“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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