Chapter V: Part 5

Mr. Bosanquet had a story, it seemed, but had entirely refused to relate it to a mixed company. He had had a certain experience once which had changed his life, and it was not an experience to be described at random. There was no ghost in it; it was wholly unsensational, but it had, Father Brent thought, a peculiar interest of its own. He had persuaded his friend to sup with us, knowing that we should be but few, and hoping that the atmosphere might be found favorable. This was the gist of what he was saying, but he was interrupted by the entrance of Beppo with the coffee.

“Shall we have coffee upstairs?” he said.

Then we rose and went upstairs.

* * * * *

It was a few minutes before we settled down, and Mr. Bosanquet seemed in no hurry to begin. But a silence fell presently, and finally the young priest leaned forward.

“Now, Bosanquet,” he said.

Mr. Bosanquet set his cup down, crossed his legs, and began. He spoke in a very quiet, unemotional voice.

“My friend has told you that this experience of mine is unsensational. In a manner of speaking he is right. It is unsensational, since it deals with nothing other than that which we must all go through sooner or later; but I think it has a certain interest from the fact that it is an experience of which, except under very peculiar circumstances, none of us will ever be able to give an account. It concerns the act of dying....”

He paused for a moment.

“Yes; the act of dying,” he repeated; “for I firmly believe that that is precisely what I did. I passed the point at which death is dogmatically declared by the doctors to have taken place. I underwent, that is, what is called ‘legal death,’ but I did not, of course, reach that further state called ‘somatic death.’”

Father Brent voiced my question.

“Please explain,” he said.

“Oh, well, the body, as we know, consists of cells; but there is a certain unity, usually identified with the vital principle, which merges these into one entity, so that if one member suffer, all the members suffer with it. Legal death is when this vital principle leaves the body. The lungs cease to act; the heart is motionless. But when this has taken place there yet remains a further stage. The cells, for a certain period, have a kind of life of their own. There is no vital union between them; the nerve system is suspended; and somatic death, marked by the _rigor mortis_, the stiffening of the cells, indicates the moment when the cells, too, even individually, cease to live. But the man is dead, doctors tell us, sometimes many hours before _rigor mortis_ sets in. In fact, in the case of some of the saints, _rigor mortis_ appears never to have set in at all; their limbs, we are told, retain softness and elasticity. There is no corruption, at least in the ordinary ‘sense.’”

Father Brent grunted and nodded.

“In my case,” pursued the Englishman, “I was declared dead, and, as I learned afterward, remained in that state about half an hour. It was after my body had been washed and the face bound up that I returned to life.”

I sat up in my chair at that. At least he was explicit enough. He glanced at me.

“I can show you my death certificate if you care to come to my hotel to-morrow,” he said. “I obtained it from the doctor--cancelled, however, you understand.

“Well, this is what took place.

“The cause of death was exhaustion, following upon angina pectoris, with other complications. I will spare you the details and begin at once at the point at which I was declared to be dying. Up to that point I had suffered extraordinary agony, tempered by morphia. I did not know that such pain was possible.... At the moments of the spasms, before each injection took effect, it seemed to me that I did not suffer pain so much as become pain. There was no room for anything else but pain. Then there came the beginning of the dulness of it; it retired and stood off from me. I was still conscious of it, as of a storm passing away, till all sank into a kind of peace. Then, after a long while as it seemed, the dulness lifted, and I came up again to the surface, becoming aware of the world, though of course this bore a certain aspect of unreality, owing to the effects of the drug....

“Well, I said I would leave all that out....

“The last time I came up I knew I was dying. It was all quite different. Things no longer bore that close relation to me that they had had before. I opened my eyes just enough to let me see my hands lying out on the counterpane, and the hillock of my feet, and even the lower part of the brass supports at the end of my bed; but I could not raise my eyelids higher, and almost immediately I closed them again.

“The sense of touch, too, was changed.... Once or twice when I have been falling asleep in my chair I have noticed the same phenomenon. I could not tell by feeling, unless I moved them, whether my fingers rested on the counterpane or not. I did move them, with that curious clawing motion that dying people use, simply in order to realize my relations with material surroundings. That, of course, as I know now, is the reason of those motions. It is not an involuntary contraction of the muscles; it is the will trying to get back into touch with the world.

“But the sense of hearing, oddly enough, was almost preternaturally acute. Others undergoing anæsthetics have told me the same. It is the last sense to leave them and the first to return. I could hear a continual minute series of sounds, not at all painfully loud, but absolutely distinct. There was my sister’s breathing, irregular and uneven, beside me. I knew by it that she was trying not to break down. I could hear four timepieces ticking--her watch and the doctor’s and that of the traveling-clock over the fire and the Dutch clock in the hall below. Then there were the country sounds in the distance and the breeze in the creepers outside my window.

