Chapter IV: Part 4

“It is no wonder,” said the priest, “if their conclusions appear to differ, to shallow minds who think that the last words are being said on both sides; because their standpoints are so different. The scientific view is that you are not justified in committing yourself one inch ahead of your intellectual evidence: the religious view is that in order to find out anything worth knowing your faith must always be a little in advance of your evidence; you must advance _en échelon_. There is the principle of our Lord’s promises. ‘Act as if it were true, and light will be given.’ The scientist on the other hand says, ‘Do not presume to commit yourself until light is given.’ The difference between the methods lies, of course, in the fact that Religion admits the heart and the whole man to the witness-box, while Science only admits the head––scarcely even the senses. Yet surely the evidence of experience is on the side of Religion. Every really great achievement is inspired by motives of the heart, and not of the head; by feeling and passion, not by a calculation of probabilities. And so are the mysteries of God unveiled by those who carry them first by assault; ‘The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence; and the violent take it by force.’

“For example,” he continued after a moment, “the scientific view of haunted houses is that there is no evidence for them beyond that which may be accounted for by telepathy, a kind of thought-reading. Yet if you can penetrate that veneer of scientific thought that is so common now, you find that by far the larger part of mankind still believes in them. Practically not one of us really accepts the scientific view as an adequate one.”

“Have you ever had an experience of that kind yourself?” I asked.

“Well,” said the priest, smiling, “you are sure you will not laugh at it? There is nothing commoner than to think such things a subject for humour; and that I cannot bear. Each such story is sacred to one person at the very least, and therefore should be to all reverent people.”

I assured him that I would not treat his story with disrespect.

“Well,” he answered, “I do not think you will, and I will tell you. It only happened a very few years ago. This was how it began:

“A friend of mine was, and is still, in charge of a church in Kent, which I will not name; but it is within twenty miles of Canterbury. The district fell into Catholic hands a good many years ago. I received a telegram, in this house, a day or two before Christmas, from my friend, saying that he had been suddenly seized with a very bad attack of influenza, which was devastating Kent at that time; and asking me to come down, if possible at once, and take his place over Christmas. I had only lately given up active work, owing to growing infirmity, but it was impossible to resist this appeal; so Parker packed my things and we went together by the next train.

“I found my friend really ill, and quite incapable of doing anything; so I assured him that I could manage perfectly, and that he need not be anxious.

“On the next day, a Wednesday, and Christmas Eve, I went down to the little church to hear confessions. It was a beautiful old church, though tiny, and full of interesting things: the old altar had been set up again; there was a rood-loft with a staircase leading on to it; and an awmbry on the north of the sanctuary had been fitted up as a receptacle for the Most Holy Sacrament, instead of the old hanging pyx. One of the most interesting discoveries made in the church was that of the old confessional. In the lower half of the rood-screen, on the south side, a square hole had been found, filled up with an insertion of oak; but an antiquarian of the Alcuin Club, whom my friend had asked to examine the church, declared that this without doubt was the place where in the pre-Reformation times confessions were heard. So it had been restored, and put to its ancient use; and now on this Christmas Eve I sat within the chancel in the dim fragrant light, while penitents came and knelt outside the screen on the single step, and made their confessions through the old opening.

“I know this is a great platitude, but I never can look at a piece of old furniture without a curious thrill at a thing that has been so much saturated with human emotion; but, above all that I have ever seen, I think that this old confessional moved me. Through that little opening had come so many thousands of sins, great and little, weighted with sorrow; and back again, in Divine exchange for those burdens, had returned the balm of the Saviour’s blood. ‘Behold! a door opened in heaven,’ through which that strange commerce of sin and grace may be carried on––grace pressed down and running over, given into the bosom in exchange for sin! _O bonum commercium!_”

The priest was silent for a moment, his eyes glowing. Then he went on.

“Well, Christmas Day and the three following festivals passed away very happily. On the Sunday night after service, as I came out of the vestry, I saw a child waiting. She told me, when I asked her if she wanted me, that her father and others of her family wished to make their confessions on the following evening about six o’clock. They had had influenza in the house, and had not been able to come out before; but the father was going to work next day, as he was so much better, and would come, if it pleased me, and some of his children to make their confessions in the evening and their communions the following morning.

“Monday dawned, and I offered the Holy Sacrifice as usual, and spent the morning chiefly with my friend, who was now able to sit up and talk a good deal, though he was not yet allowed to leave his bed.

“In the afternoon I went for a walk.

“All the morning there had rested a depression on my soul such as I have not often felt; it was of a peculiar quality. Every soul that tries, however poorly, to serve God, knows by experience those heavinesses by which our Lord tests and confirms His own: but it was not like that. An element of terror mingled with it, as of impending evil.

