you better than all the world? Do not think of me now, only ask help of God.’ So she sate with his hand in both of her own, and presently he fell asleep; but she saw that he was troubled in his dreams, for he groaned and cried out often; and now through the window she heard the soft tolling of the bell of the church, and she knew that a contest must be fought out that night over the child; but after a sore passage of misery, and a bitter questioning as to why one so young and innocent should thus be bound with evil bonds, she found strength to leave the matter in the Father’s hands, and to pray with an eager hopefulness.
But the time passed heavily and still the priest did not arrive; and the ghostly terror was so sore on the child that she could bear it no longer and awakened him. And he told her in broken words of the terrible things that had oppressed him; sore fightings and struggles, and a voice in his ear that it was too late, and that he had yielded himself to the evil. And at last there came a quiet footfall on the stair, and the old priest himself entered the room, looking anxious, yet calm, and seeming to bring a holy peace with him.
Then she bade the priest sit down; and so the two sate by the bedside, with the solitary lamp burning in the chamber; and she would have had Roderick tell the tale, but he covered his face with his hands and could not. So she told the tale herself to the priest, saying, ‘Correct me, Roderick, if I am wrong’; and once or twice the boy corrected her, and added a few words to make the story plain, and then they sate awhile in silence, while the terrified looks of the mother and her son dwelt on the old priest’s strongly lined face; yet they found comfort in the smile with which he met them.
At length he said, ‘Yes, dear lady and dear Roderick, the case is plain enough – the child has yielded himself to some evil power, but not too far, I think; and now must we meet the foe with all our might. I will abide here with the boy; and, dear lady, you were better in your own chamber, for we know not what will pass; if there were need I would call you.’ Then the lady said, ‘I will do as you direct me, Father, but I would fain stay.’ Then he said, ‘Nay, but there are things on which a Christian should not look, lest they should daunt his faith – so go, dear lady, and help us with your prayers.’ Then she said, ‘I will be below; and if you beat your foot thrice upon the floor, I will come. Roderick, I shall be close at hand; only be strong, and all shall be well.’ Then she went softly away.
Then the priest said to Roderick, ‘And now, dear son, confess your sin and let me shrive you.’ So Roderick made confession, and the priest blessed him; but while he blessed him there came the angry crying of a cat from somewhere in the room, so that Roderick shuddered in his bed. Then the priest drew from his robe a little holy book, and with a reverence laid it under Roderick’s hand; and he himself took his book of prayers and said, ‘Sleep now, dear son, fear not.’ So Roderick closed his eyes, and being very weary slept. And the old priest in a low whisper said the blessed psalms. And it came near to midnight; and the place that the priest read was, Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day; for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday; and suddenly there ran as it were a shiver through his bones, and he knew that the time was come. He looked at Roderick, who slept wearily on his bed, and it seemed to him as though suddenly a small and shadowy thing, like a bird, leapt from the boy’s mouth and on to the bed; it was like a wren, only white, with dusky spots upon it; and the priest held his breath; for now he knew that the soul was out of the body, and that unless it could return uninjured into the limbs of the child, nothing could avail the boy; and then he said quietly in his heart to God that if He so willed He should take the boy’s life, if only his soul could be saved.
Then the priest was aware of a strange and horrible thing; there sprang softly on to the bed the form of the great gray cat, very lean and angry, which stood there, as though ready to spring upon the bird, which hopped hither and thither, as though careless of what might be. The priest cast a glance upon the boy, who lay rigid and pale, his eyes shut, and hardly seeming to breathe, as though dead and prepared for burial. Then the priest signed the cross and said ‘In Nomine’; and as the holy words fell on the air, the cat looked fiercely at the bird, but seemed to shrink into itself; and then it slipped away.
Then the priest’s fear was that the bird might stray further outside of his care; and yet he dared not try and wake the boy, for he knew that this was death, if the soul was thrust apart from the body, and if he broke the unseen chain that bound them; so he waited and prayed. And the bird hopped upon the floor; and then presently the priest saw the cat draw near again, and in a stealthy way; and now the priest himself was feeling weary of the strain, for he seemed to be wrestling in spirit with something that was strong and strongly armed. But he signed the cross again and said faintly ‘In Nomine’; and the cat again withdrew.