“With regard to taste and smell, they were there, a kind of sour sweetness, if I may say so; but they did not interest me; they were below my level, if I may express it like that....

“Well, I said just now that I knew I was dying. It was as if through all my being there was a steady, smooth retirement from the world. I was perfectly able to reflect--in fact, I reflected as I have never been able to before or since. Do you know the sensation of coming down from town and sitting out in the darkness after dinner in the garden? The silence, after the clatter and glare of London, makes it possible, seems to let the mind free. One is both alert and reflective--both at once. It was rather like that, only far more pronounced. And in that freedom from the pressure of matter I realized perfectly what was happening.

“Now, I must tell you at once that I was not at all frightened. My religion seemed to stand off from me with the rest of the world. I had been up to that time what may be called a ‘conventional believer.’ I had never doubted exactly, for I always realized that it was absurd for me to criticise what was so obviously the highest standard of morality and faith--I mean Christianity. But neither was I particularly interested. I had lived like other people. I attended church, I repeated my prayers, and I had conventional views of heaven, with which was mixed up a good deal of agnosticism. In a word, I think I may say that I had hope, but not faith, that is, as you Catholics seem to have it.”

This was the first hint I had had that Mr. Bosanquet was not a Catholic, and I glanced up at Father Brent. He, too, glanced at me in a half-warning, half-suggestive look. I understood.

“I was not frightened, then,” continued the other tranquilly. “My religion, as I see now, was altogether bound up with the world. Even my thoughts went no further than images. I conceived of heaven as in a picture, of Our Lord as a superhuman Man, of death as of a swift passage through the air.... We are all bound, of course, by our limitations to do that; but I had not realized the inadequacy of such images. I conceived of eternity and spiritual existence in terms of time and space, and I had not really even as much faith as that of the agnostic who recognizes that these are inadequate, and therefore foolishly believes that the reality is unknowable--as in one sense indeed it is.”

Once more the German priest murmured, and I saw now why this man had been encouraged to tell his story.

“Well, then,” he continued, “when the world retired from me with the approach of death, my religion retired naturally with it (that seems to me so obvious now!), and I was left, moving swiftly _inward_, if I may express it so, toward a state of which I was completely ignorant. I was dying as I suppose animals die. I never lost self-consciousness for a moment. As a rule, of course, one realizes self-consciousness, as philosophers tell us, by self-differentiation from what is not self. The baby learns it gradually by touching and looking. The dying lose it by ceasing to touch and see, or, rather, they lose that mode of realizing, and enter into themselves instead....

“I had then a vague kind of anxiety, but I was perfectly peaceful. I had no particular remembrance of sins, no faith or love or hope; nothing but a sense of extreme _naturalness_, if I may express it so. It seemed as if I had known all this all along, as a stone thrown into the air would, if it had consciousness, realize the inevitability of its curve as it neared the earth. I was to die; well, that was the corollary of having lived!

“Well, this inevitable movement inward went on, as it seemed to me, very swiftly. Each instant that I applied my consciousness it seemed to me as if I had gone a great way since the previous instant; the only thing that astonished me was the distance there was to travel. It was a sensation--how shall I express it?--a sensation of sinking swiftly into an inner depth of which I had not guessed the extent. I wondered in a complacent, half-curious kind of way as to what exactly would be the end, how things would be visualized when I passed finally from the body, and such things as I pictured, I pictured, of course, in terms of time and space. I--I thought my essential self, whatever that was, would at a certain moment pass a certain line and emerge on the other side; and the things would be rather as they had been on earth, thinner ... spiritual. I should see faces, perhaps; forms, places, ... all in a kind of delicate light.... What really happened was a complete surprise.”

Mr. Bosanquet paused, and in a meditative kind of way winked several times at the fire. He showed no emotion. He seemed to me merely to be recalling the best phrases to use.

“Well,” he said, “I have told this story before, and each time before telling it I have thought that I had got the point and could really describe what happened, and each time I have been disappointed.... Of course it must be so. There are simply no words or illustrations. I must do the best I can.

“Well, this process went on, and after a while I perceived plainly that my senses were fading. I believe I opened my eyes; so I was told afterwards--opened them wide; but, at any rate, I saw nothing this time except blurred lines and colors, rather like the reverse side of a carpet. They were rather bewildering; but they soon went, leaving nothing but a streaked grayness that darkened rapidly.

“I could no longer move my hands, or, in fact, recall to myself by feeling any material thing at all. I seemed to have lost relations with my body. Neither could I move my lips or tongue; taste had gone. I don’t think I had ever understood before how taste depends on the will and the movement of the tongue--much more so than any of the other senses, which are, more or less, passive.