“As I started for my walk along the high road this depression deepened. There seemed no physical reason for it that I could perceive. I was well myself, and the weather was fair; yet air and exercise did not affect it. I turned at last, about half-past three o’clock, at a milestone that marked sixteen miles to Canterbury.

“I rested there for a moment, looking to the south-east, and saw that far on the horizon heavy clouds were gathering; and then I started homewards. As I went I heard a far-away boom, as of distant guns, and I thought at first that there was some sea-fort to the south where artillery practice was being held; but presently I noticed that it was too irregular and prolonged for the report of a gun; and then it was with a sense of relief that I came to the conclusion it was a far-away thunderstorm, for I felt that the state of the atmosphere might explain away this depression that so troubled me. The thunder seemed to come nearer, pealed more loudly three or four times and ceased.

“But I felt no relief. When I reached home a little after four Parker brought me in some tea, and I fell asleep afterwards in a chair before the fire. I was wakened after a troubled and unhappy dream by Parker bringing in my coat and telling me it was time to keep my appointment at the church. I could not remember what my dream was, but it was sinister and suggestive of evil, and, with the shreds of it still clinging to me, I looked at Parker with something of fear as he stood silently by my chair holding the coat.

“The church stood only a few steps away, for the garden and churchyard adjoined one another. As I went down carrying the lantern that Parker had lighted for me, I remember hearing far away to the south, beyond the village, the beat of a horse’s hoofs. The horse seemed to be in a gallop, but presently the noise died away behind a ridge.

“When I entered the church I found that the sacristan had lighted a candle or two as I had asked him, and I could just make out the kneeling figures of three or four people in the north aisle.

“When I was ready I took my seat in the chair set beyond the screen, at the place I have described; and then, one by one, the labourer and his children came up and made their confessions. I remember feeling again, as on Christmas Eve, the strange charm of this old place of penitence, so redolent of God and man, each in his tenderest character of Saviour and penitent; with the red light burning like a luminous flower in the dark before me, to remind me how God was indeed tabernacling with men, and was their God.

“Now I do not know how long I had been there, when again I heard the beat of a horse’s hoofs, but this time in the village just below the churchyard; then again there fell a sudden silence. Then presently a gust of wind flung the door wide, and the candles began to gutter and flare in the draught. One of the girls went and closed the door.

“Presently the boy who was kneeling by me at that time finished his confession, received absolution and went down the church, and I waited for the next, not knowing how many there were.

“After waiting a minute or two I turned in my seat, and was about to get up, thinking there was no one else, when a voice whispered sharply through the hole a single sentence. I could not catch the words, but I supposed they were the usual formula for asking a blessing, so I gave the blessing and waited, a little astonished at not having heard the penitent come up.

“Then the voice began again.”

The priest stopped a moment and looked round, and I could see that he was trembling a little.

“Would you rather not go on?” I said. “I think it disturbs you to tell me.”

“No, no,” he said; “it is all right, but it was very dreadful––very dreadful.”

“Well, the voice began again in a loud quick whisper, but the odd thing was that I could hardly understand a word; there were just phrases here and there, like the name of God and of our Lady, that I could catch. Then there were a few old French words that I knew; ‘_le roy_’ came over and over again. Just at first I thought it must be some extreme form of dialect unknown to me; then I thought it must be a very old man who was deaf, because when I tried, after a few sentences, to explain that I could not understand, the penitent paid no attention, but whispered on quickly without a pause. Presently I could perceive that he was in a terrible state of mind; the voice broke and sobbed, and then almost cried out, but still in this loud whisper; then on the other side of the screen I could hear fingers working and moving uneasily, as if entreating admittance at some barred door. Then at last there was silence for a moment, and then plainly some closing formula was repeated, which gradually grew lower and ceased. Then, as I rose, meaning to come round and explain that I had not been able to hear, a loud moan or two came from the penitent. I stood up quickly and looked through the upper part of the screen, and there was no one there.

“I can give you no idea of what a shock that was to me. I stood there glaring, I suppose, through the screen down at the empty step for a moment or two, and perhaps I said something aloud, for I heard a voice from the end of the church.

“‘Did you call, sir?’” And there stood the sacristan, with his keys and lantern, ready to lock up.

“I still stood without answering for a moment, and then I spoke; my voice sounded oddly in my ears.

“‘Is there any one else, Williams? Are they all gone?’ or something like that.

“Williams lifted his lantern and looked round the dusky church.

“‘No, sir; there is no one.’

“I crossed the chancel to go to the vestry, but as I was half-way, suddenly again in the quiet village there broke out the desperate gallop of a horse.

“‘There! there!’ I cried, ‘do you hear that?’

“Williams came up the church towards me.

“‘Are you ill, sir?’ he said. ‘Shall I fetch your servant?’