Then a dreadful drowsiness fell upon the priest, and he thought that he must sleep. Something heavy, leaden-handed, and powerful seemed to be busy in his brain. Meanwhile the bird hopped upon the window-sill and stood as if preparing its wings for a flight. Then the priest beat with his foot upon the floor, for he could no longer battle. In a moment the lady glided in, and seemed as though scared to find the scene of so fierce an encounter so still and quiet. She would have spoken, but the priest signed her to be silent, and pointed to the boy and to the bird; and then sh
e partly understood. So they stood in silence, but the priest’s brain grew more numb; though he was aware of a creeping blackness that seemed to overshadow the bird, in the midst of which glared two bright eyes. So with a sudden effort he signed the cross, and said ‘In Nomine’ again; and at the same moment the lady held out her hand; and the priest sank down on the floor; but he saw the bird raise its wings for a flight, and just as the dark thing rose, and as it were, struck open-mouthed, the bird sailed softly through the air, alighted on the lady’s hand, and then with a light flutter of wings on to the bed and to the boy’s face, and was seen no more; at the same moment the bells stopped in the church and left a sweet silence. The black form shrank and slipped aside, and seemed to fall on the ground; and outside there was a shrill and bitter cry which echoed horribly on the air; and the boy opened his eyes, and smiled; and his mother fell on his neck and kissed him. Then the priest said, ‘Give God the glory!’ and blessed them, and was gone so softly that they knew not when he went; for he had other work to do. Then mother and son had great joy together.
But the priest walked swiftly and sternly through the wood, and to the church; and he dipped a vessel in the stoup of holy water, turning his eyes aside, and wrapped it in a veil of linen. Then he took a lantern in his hand, and with a grave and fixed look on his face he walked sadly up the valley, putting one foot before another, like a man who forced himself to go unwilling. There were strange sounds on the hillside, the crying of sad birds, and the beating of wings, and sometimes a hollow groaning seemed to come down the stream. But the priest took no heed, but went on heavily till he reached the stone cross, where the wind whistled dry in the grass. Then he struck off across the moorland. Presently he came to a rise in the ground; and here, though it was dark, he seemed to see a blacker darkness in the air, where the peak lay.
But beneath the peak he saw a strange sight; for the pool shone with a faint white light, that showed the rocks about it. The priest never turned his head, but walked thither, with his head bent, repeating words to himself, but hardly knowing what he said.
Then he came to the brink; and there he saw a dreadful sight. In the water writhed large and luminous worms, that came sometimes up to the surface, as though to breathe, and sank again. The priest knew well enough that it was a device of Satan’s to frighten him; so he delayed not; but setting the lantern down on the ground, he stood. In a moment the lantern was obscured as by the rush of bat-like wings. But the priest took the veil off the vessel; and holding it up in the air, he let the water fall in the pool, saying softly, ‘Lord, let them be bound!’
But when the holy water touched the lake, there was a strange sight; for the bright worms quivered and fell to the depth of the pool; and a shiver passed over the surface, and the light went out like a flickering lamp. Then there came a foul yelling from the stones; and with a roar like thunder, rocks fell crashing from the face of the peak; and then all was still.
Then the priest sate down and covered his face with his hands, for he was sore spent; but he rose at length, and with grievous pain made his slow way down the valley, and reached the parsonage house at last.
Roderick lay long between life and death; and youth and a quiet mind prevailed.
Long years have passed since that day; all those that I have spoken of are dust. But in the window of the old church hangs a picture in glass which shows Christ standing, with one lying at his feet from whom he had cast out a devil; and on a scroll are the words, DE ABYSSIS·TERRAE·ITERUM·REDUXISTI·ME, the which may be written in English, Yea, and broughtest me from the deep of the earth again.
FATHER MADDOX’S TALE
R.H. Benson
‘This is a most disappointing story,’ began old Father Maddox, with a deprecating smile. ‘You will find it as annoying as “The Lady and the Tiger”; there is no answer. Or rather there are two, and you may take your choice, and no one can contradict you or satisfy you that you are right.’
There was a moment’s pause as the priest elaborately placed a pinch of brown powder on his thumb-nail and inhaled it noisily through first one nostril and then the other, with an indescribable grimace. He flicked the specks away, wiped his nose with a magenta cotton handkerchief, replaced his snuff-box, folded his hands, cocked one knee over the other, and proceeded.
‘About fourteen or fifteen years ago,’ he began, ‘I was at a mission in the Fens – quite a little place – you would not know its name – about ten miles from Ely. I was very much pleased to hear one day that an old friend of mine had taken a house about seven miles away at a place called Baddenham – because, you know, the life of a priest at such a mission is apt to be very lonely, and I looked forward to his company now and again.’