“And then quite suddenly I perceived that hearing had ceased also. There had been no drumming in my ears, as I had half expected; I think there had been at some time previously a clear singing of one high note, which had rather bothered me; and I suppose that it was then that hearing had gone, but I did not notice it till I thought about it.

“And then there was one more thing more strange than all.... I began to perceive that my will was not myself.

“Most of us are accustomed to think that it is. It is so closely united with that which is the very self that we usually identify them. Sometimes we are even more foolish, and identify our emotions with ourselves, and think that our moods are our character. The fact is, of course, that the intellect is the most superficial of our faculties; there are simply scores of things that we cannot understand in the least, but of which for all that we are as certain as of our own existence. Next to that comes the emotion: it is certainly nearer to us than intellect, though not much; and thirdly comes the will.

“Now the will is quite close to us; it is that through which we consciously act after having heard the reasons for or against action alleged by the other faculties. But the will is, after all, a faculty of self--not self itself.

“I began to see this from the way it was laboring, like an exhausted engine; it still throbbed and moved; it turned this way and that, directing the all but dead faculties outside to move in this or that direction--to think or to perceive. But I began to see clearly now that the real self was something altogether apart, existing simply in another mode. There, that is the point--_in another mode_....

“Now, in this matter I feel hopeless. I simply cannot express what I knew, and know, to be the central fact of our existence. I can say no more than that. Self, that which lies far behind everything else, exists in as different a mode from all else, as--as the inner meaning of a phrase of music is apart from the existence of a dog walking up the street. There is simply no common term which can be applied to them both.

“Well, I perceived my will to be laboring, very slowly and clumsily, and I perceived that it would not be able to move much longer. (You must understand that this ‘perceiving’ as I call it was not the act of my intellect; it was simply a deep intuitive knowledge dwelling in that which I call Self.)

“Then I suddenly became aware that it was important for my will to fall in the right direction; I understood that this would make--well, the whole difference to me.... I knew that this would be my last conscious act....

“You ask me how I knew what was the right direction. Well, I must go slowly here....”

He paused for a moment, then he went on very slowly, picking his words.

“I began, I think I may say, to be clearly and vividly conscious of two _centres_; there was Self, and there was Another. This Other was at present completely hidden from me; I was only aware of it as one may be aware of the presence of a huge personality behind an impenetrable curtain. But I perceived that this Other was the only important thing....

“Well, my will was reeling; there was no discomfort, no fear, or pain, or anxiety, and I--whatever that is--watched it as a man may watch a top in its last swift twistings on its side. I had still some control over it; I knew that it was my will; it still was linked to me in a way.... Then I put out my energy (remember, there was no conscious perception of anything; nothing but a perfectly blind instinct) and tried to wrench that rolling thing round to a position of rest--ah! how shall I put it?--a position of rest pointing toward this other centre.

“And as I made that effort I lost touch with it. I have no idea whether I succeeded, and at the same instant, if I may call it so, something happened.”

Mr. Bosanquet leaned back and sighed.

“Every word is wrong,” he said; “you understand that, do you not?”

I nodded two or three times. I kept my eyes on his face. He glanced round at the other two. Then he went on, shifting his attitude a little.

“Well, this something--I suppose I could give half a dozen illustrations, but none of them would be adequate. Let me give you two or three.

“When a man falls in love suddenly his whole centre changes. Up to that point he has probably referred everything to himself--considered things from his own point. When he falls in love the whole thing is shifted; he becomes a part of the circumference--perhaps even the whole circumference; some one else becomes the centre. For example, things he hears and sees are referred in future instantly to this other person; he ceases to be acquisitive; his entire life, if it is really love, is pulled sideways; he does not desire to get, but to give. That is why it is the noblest thing in the world.

“Secondly, imagine that you had lived all your life in a certain house, and had got to know every detail of it perfectly; you had walked about in the garden, too, and looked through the railings, and thought you knew pretty fairly what the country was like. Then one morning, after you had got up and dressed, you went to your bedroom door, opened it, and went out, and that very instant found yourself not in the passage, but on the top of a high mountain with a strange country visible for miles all round, and no house or human being near you.

“Thirdly (and this perhaps is the best illustration after all), imagine that you were looking at a picture, and had become absorbed in it, and then without any warning at all the picture suddenly became a chord of music which you heard, and which you recognized to be identical with the picture--not merely analogous to it, but the actual picture translated, transubstantiated, and transaccidentated into sound.

“Now, those are the three illustrations I generally use in telling this story; there are others, but I think these are the best.

“Well, it was like that; but you must please to remember that these are only like charcoal sketches of something which is color rather than shape. But briefly, those are the nearest similitudes I can think of.