“I made an effort and told him it was nothing; but he insisted on seeing me home: I did not like to ask him whether he had heard the gallop of the horse; for, after all, I thought, perhaps there was no connection between that and the voice that whispered.

“I felt very much shaken and disturbed; and after dinner, which I took alone of course, I thought I would go to bed very soon. On my way up, however, I looked into my friend’s room for a few minutes. He seemed very bright and eager to talk, and I stayed very much longer than I had intended. I said nothing of what had happened in the church; but listened to him while he talked about the village and the neighbourhood. Finally, as I was on the point of bidding him good-night, he said something like this:

“‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, but I’ve been thinking while you’ve been in church of an old story that is told by antiquarians about this place. They say that one of St. Thomas à Becket’s murderers came here on the very evening of the murder. It is his day, to-day, you know, and that is what put me in mind of it, I suppose.”

“While my friend said this, my old heart began to beat furiously; but, with a strong effort of self-control, I told him I should like to hear the story.

“‘Oh! there’s nothing much to tell,’ said my friend; ‘and they don’t know who it’s supposed to have been; but it is said to have been either one of the four knights, or one of the men-at-arms.’

“‘But how did he come here?’ I asked, ‘and what for?’

“‘Oh! he’s supposed to have been in terror for his soul, and that he rushed here to get absolution, which, of course, was impossible.’

“‘But tell me,’ I said. ‘Did he come here alone, or how?’

“‘Well, you know, after the murder they ransacked the Archbishop’s house and stables: and it is said that this man got one of the fastest horses and rode like a madman, not knowing where he was going; and that he dashed into the village, and into the church where the priest was: and then afterwards, mounted again and rode off. The priest, too, is buried in the chancel, somewhere, I believe. You see it’s a very vague and improbable story. At the Gatehouse at Malling, too, you know, they say that one of the knights slept there the night after the murder.’

“I said nothing more; but I suppose I looked strange, because my friend began to look at me with some anxiety, and then ordered me off to bed: so I took my candle and went.

“Now,” said the priest, turning to me, “that is the story. I need not say that I have thought about it a great deal ever since: and there are only two theories which appear to me credible, and two others, which would no doubt be suggested, which appear to me incredible.

“First, you may say that I was obviously unwell: my previous depression and dreaming showed that, and therefore that I dreamt the whole thing. If you wish to think that––well, you must think it.

“Secondly, you may say, with the Psychical Research Society, that the whole thing was transmitted from my friend’s brain to mine; that his was in an energetic, and mine in a passive state, or something of the kind.

“These two theories would be called ‘scientific,’ which term means that they are not a hair’s-breadth in advance of the facts with which the intellect, a poor instrument at the best, is capable of dealing. And these two ‘scientific’ theories create in their turn a new brood of insoluble difficulties.

“Or you may take your stand upon the spiritual world, and use the faculties which God has given you for dealing with it, and then you will no longer be helplessly puzzled, and your intellect will no longer overstrain itself at a task for which it was never made. And you may say, I think, that you prefer one of two theories.

“First, that human emotion has a power of influencing or saturating inanimate nature. Of course this is only the old familiar sacramental principle of all creation. The expressions of your face, for instance, caused by the shifting of the chemical particles of which it is composed, vary with your varying emotions. Thus we might say that the violent passions of hatred, anger, terror, remorse, of this poor murderer, seven hundred years ago, combined to make a potent spiritual fluid that bit so deep into the very place where it was all poured out, that under certain circumstances it is reproduced. A phonograph, for example, is a very coarse parallel, in which the vibrations of sound translate themselves first into terms of wax, and then re-emerge again as vibrations when certain conditions are fulfilled.

“Or, secondly, you may be old-fashioned and simple, and say that by some law, vast and inexorable, beyond our perception, the personal spirit of the very man is chained to the place, and forced to expiate his sin again and again, year by year, by attempting to express his grief and to seek forgiveness, without the possibility of receiving it. Of course we do not know who he was; whether one of the knights who afterwards did receive absolution, which possibly was not ratified by God; or one of the men-at-arms who assisted, and who, as an anonymous chronicle says, ‘_sine confessione et viatico subito rapti sunt_.’

“There is nothing materialistic, I think, in believing that spiritual beings may be bound to express themselves within limits of time and space; and that inanimate nature, as well as animate, may be the vehicles of the unseen. Arguments against such possibilities have surely, once for all, been silenced, for Christians at any rate, by the Incarnation and the Sacramental system, of which the whole principle is that the Infinite and Eternal did once, and does still, express Itself under forms of inanimate nature, in terms of time and space.

“With regard to another point, perhaps I need not remind you that a thunderstorm broke over Canterbury on the day and hour of the actual murder of the Archbishop.”