The old man smiled at the company in his deprecating manner and went on:
‘About a week later my friend, Mr Hudson – a bachelor, by the way, a Fellow of one of the Cambridge colleges, and a great recluse – wrote and asked me to spend a Monday to Wednesday with him. There was a novelist coming to stay with him – I think I had better not mention his name; we will call him Mr Baxter – and this – er – Mr Baxter wished to meet a Catholic priest for a particular reason that you shall hear presently. I was very much pleased at this, for I had often heard the writer’s name as all of you have, Reverend Fathers’ – he smiled slyly – ‘and I liked his books. He was always very kind to us poor Papists, though I believe he was a man of no religion himself.
‘Well, I gave out that there would be no Mass on Tuesday or Wednesday – and I said, too, where I was going, in case there was a sick-call, though that was not likely; and on Monday afternoon I walked up with my bag from Baddenham station to the Hall.
‘It was a very fine old house, very old – built, I suppose, about the beginning of the sixteenth century – and it stood in the middle of a little park of about a hundred acres. It was L-shaped, of red brick, with a little turret at the north end, and had a little walled garden on the south.
‘Mr Baxter was not come yet; he would be there for dinner, my friend told me; and, sure enough, about half-past seven he came.
‘He was a little man – not at all what I expected – with black hair a little grey at the temples, clean-shaven, with spectacles. He was a very quick man – I could see that. He talked a great deal at dinner; and it seemed, from what my friend said, that he was come down there from town to make a beginning at his new book, which was to be on the days of Elizabeth.’
Father Maddox stopped, and looked round smiling.
‘No, gentlemen, you cannot guess from that. The book was never written, as you shall hear.’
There was a murmur of disappointment, and Father Brent, who had sat forward suddenly, sank back again, smiling too.
‘Well, it seemed that Mr Baxter wished to meet a priest, because he was anxious to hear a little of how Catholics managed in those days, what it was that priests carried with them on their travels, and so forth; but it appeared presently that Catholics were not to be the principal characters of the story, though he thought of bringing them in.
‘“I must have a priest, Father Maddox,” he said. “There might be some good side-scenes made out of that. Please tell me everything you can.”
‘Well, I told him all I could, and about the missal and altar-stone at Oscott, and so on; and I told him, too, the kind of work that priests had to do, and their dangers, and the martyrdoms.
‘“Did many give in?” he asked.
‘“Apostatise?” I said. “Oh, a few – very few.”
‘He seemed very thoughtful at that, and after we had smoked a little he asked if we might go round the house. He liked to know what sort of a place he was sleeping in, he said. He seemed to get very much excited with the house: it was certainly an interesting old place, with several panelled rooms, uneven floors, diamond-paned windows, and all the rest. There was a curious little place, too, in the turret: a kind of watch-tower, it seemed, with tiny windows, or rather spy-holes, all round. I never remember having seen anything
like it elsewhere; and it was approached by an oaken stair from the room below. It was so small that two people could hardly turn round in it together.
‘Well, we saw everything, going with candles, and came down again at last to the old parlour, and there we sat till nearly midnight, Mr Baxter asking me all sorts of questions, many of which I could not answer.
‘When our host took up his candle to go to bed, Mr Baxter said he would sit up a bit, so we left him and went upstairs.
‘I am always a poor sleeper, particularly in a new house, and I tossed about a long time. It was winter, by the way – or rather, late autumn – so I had a fire in my room, which was at the top of the stairs, the first door on the right. Then, when I did go to sleep at last, I dreamed that I was still awake. I don’t know whether any one else has ever had that; but I often do. I remember what I dreamed, too. It was that I was back again in the parlour with the other two, and that I was trying to sleep in my chair, but that Mr Baxter would not be quiet; he kept walking up and down the room, waving his hands and talking to himself, and that the other man – ah! wait.’ The priest paused. ‘I have not explained properly. At first in my dream, the third man was certainly Mr Hudson – at least, I supposed so – but after a while it seemed not to be; it was some one else, I did not know who, and I could not remember his face. This third man, apparently, was not trying to sleep; he was standing in the corner of the room, in the shadow, watching Mr Baxter as he went up and down. Well, this went on a long while, and then at last I awoke, wide awake, and lay much annoyed. I was hardly fully awake before I heard Mr Baxter come upstairs. I heard his bedroom candle clink as he lit it in the hall below, and then I heard the creak of one of his shoes, which I had noticed before. He came upstairs, past my door, walking rather quickly as his way was; and I heard him shut the door of his room, which was at the further end of the landing. Then I went to sleep.’