“First, although I remained the same, I became aware that I simply was not the centre of what I experienced. It was not I who primarily existed at all. There was Something--I call it Something, because the word Person simply bears no resemblance to the Personality of this Other Existence; at least, no more than a resemblance, because this Other Personality was as different from and as far above our own as the personality of a philosopher is different from the corresponding thing in a pebble. I became aware--at least, this was what I told myself afterwards--I became aware of real Existence for the first time in my experience. I myself then became merely a speck in a circumference, yet--and this is why I spoke of love--I also became aware that while I had not lost my individuality, yet this Other Being was the only thing that mattered at all, and, further--well, I may as well say it outright, that in the very depth of this Existence was Human Nature; yes, Human Nature. I knew it instantly. I never before had had the faintest idea of what the Incarnation really meant.

“Secondly, the whole of everything was different--as startlingly different as the change of my second illustration. I had expected to find a kind of continuation. There was, in one sense, no continuation at all; nothing in the least like what experience had led me to expect. It was completely abrupt.

“Thirdly, in another sense, what I found was not only the consequence of what had preceded, it was not simply the result, but it was identical with what had preceded. It was the picture becoming sound--the essence of my previous life was here in other terms. It simply was. The whole thing was complete. You may call this Judgment; well, that will do; but it was a Judgment in which there was no question of concurrence or protest. It was inevitably true.

“Let me take even one more illustration.

“Once I went with my brother into a glass-house in autumn. He smelled a certain flower, and then rather excitedly asked me to smell it. I shut my eyes and smelled it. Practically instantly the whole thing became sound and sight. I saw the terrace at home in summer, and heard the bees. I looked up.

“‘Well?’ he said.

“‘The terrace in summer,’ I said.

“‘Exactly.’

“Well, it was like that. There was no question about it.

“Now, I have taken some time to tell this; but I must make it clear that there was absolutely no time in the experience--no sense of progression. It was not merely that I was absorbed, but that time had no existence. This is how I knew it.

“Simultaneously with all this I heard one noise; and immediately time began--I began to consider. Presently I heard another noise, then another, like a great drum being beaten. Then the noises went, and there was absolute silence of which I was aware; and others came in--a rustling, a footstep, the sound of words. I was entirely absorbed in these. I heard the sound of water, a door opening, the ticking of a clock. I was conscious of no consideration about these things, and no sensation of any kind; it was as if my brain had become one ear which heard. This went on--well, I may say it was ten seconds or ten years. Time meant nothing to me. I only know even now that it existed because one thing followed another. I did not reflect at all.

“At last, after this had gone on, it was as if a new note had struck; another sense began to move, the sense of sight. I first became aware of darkness, then came a glimmer, with a sensation of flickering. Then touch. I became aware of a constraint somewhere in the universe; it was a long time before I knew that I myself was feeling it. I did not perceive sensation; I was it.

“Well, these waxed and waxed; then my will stirred; and I became aware that I could choose, that I could acquiesce or resent. Then emotion, and I found myself disliking certain sensations. Then I began to wonder and question again, and ask myself why and what----”

Mr. Bosanquet broke off abruptly.

“Well, I needn’t go on. To put it in a word, I was coming back to ordinary life. Half an hour after the doctor had said that I was dead, and about three minutes after the nurse had finished with me--just as she was looking at me, in fact, before going out of the room--I made a sound with my lips. The rest happened as you would expect; there was nothing interesting in that.

“But this is the point I want to make clear. Those noises I heard like a drum followed by the silence were without doubt the sounds my own body made in dying.

“It was at that point that I died; and the next sounds that I began to hear were the noises the nurse made in washing me and laying me out. There is no question about that. I asked about all the details minutely.

“But the thing that seemed to me so strange at first was the fact that I had died ‘before’ that, as we say. That complete change of the mode of existence undoubtedly marked death, and the particular instant of death must have been that at which I became aware of the change, and of the severance of my will from myself.

“But I understood it presently. The explanation, I think, must be this.

“There is always a certain space of time between an incident happening and our perception of it--infinitesimally small if we are observing it, but yet it is there. Well, when I made that final effort of will I died, but dying had begun before that. I had only regarded dying from the purely internal side; it took in my soul the form of severance from my will. At that same instant, since we must speak in terms of time, I was in the spiritual mode of existence, where there is simply no time but which includes all time and all one’s previous experience; and in practically the same ‘instant’ I was back again, and experiencing the physical phenomena of dying. The drum-note was either my throat or heart, I suppose; the silence that followed was the body’s perception of death worked out in terms of time.