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The Sorrows of the World

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“... quell’ ombre orando, andavan sotto il pondo
simile a quel che talvolta si sogna,
disparmente angosciate tutte a tondo
e lasse su per la prima cornice,
purgando le caligine del mondo.”
_Il Purgatorio._

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The Sorrows of the World

AS the days went on I became more reassured about my friend. Parker told me there was an improvement since I had come: and the shadow in his eyes seemed a little lightened. On Christmas Eve the Rector called, and they were shut up together in the chapel for an hour after tea; and the old man, I suppose, made his confession. He seemed brighter than ever that evening, and told me story after story after dinner, old tales of when he was a child.

On Christmas morning he celebrated the Holy Mysteries as usual in the chapel, and I received the Communion at his hands. We went to church in the brougham, and that was the last time the old priest was seen in public. There was intense curiosity about him in the village, as well as the greatest reverence and love for him, and I noticed a ripple of interest along the benches as we passed up to the Hall pew.

On the evening of Christmas Day he had provided a Christmas tree in the servants’ hall; but we only looked in for a moment when the shouting was at its loudest, and he nodded at a child or two who caught sight of him, and I saw his whole face kindle with joy and tenderness, and then we went back to the fire in the sitting-room.

The morning of St. John’s Day broke dark and heavy. We had to have candles at breakfast, and the old man seemed curiously changed and depressed again. He hardly spoke at all, and looked at me almost resentfully, like an overwrought child, when I failed to blow out the spirit lamp at the first attempt.

All day long the gloom outside seemed to gather, the sun went down in a pale sky barred with indigo, and the wind began to rise.

The old man, after a word or two, went to his room soon after dinner, and I understood from Parker, who presently came in, that the master was exceedingly sorry for his discourtesy, but that he did not feel equal to conversation, and intended to go to bed early, and that he would be obliged if I could manage to amuse myself alone that evening. But I too went upstairs early, feeling a little uneasy.

On the top landing of the north end of the house there are three doors: the central one is the chapel door; that on the right, approached by two little steep steps of its own, was the priest’s room; that on the left opposite was my own room. As I went in, I noticed that a light shone from under the chapel door, and that his own door was wide open, showing the flickering light of the fire within. As I paused I saw Parker pass across the doorway, and called to him in a low voice.

“Yes, sir; he’s fairly well, I think,” he answered to my inquiry. “He is in the chapel just now, and is coming to bed directly. He told me just now, sir, too, to ask whether you would serve him to-morrow morning.”

“Certainly,” I said; “but are you sure he ought to get up? He has not been well all day.”

“Well, sir,” said Parker; “I will do my best to persuade him to stay in bed, and will let you know if I succeed, but I doubt whether the master will be persuaded.”

As I crossed outside the chapel door to go to my own room I heard a murmur from within, with a word or two which I cannot write down.

Before I was in bed I heard the chapel door open, and footsteps go up the little steps opposite, and the door close. Presently it opened again; and then a tap at my door.

“It’s only me, sir,” said Parker’s voice. “May I speak to you a moment?” and then he came in with a candle in his hand.

“I’m not easy about him, sir,” he said. “But he won’t let me sleep in his room, as I asked. I’ve come to ask you whether you will let me lie down on your sofa. I don’t like to leave him. My own room is at the other end of the house. Excuse me, sir, if I’ve asked what I shouldn’t. But I don’t like to sleep on the landing for fear he should look out and see me, and be displeased.”

Of course I assented, almost eagerly, for I felt a strange discomfort and loneliness myself.

Parker went noiselessly downstairs and got a rug or two and a pillow, and then, with many apologies, lay down on the sofa near the window. My bed stood at the other end of the long narrow room under the sloping side of the roof. I blew the candles out presently, and the room was in darkness.

I could not sleep at first. I was anxious for my friend, and I lay and listened for the slightest sound from the landing. But Parker’s face, as I had seen it as he had stood with the candle in his hand, reassured me that he too would be on the watch. The wind had half died down again. Only there came gusts from time to time that shook the leaded windows. Gradually I began to doze, then I suppose I dropped off to sleep, and I dreamed.

In my dream I knew that I was still in my room, lying on my bed, but the room seemed illuminated with a light whose source I could not imagine. The curtains, I thought, were no longer drawn over the windows, but looped back, and the light from my room fell distinctly upon the panes. I thought I was sitting up in bed watching for something at the window, something which would terrify me when it came. And then as I watched there came a gust of wind, and lashed, to judge by the sound, a big spray of ivy across the outside. Then again it came, and again, but the sound grew more distinct. I could see nothing at the window, but there came that ceaseless patter and tap, like a thousand fingers. Then a dead leaf or two was whirled up, stuck for a moment on the glass, and whirled away again. It seemed to me that the ivy-spray and the leaves were clamouring to be admitted into shelter from that wild wind outside. I grew terrified at their insistence, and tried in my dream to call to Parker, whom I fancied to be still in the room, and in the struggle awoke, and the room was dark. No; as I looked about me it was not quite dark. There lay across the floor an oblong patch of light from the door. I gradually realised that the door was open; there came a draught round the corner at the foot of my bed. I sat up and called gently to Parker. But there was no answer. I got out of bed noiselessly, and went across the floor to where I saw the dim outlines of the sofa. As I drew near I stumbled over a rug, and then felt the pillow, also on the floor. I put my hands almost instinctively down, and felt that the sofa was still warm, but Parker was gone. Then I looked out of the door. The landing was lit by an oil-lamp, and its light fell upon the priest’s door. It was almost closed, but I could hear a faint murmur of voices.

I put on my dressing-gown and slippers and went out. Almost simultaneously the door opposite opened a little wider, and Parker’s face looked out, white and scared. When he saw me, he came swiftly out and down the stairs, beckoning to me; but as we met, a loud high voice came from the priest’s room.

“Parker, Parker! tell him to come in––at once––at once. Don’t leave me.”

“Go in, sir: go in,” Parker said, in a loud whisper to me, pushing me towards the door. I went quickly up the two steep steps and entered, Parker close behind me, and I heard him close the door softly.

There was a tall screen on my left, and behind it was the bed, with the head in the corner of the room: a fire was burning near the bed. I came round the screen quickly, and saw the priest sitting up in bed. He wore a tippet over his shoulders and a small skull-cap on his head. His eyes were large and bright, and looked at me almost unintelligently. His hands were hidden by the bedclothes. There was a little round table by the head of the bed, on which stood two burning candles in silver candlesticks. I drew up a chair by the table and sat down.

“My old friend,” I said, “what is it? Cannot you sleep?”

He made no answer to me directly, but stared past me round the room, and then fixed his eyes at the foot of the bed.

“The sorrows of the world,” he said, “and the sorrows under the earth. They come to me now, because I have not understood them, nor wept for them.”

And then he drew out his old, thin, knotted hands, and clasped them outside the rug that lay on the outside of the bed. I laid my own hand upon them.

“You have had a greater gift than that,” I said. “You have known instead the joys of the world.”

He paid no attention to me, but stared mournfully before him, but he did not withdraw his hands.

There came a sudden gust of wind outside; and even in that corner away from the window the candle flames leant over to one side, and then the chimney behind me sighed suddenly.

The priest unclasped his hands, and my own hand fell suddenly on the coverlet. He stretched out his left hand to the window as it still shook, and pointed at it in silence, glaring over my head as he did so.

Almost instinctively I turned to the long low window and looked. But the curtains were drawn over it: they were just stirring and heaving in the draught, but there was nothing to be seen. I could hear the pines tossing and sighing like a troubled sea outside.

Then he broke out into a long wild talk, now in a whisper, and now breaking into something like a scream.

Parker came quickly round from the doorway, where he had been waiting out of sight, and stood behind me, anxious and scared. Sometimes I could not hear what the priest said: he muttered to himself: much of it I could not understand: and some of it I cannot bring myself to write down––so sacred was it––so revealing of his soul’s inner life hidden with Christ in God.

“The sorrows of the world,” he cried again; “they are crying at my window, at the window of a hard old man and a traitorous priest ... betrayed them with a kiss.... Ah! the Holy Innocents who have suffered! Innocents of man and bird and beast and flower; and I went my way or sat at home in the sunshine; and now they come crying to me to pray for them. How little I have prayed!” Then he broke into a torrent of tender prayer for all suffering things. It seemed to me as he prayed as if the wind and the pines were silent. Then he began again:

“Their pale faces look through the glass; no curtains can shut them out. Their thin fingers tap and entreat.... And I have closed my heart at that door and cannot open it to let them in.... There is the face of a dog who has suffered––his teeth are white, but his eyes are glazed and his tongue hangs out.... There is a rose with drenched petals––a rose whom I forgot. See how the wind has battered it.... The sorrows of the world!... There come the souls from under the earth, crying for one to release them and let them go––souls that all men have forgotten, and I, the chief of sinners.... I have lived too much in the sweetness of God and forgotten His sorrows.”

Then he turned to a crucifix of ebony and silver that hung on the wall at his side, and looked on it silently. And then again he broke into compassionate prayer to the Saviour of the world, entreating Him by His Agony and Bloody Sweat, by His Cross and Passion, to remember all suffering things. That prayer that I heard gave me a glimpse into mysteries of which I had not dreamed; mysteries of the unity of Christ and His members, a unity of pain. These great facts, which I thank God I know more of now, stood out in fiery lines against the dark sorrow that seemed to have filled the room from this old man’s heart.

Then suddenly he turned to me, and his eyes so searched my own that I looked down, while his words lashed me.