“We may say, then, this, impossible as it sounds--that death had taken place at a given moment in time; that that inner real self behind the will which I have spoken of simultaneously experienced severance from the body, and was immediately in its own mode of existence, which, although reckoned as time, was an instant; was, in fact, simply eternity with its inevitable consequences. But after eternity had been experienced--since I suppose again I must say ‘after’--it ceased to be experienced; and all this was enacted in time. Then----”

Mr. Bosanquet sat up, smiling suddenly.

“It is useless; I am boring you.”

I roused myself to answer with an energy I had not expected.

“No; please----”

“Well, in one sentence: Then I died.”

* * * * *

He leaned back with an air of finality.

“But--but one question,” I protested, “you spoke of Judgment. Was the result happiness or unhappiness?”

He shook his head, smiling.

X

_Father Macclesfield’s Tale_

Monsignor Maxwell announced next day at dinner that he had already arranged for the evening’s entertainment. A priest whose acquaintance he had made on the Palatine was leaving for England the next morning, and it was our only chance, therefore, of hearing his story. That he had a story had come to the Canon’s knowledge in the course of a conversation on the previous afternoon.

“He told me the outline of it,” he said; “I think it very remarkable. But I had a great deal of difficulty in persuading him to repeat it to the company this evening. However, he promised at last. I trust, gentlemen, you do not think I have presumed in begging him to do so.”

* * * * *

Father Macclesfield arrived at supper.

He was a little, unimposing, dry man, with a hooked nose and gray hair. He was rather silent at supper, but there was no trace of shyness in his manner as he took his seat upstairs, and without glancing round once began in an even and dispassionate voice:

“I once knew a Catholic girl that married an old Protestant three times her own age. I entreated her not to do so, but it was useless. And when the disillusionment came she used to write to me piteous letters, telling me that her husband had in reality no religion at all. He was a convinced infidel, and scouted even the idea of the soul’s immortality.

“After two years of married life the old man died. He was about sixty years old, but very hale and hearty till the end.

“Well, when he took to his bed the wife sent for me, and I had half a dozen interviews with him, but it was useless. He told me plainly that he wanted to believe--in fact, he said that the thought of annihilation was intolerable to him. If he had had a child he would not have hated death so much; if his flesh and blood in any manner survived him he could have fancied that he had a sort of vicarious life left; but as it was, there was no kith or kin of his alive, and he could not bear that.”

Father Macclesfield sniffed cynically and folded his hands.

“I may say that his deathbed was extremely unpleasant. He was a coarse old fellow, with plenty of strength in him, and he used to make remarks about the churchyard and--and, in fact, the worms, that used to send his poor child of a wife half fainting out of the room. He had lived an immoral life, too, I gathered.

“Just at the last it was--well, disgusting. He had no consideration. God knows why she married him! The agony was a very long one; he caught at the curtains round the bed, calling out, and all his words were about death and the dark. It seemed to me that he caught hold of the curtains as if to hold himself into this world. And at the very end he raised himself clean up in bed and stared horribly out of the window that was open just opposite.

“I must tell you that straight away beneath the window lay a long walk between sheets of dead leaves with laurels on either side and the branches meeting overhead, so that it was very dark there even in summer, and at the end of the walk away from the house was the churchyard gate.”

Father Macclesfield paused and blew his nose. Then he went on, still without looking at us.

“Well, the old man died, and he was carried along this laurel path and buried.

“His wife was in such a state that I simply dared not go away. She was frightened to death; and, indeed, the whole affair of her husband’s dying was horrible. But she would not leave the house. She had a fancy that it would be cruel to him. She used to go down twice a day to pray at the grave; but she never went along the laurel walk. She would go round by the garden and in at a lower gate and come back the same way, or by the upper garden.

“This went on for three or four days. The man had died on a Saturday and was buried on Monday; it was in July, and he had died about eight o’clock.

“I made up my mind to go on the Saturday after the funeral. My curate had managed alone very well for a few days, but I did not like to leave him for a second Sunday.

“Then on the Friday at lunch--her sister had come down, by the way, and was still in the house--on the Friday the widow said something about never daring to sleep in the room where the old man had died. I told her it was nonsense, and so on; but you must remember she was in a dreadful state of nerves, and she persisted. So I said I would sleep in the room myself. I had no patience with such ideas then.

“Of course she said all sorts of things, but I had my way and my things were moved in on Friday evening.

“I went to my new room about a quarter before eight to put on my cassock for dinner. The room was very much as it had been--rather dark because of the trees at the end of the walk outside. There was the four-poster there with the damask curtains, the table and chairs, the cupboard where his clothes were kept, and so on.

“When I went to put my cassock on I went to the window to look out. To the right and left were the gardens, with the sunlight just off them, but still very bright and gay with the geraniums, and exactly opposite was the laurel walk, like a long, green shady tunnel, dividing the upper and lower lawns.