“You, my son,” he said, “what have you done to help our Lord and His children? Have you watched or slept? Couldst thou not watch with me one hour? What share have you borne in the Incarnation? Have you believed for those who could not believe, hoped for the despairing, loved and adored for the cold? And if you could not understand nor do this, have you at least welcomed pain that would have made you one with them? Have you even pitied them? Or have you hidden your face for fear you should grieve too much? But what am I that I should find fault?” Then he broke off again into self-reproach.

At this point Parker bent over me and whispered:

“He will die, sir, I think, unless you can get him to be quiet.”

The old man overheard, and turned almost fiercely.

“Quiet?” he cried, “when the world is so unquiet! Can I rest, do you think, with those at my window?” Then, with a loud cry, “Ah! they are in the room! They look at me from the air! I cannot bear it.” And he covered his face with his old thin hands, and shrank back against the wall.

I got up from my seat, and looked round as I did so. It seemed to my fancy as if there were some strange Presence filling the room. It seemed as I turned as if crowding faces swiftly withdrew themselves over and behind the screen. A picture on the wall overhead lifted and dropped again like a door as if to let something escape. The coverlet, which was a little disarranged by the old man’s movement, rippled gently as if some one who had been seated on the bed had risen. I heard Parker, too, behind me draw his breath quickly through his teeth. All this I noticed in a moment; the next I had bent over the bed towards the priest and put my hand on his shoulder. Either he or I was trembling, I felt as I touched him.

“My dear old friend,” I said, “cannot you lie down quietly a little? You cannot think how you are distressing us both.”

Then I added a word or two, presumptuously, I felt, in the presence of this old man, who knew so much about the Love of God and the Compassion of our Saviour.

Presently he withdrew his hands and looked at me.

“Yes, yes,” he said; “but you do not understand. I am a priest.”

I sat down again. I tried hard to control a great trembling that had seized me. Still he watched me. Then he said more quietly:

“Is it nearly morning?”

“It is not yet twelve o’clock, sir,” said Parker’s voice steadily behind me.

“Then I must watch and pray a little longer,” said the old man. “Joy cometh in the morning.”

Then quite quietly he turned and lifted the crucifix from its nail, kissed it and replaced it. Then he put his hands over his face again and remained still.

The wind outside seemed quieter. But whenever it sighed in the chimney or at the window the priest winced a little, as if a sudden pain had touched him.

He was supported by pillows behind his back and head, against which he leaned easily. After a few minutes of silence his hands dropped and clasped themselves on his lap. His eyes were closed, and he seemed breathing steadily. I hoped that he would fall asleep so. But as I turned to whisper to Parker, I suppose I must have made a slight noise, for when I looked at the servant he paid no attention to me, but was looking at his master. I turned back again, and saw the old man’s eyes gazing straight at me.

“Yes,” he said; “go and sleep; why are you here? Parker, why did you allow him to come?”

“I woke up and came myself,” I said. “Parker did not disturb me.”

“Well, go back to bed now. You will serve me in the morning?”

I tried to say something about his not being fit to get up, but he waved it aside.

“You cannot understand,” he said quietly. “That is my one hope and escape. Joy cometh in the morning. There are many souls here and elsewhere that are waiting for that joy, and I must not disappoint them. And I too,” he added softly, “I too look for that joy. Go now, and we will meet in the morning.” And he smiled at me so gently that I got up and went, feeling comforted.

After I had been in bed a little while, I heard the priest’s door open and close again, and then Parker tapped at my open door and came in.

“I have left him quiet, sir. I do not think he will sleep, but he would not let me stay.”

“Have you ever seen him like this before?” I asked.

“Never quite like this, sir,” he said; and as I looked at the old servant I saw that his eyes were bright with tears, and his lips twitching.

“Well,” I said, “we have both heard strange things to-night. Your master whom you love is in the hands of God.”

The old servant’s face broke into lines of sorrow; and then the tears ran down his face.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “I am not quite myself. Shall I put the candle out, sir?” Then he lay down on the sofa.

“One word more, Parker. You will wake me if you hear anything more. And anyhow you will call me at seven if I should be asleep.”

“Certainly, sir,” answered Parker’s voice from the darkness.

I slept and woke often that night. Each time I woke I went quietly to the door and looked across the landing and listened. Each time I was not so quiet but that Parker heard me and was by me as I looked, and each time there was a line of light under the priest’s door; and once or twice a murmur of one voice at least from the room.

Towards morning I fell into a sound sleep, and awoke to find Parker arranging my clothes and setting ready my bath. The rugs and the pillow were gone from the sofa, and there was no sign on the servant’s face that anything unusual had happened during the night.

“How is he?” I asked quickly. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes, sir,” said Parker; “he is dressing now, and will be ready at half-past seven. It is a little before seven now, sir.”