“I could see straight down it to the churchyard gate, which was about a hundred yards away, I suppose. There were limes overhead and laurels, as I said, on each side.

“Well, I saw some one coming up the walk, but it seemed to me at first that he was drunk. He staggered several times as I watched--I suppose he would be fifty yards away--and once I saw him catch hold of one of the trees and cling to it as if he were afraid of falling. Then he left it and came on again slowly, going from side to side, with his hands out. He seemed desperately keen to get to the house.

“I could see his dress, and it astonished me that a man dressed so should be drunk, for he was quite plainly a gentleman. He wore a white top hat and a gray cutaway coat and gray trousers, and I could make out his white spats.

“Then it struck me he might be ill, and I looked harder than ever, wondering whether I ought to go down.

“When he was about twenty yards away he lifted his face, and it struck me as very odd, but it seemed to me he was extraordinarily like the old man we had buried on Monday; but it was darkish where he was, and the next moment he dropped his face, threw up his hands, and fell flat on his back.

“Well, of course I was startled at that, and I leaned out of the window and called out something. He was moving his hands, I could see, as if he were in convulsions, and I could hear the dry leaves rustling.

“Well, then I turned and ran out and downstairs.”

Father Macclesfield stopped a moment.

“Gentlemen,” he said abruptly, “when I got there there was not a sign of the old man. I could see that the leaves had been disturbed, but that was all.”

There was an odd silence in the room as he paused, but before any of us had time to speak he went on.

“Of course, I did not say a word of what I had seen. We dined as usual. I smoked for an hour or so by myself after prayers and then I went up to bed. I cannot say I was perfectly comfortable, for I was not, but neither was I frightened.

“When I got to my room I lit all my candles and then went to a big cupboard I had noticed and pulled out some of the drawers. In the bottom of the third drawer I found a gray cutaway coat and gray trousers; I found several pairs of white spats in the top drawer and a white hat on the shelf above. That is the first incident.”

“Did you sleep there, Father?” said a voice softly.

“I did,” said the priest; “there was no reason why I should not. I did not fall asleep for two or three hours, but I was not disturbed in any way and came to breakfast as usual.

“Well, I thought about it all a bit, and finally I sent a wire to my curate telling him I was detained. I did not like to leave the house just then.”

Father Macclesfield settled himself again in his chair and went on in the same dry, uninterested voice.

“On Sunday we drove over to the Catholic church, six miles off, and I said mass. Nothing more happened till the Monday evening.

“That evening I went to the window again about a quarter before eight, as I had done both on the Saturday and Sunday. Everything was perfectly quiet till I heard the churchyard gate unlatch and I saw a man come through.

“But I saw almost at once that it was not the same man I had seen before; it looked to me like a keeper, for he had a gun across his arm; then I saw him hold the gate open an instant, and a dog came through and began to trot up the path toward the house with his master following.

“When the dog was about fifty yards away he stopped dead and pointed.

“I saw the keeper throw his gun forward and come up softly, and as he came the dog began to slink backward. I watched very closely, clean forgetting why I was there, and the next instant something--it was too shadowy under the trees to see exactly what it was--but something about the size of a hare burst out of the laurels and made straight up the path, dodging from side to side, but coming like the wind.

“The beast could not have been more than twenty yards from me when the keeper fired, and the creature went over and over in the dry leaves and lay struggling and screaming. It was horrible! But what astonished me was that the dog did not come up. I heard the keeper snap out something, and then I saw the dog making off down the avenue in the direction of the churchyard as hard as he could go.

“The keeper was running now toward me, but the screaming of the hare, or of whatever it was, had stopped, and I was astonished to see the man come right up to where the beast was struggling and kicking and then stop as if he were puzzled.

“I leaned out of the window and called to him.

“‘Right in front of you, man,’ I said; ‘for God’s sake kill the brute.’

“He looked up at me and then down again.

“‘Where is it, sir?’ he said; ‘I can’t see it anywhere.’

“And there lay the beast clear before him all the while not a yard away, still kicking.

“Well, I went out of the room and downstairs and out to the avenue.

“The man was standing there still, looking terribly puzzled, but the hare was gone. There was not a sign of it. Only the leaves were disturbed, and the wet earth showed beneath.

“The keeper said that it had been a great hare; he could have sworn to it, and that he had orders to kill all hares and rabbits in the garden enclosure. Then he looked rather odd.

“‘Did you see it plainly, sir?’ he asked.

“I told him not very plainly; but I thought it a hare, too.

“‘Yes, sir,’ he said; ‘it was a hare, sure enough; but do you know, sir, I thought it to be a kind of silver-gray, with white feet. I never saw one like that before!’

“The odd thing was that not a dog would come near. His own dog was gone, but I fetched the yard dog, a retriever, out of his kennel in the kitchen yard, and if ever I saw a frightened dog it was this one. When we dragged him up at last, all whining and pulling back, he began to snap at us so fiercely that we let go, and he went back like the wind to his kennel. It was the same with the terrier.

“Well, the bell had gone, and I had to go in and explain why I was late; but I didn’t say anything about the color of the hare. That was the second incident.”

Father Macclesfield stopped again, smiling reminiscently to himself. I was very much impressed by his quiet air and composure. I think it helped his story a good deal.

Again, before we had time to comment or question, he went on.

“The third incident was so slight that I should not have mentioned it, or thought anything of it, if it had not been for the others; but it seemed to me there was a kind of diminishing gradation of energy which explained. Well, now you shall hear.

“On the other nights of that week I was at my window again, but nothing happened till the Friday. I had arranged to go for certain next day; the widow was much better and more reasonable, and even talked of going abroad herself in the following week.

“On that Friday evening I dressed a little earlier and went down to the avenue this time, instead of staying at my window, at about twenty minutes to eight.

“It was rather a heavy, depressing evening, without a breath of wind, and it was darker than it had been for some days.

“I walked slowly down the avenue to the gate and back again; and I suppose it was fancy, but I felt more uncomfortable than I had felt at all up to then. I was rather relieved to see the widow come out of the house and stand looking down the avenue. I came out myself then and went toward her. She started rather when she saw me and then smiled.

“‘I thought it was some one else,’ she said. ‘Father, I have made up my mind to go. I shall go to town to-morrow, and start on Monday. My sister will come with me.’

“I congratulated her, and then we turned and began to walk back to the lime avenue. She stopped at the entrance, and seemed unwilling to come any further.

“‘Come down to the end,’ I said, ‘and back again. There will be time before dinner.’

“She said nothing, but came with me, and we went straight down to the gate and then turned to come back.

“I don’t think either of us spoke a word; I was very uncomfortable indeed by now, and yet I had to go on.

“We were half way back, I suppose, when I heard a sound like a gate rattling; and I whisked round in an instant, expecting to see some one at the gate. But there was no one.

“Then there came a rustling overhead in the leaves; it had been dead still before. Then, I don’t know why, but I took my friend suddenly by the arm and drew her to one side out of the path, so that we stood on the right hand, not a foot from the laurels.

“She said nothing, and I said nothing; but I think we were both looking this way and that, as if we expected to see something.

“The breeze died, and then sprang up again, but it was only a breath. I could hear the living leaves rustling overhead, and the dead leaves underfoot, and it was blowing gently from the churchyard.

“Then I saw a thing that one often sees; but I could not take my eyes off it, nor could she. It was a little column of leaves, twisting and turning and dropping and picking up again in the wind, coming slowly up the path. It was a capricious sort of draught, for the little scurry of leaves went this way and that, to and fro across the path. It came up to us, and I could feel the breeze on my hands and face. One leaf struck me softly on the cheek, and I can only say that I shuddered as if it had been a toad. Then it passed on.

“You understand, gentlemen, it was pretty dark; but it seemed to me that the breeze died and the column of leaves--it was no more than a little twist of them--sank down at the end of the avenue.

“We stood there perfectly still for a moment or two, and when I turned she was staring straight at me, but neither of us said one word.

“We did not go up the avenue to the house. We pushed our way through the laurels and came back by the upper garden.

“Nothing else happened; and the next morning we all went off by the eleven o’clock train.

“That is all, gentlemen.”

XI

_Father Stein’s Tale_

Old Father Stein was a figure that greatly fascinated me during my first weeks in Rome, after I had got over the slight impatience that his personality roused in me. He was slow of speech and thought and movement, and had that distressing grip of the obvious that is characteristic of the German mind. I soon rejoiced to look at his heavy face, generally unshaven, his deep twinkling eyes, and the ponderous body that had such an air of eternal immovability, and to watch his mind, as through a glass case, laboring like an engine over a fact that he had begun to assimilate. He took a kind of paternal interest in me, too, and would thrust his thick hand under my arm as he stood by me, or clap me heavily on the shoulder as we met. But he was excellently educated, had seen much of the world, although always through a haze of the Fatherland that accompanied him everywhere, and had acquired an exceptional knowledge of English during his labors in a London mission. He used his large vocabulary with a good deal of skill.

I was pleased then when Monsignor announced on the following evening that Father Stein was prepared to contribute a story. But the German, knowing that he was master of the situation, would utter nothing at first but hoarse ejaculations at the thought of his reminiscences, and it was not until we had been seated for nearly half an hour before the fire that he consented to begin.