“But how is he?” I asked again.

“I scarcely know, sir,” answered Parker. “He does not seem ill, but he is very silent again this morning, sir.”

Then, after a pause, “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“There is nothing more, thank you,” I said, and he left the room.

I got up presently and dressed. The morning was still dark, and I dressed by candlelight. When I drew the curtains back the sky had just begun to glimmer in the reflected dawn from the other side of the house; but it was too dark to see to read except by artificial light.

I went out on to the landing, paused a moment, and heard a footstep in the priest’s room. Then I opened the door of the oratory and went in.

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In the Morning

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“At the end of woe suddenly our eyes shall be opened, and in
clearness of light our sight shall be full: which light is God, our
Maker and Holy Ghost, in Christ Jesus our Saviour.”

_Mother Julian._

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In the Morning

THE oratory is a little room, white-washed, crossed by oaken beams on the walls. The window is opposite the door; and the altar stands to the left. There is a bench or two on the right.

When I entered on this morning the tapers were lighted, the vestments laid out upon the altar, and all prepared. I went across and knelt by the window. Presently I heard the priest’s door open, and in a moment more he came in, followed by Parker, who closed the door behind him and came and knelt at the bench. I looked eagerly at the old man’s face; it was white and tired-looking, and the eyebrows seemed to droop more than ever, but it was a quiet face. It was only for an instant that I saw it, for he turned to the altar and began to vest: and then when he was ready he began.

It was strange to hear that voice, which had rung with such intensity of pain so few hours before, now subdued and controlled; and to watch the orderly movements of those hands that had twisted and gesticulated with such terrible appeal. I felt that Parker too was watching with a close and awful interest what we both half feared would be a shocking climax to the scenes of the night before, but which we half hoped too would recall and quiet that troubled spirit.

Dawn was now beginning to shine on the western sky. There was a tall holly tree that rose nearly to the level of the window. As I looked out for a moment my eye was caught by the outline of a bird, faintly seen, sitting among the upper branches.

Now I will only mention one incident that took place. I was in such a strange and disordered state of mind that I scarcely now can remember certainly anything but this. As the Priest’s Communion drew near there came a sudden soft blow against the window panes....

When the priest began to unvest, I left the chapel and went downstairs to await him in the breakfast room. But as he did not come, I went outside the house for a few minutes, and presently found myself below the chapel window. It seemed to me that I was in a dream––the very earth I trod on seemed unreal. I was unable to think connectedly. The scene in the chapel seemed to stand out vividly. It seemed to me as if in some sense it were a climax, but of what nature, whether triumphant or full of doom, I could not tell.

As I stood there, perplexed, downcast, in the growing glimmer of the day, my eyes fell upon a small rumpled heap at my feet, and looking closer I saw it was the body of a thrush; it was still limp and warm, and as I lifted it I remembered the sudden blow against the window panes. But as I still stood, utterly distracted, the chapel window was thrown open, and Parker’s face looked out as I gazed up. He beckoned to me furiously and withdrew, leaving the window swinging.

I laid the thrush under a bush at the corner of the house as I ran round, and came in quickly and up the stairs. Parker met me on the landing.

“He just reeled and fell, sir,” he said, “up the stairs into his room. I’ve laid him on the bed, and must get down to the stables to send for the doctor. Will you stay with him, sir, till I come back?” And without waiting for an answer he was gone.

That evening I was still sitting by my friend’s side. I had food brought up to my room during the day, but except for those short intervals was with him continually. The doctor had come and gone. All that he could tell us was that the old man had had a seizure of some kind, and he had looked grave when I told him of the events of the night before.

“His age is against him, too,” the doctor had said; “I cannot say what will happen.”

And then he had given directions, and had left, promising to return again, at any rate the next morning.

I had been trying to read with a shaded lamp, looking from time to time at the figure of the old man on the bed, as he lay white and quiet, with his eyes closed, as he had lain all day.

At about six o’clock, I had just glanced at my watch, when a slight movement made me turn to the bed again, and I could see in the dim light that his eyes were open and fixed upon me, but all the pain was gone out of them, and they were a child’s eyes again. I rose and went to his side, and sat down in the same chair that I had occupied the night before. Immediately I had sat down he put out his hand, and I took it and held it. His eyes smiled at me, and then he spoke, very slowly, with long pauses.

“Well,” he said, “you have been with me and have seen and heard, last night and this morning; but it is all ended, and the valley is lightening again at its eastern end where the sun rises. So it was not all dreams and fancies––those old stories that you bore with so patiently to please me. Now tell me what you heard and saw. Did you see them all in the room last night? and––and”––his eyes grew wide and insistent––“what did you see this morning?”

Now the doctor had told me that he must not be over-excited, but soothed; and honestly enough, though some who may read this may not agree with me, I thought it was better to speak plainly of those things so strange to you and me, but so dear and familiar to him. And so I told him all I had heard and seen.

“Ah!” he said when I had finished, “then we were not quite as one. But still you saw and heard more than most men. Now will you hear one more story? I will not tell you all I saw last night, because the Lord has been gracious to me, and is rising with healing in His wings on me and on many other poor creatures. But the wounds are aching still, and if you will spare me, I will not speak much of the shadows of last night, but only of the joys that came in the morning. Will you hear it?”

“My dear old friend,” I said, “are you sure it will not be too much for you?”

He shook his head; and then, still holding my hand in his, his fingers tightening and relaxing as he told his tale, with many pauses and efforts, he began:

“Last night the sorrows of death came to me,” he said, “and all the blood and agony and desolation of the whole world seemed to be round me. And I have had so little sorrow in my life that I was ill prepared to meet them. Our Lord has always shown me such grace and given me so much joy. But He warned me again and again this autumn. That was why I spoke to you as I did when you came before Christmas.

“Well, last night, all this came to me. And it seemed as if I were partly responsible. Years ago I was set apart as a priest to stand between the dead and the living. It was meant that I should be the meeting-place, as every priest must be, of creation’s need and God’s grace––as every Christian must be in his station. That is what intercession and the Holy Sacrifice both signify and effect. The two tides of need and fulfilment must meet in a priest’s heart. But all my life I have known much of fulfilment and little of need. Last night the first was almost withdrawn, and the second deepened almost beyond bearing. But I knew, as I told you last night, that with the morning would come peace––that I should be able to carry up the burden laid on me, and make it one with Him on Whom the iniquities of us all are laid. But I need not say more of that now. This morning when I went to the altar a lull had come in the storm. But it was all in my heart still. I felt sure that I should have the clear vision once more: and as I lifted up the Body of our Lord, it came.

“As I lifted It up It disappeared; as those tell us who look in crystals. And this is what I saw. I do not know how long I saw it, it seemed as if time stood still, but you told me there was no perceptible pause. Well”––and the old man raised himself slightly in the bed––“between my hands I saw a long slope running as it seemed from me downhill. On the nearer higher end of the slope were men going to and fro, and I knew they needed something––and yet many of them did not seem to know it themselves––but they were all in need. One there was who walked quickly, clenching and unclenching his hands, and I knew he fought with sin. And there was a woman with a dead child across her knees; and there was a blind child crying in a corner.

“Then further down the slope were wounded creatures of all kinds, and lonely beasts seeking a place to die, and the very grass of the field seemed to be in sorrow, and there were blind sea-creatures gasping. They were not small, as you might think, but I saw them as if I looked through a hole in a wall.

“And they stretched down, rank on rank, heaving and striving, men and beasts warring and trampling down the flowers. There was a thrush I saw, too, shivering in a tree; and the thought of the story I have told you came to my mind, and there were a thousand things that I forget.

“Now when I saw all this my hands trembled, but what I saw did not tremble, so I knew that it was real. And then very far away and faint at the foot of the slope was a level silvery mist, like a sea-fog, with delicate currents and lines, now swift and piercing, now slow; and in the mist moved faces; but I could not distinguish the features. And these were the souls that waited until their sins should be done away.

“And then with something like terror I remembered that I held in my hands the Body of the Lord. And I was puzzled and distracted, but I knelt to adore, and as I lowered the Holy Thing, the clouds closed and the light died out. And it may be that I was cowardly––and I think God will pardon an old man for whom the light was too strong––but when I consecrated the chalice, I dared not look at it. At the Communion, too, I closed my eyes again.” The old man paused a moment and then continued. “I heard no sound such as you describe. As I unvested and went to my room I was still perplexed at what I had seen, and could not understand it, and then on a sudden I understood it, and it was then I suppose that I fell down.”

There was a silence for a moment: then I answered.

“I cannot understand even now.”

The priest smiled at me, and his hand closed again on mine.

“I think there is no need for me to tell you that. It will be plain to you soon. Remember what it was that I saw, and where I saw it, and all will be easy.

“You can leave me now for a little,” he went on. “I am perfectly free from pain, and I wish to think. Would you send Parker to me in about an hour’s time?” And then, as I went towards the door, he added:

“One word more. I had forgotten something. I have yet one more clear vision to see before I die. I have seen, you remember, what you too have seen, how all things need God; but there is yet one more thing to see which will make all plain, and I think you can guess what that is. And I pray that you will be with me when I see it.”

Then I turned and went quietly out.

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The Expected Guest

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“Jhesu! Jhesu! Esto michi, Jhesu!”

_Old Prayer_

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The Expected Guest

AS day after day went by and the old man seemed no worse, I began to have hopes that he might recover, but the doctor discouraged me.