* * * * *

“It is of a dream,” he said; “no more than that; and yet dreams, too, are under the hand of the good God, so I hold. Some, I know, are just folly, and tell us nothing but the confusion of our own nature when the controlling will is withdrawn; but some, I hold, are the whispers of God, and tell us of what we are too dull to hear in our waking life. You do not believe me? Very well; then listen.

“I knew a man in Germany, thirty years ago, who had lived many years away from God. He had been a Catholic, and was well educated in religion till he grew to be a lad. Then he fell into sin, and dared not confess it; and he lied, and made bad confessions, and approached the altar so. He once went to a strange priest to tell his sin, and dared not when the time came; and so added sin to sin, and lost his faith. It is ever so. We know it well. The soul dare not go on in that state, believing in God, and so by an inner act of the will renounces Him. It is not true, it is not true, she cries; and at last the voice of faith is silent and her eyes blind.”

The priest stopped and looked round him, and the old Rector nodded once or twice and murmured assent.

“For twenty years he had lived so, without God, and he was not unhappy; for the powers of his soul died one by one, and he could no longer feel. Once or twice they struggled, in their death agony, and he stamped on them again. Once, when his mother died, he nearly lived again; and his soul cried once more within him, and stirred herself; but he would not hear her; it is useless, he said to her; there is no hope for you; lie still; there is nothing for you; you are dreaming; there is no life such as you think; and he trampled her again, and she lay still.”

We were all very quiet now. I certainly had not suspected such passion in this old priest; he had seemed to me slow and dull and not capable of any sort of delicate thought or phrase, far less of tragedy; but somehow now his great face was lighted up, his eyebrows twitched as he talked, and it seemed as if we were hearing of a murder that this man had seen for himself. Monsignor sat perfectly motionless, staring intently into the fire, and Father Brent was watching the German sideways; Father Stein took a deliberate pinch of snuff, snapped his box, and put it away, and went on.

“This man had lived on the sea coast as a child, but was now in business in a town on the Rhine, and had never visited his old home since he left it with his mother on his father’s death. He was now about thirty-five years of age, when God was gracious to him. He was living in a cousin’s house, with whom he was partner.

“One night he dreamed he was a child, and walking with one whom he knew was his sister who had died before he was born, but he could not see her face. They were on a white, dusty road, and it was the noon of a hot summer day. There was nothing to be seen round him but great slopes of a dusty country with dry grass, and the burning sky overhead, and the sun. He was tired, and his feet ached, and he was crying as he walked, but he dared not cry loud for fear that his sister would turn and look at him, and he knew she was a--a _revenant_, and did not wish to see her eyes. There was no wind and no birds and no clouds; only the grasshoppers sawed in the dry grass, and the blood drummed in his ears until he thought he would go mad with the noise. And so they walked, the boy behind his sister, up a long hill. It seemed to him that they had been walking so for hours, for a lifetime, and that there would be no end to it. His feet sank to the ankles in dust, the sun beat on to his brain from above, the white road glared from below, and the tears ran down his cheeks.

“Then there was a breath of salt wind in his face, and his sister began to go faster, noiselessly; and he tried, too, to go faster, but could not; his heart beat like a hammer in his throat, and his feet lagged more and more, and little by little his sister was far in front, and he dared not cry out to her not to leave him for fear she should turn and look at him; and at last he was walking alone, and he dared not lie down or rest.

“The road passed up a slope, and when he reached the top of it at last he saw her again, far away, a little figure that turned to him and waved its hand, and behind her was the blue sea, very faint and in a mist of heat, and then he knew that the end of the bitter journey was very near.

“As he passed up the last slope the sea-line rose higher against the sky, but the line was only as the fine mark of a pencil where sea and sky met, and a dazzling white bird or two passed across it and then dropped below the cliff. By the time he came near his sister the dusty road had died away into the grass, and he was walking over the fresh turf that felt cool to his hot feet. He threw himself down on the edge of it by his sister, where she was lying with her head on her hands looking out at the sea where it spread itself out, a thousand feet below; and still he had not seen her face.

“At the foot of the cliff was a little white beach, and the rocks ran down into deep water on every side of it, and threw a purple shadow across the sand; there were birds here, too, floating out from the cliff and turning and returning; and the sea beneath them was a clear blue, like a Cardinal’s ring that I saw once, and the breeze blew up from the water and made him happy again.”

Father Stein stopped again, with something of a sob in his old heavy voice, and then he turned to us.

“You know such dreams,” he said; “I cannot tell it as--as he told me; but he said it was like the bliss of the redeemed to look down on the sea and feel the breeze in his hair, and taste its saltness.