The Last Words of Mr. Secretan
“I slept ill that night. I awoke again and again from uneasy dreams,
and I seemed in my sleep to hear strange calls and noises and a sound
of murmurs and beatings on the door. There were deep, hollow voices,
too, that echoed in my sleep, and when I woke I could hear the autumn
wind, mournful, on the hills above us. I started up once with a
dreadful scream in my ears; but then the house was all still, and I
fell again into uneasy sleep.
“It was soon after dawn when I finally roused myself. The people in the
house were talking to each other in high voices, arguing about
something that I did not understand.
“‘It is those damned gipsies, I tell you,’ said old Griffith.
“‘What would they do a thing like that for?’ asked Mrs. Griffith. ‘If
it was stealing now—’
“‘It is more likely that John Jenkins has done it out of spite,’ said
the son. ‘He said that he would remember you when we did catch him
poaching.’
“They seemed puzzled and angry, so far as I could make out, but not at
all frightened. I got up and began to dress. I don’t think I looked out
of the window. The glass on my dressing-table is high and broad, and
the window is small; one would have to poke one’s head round the glass
to see anything.
“The voices were still arguing downstairs. I heard the old man say,
‘Well, here’s for a beginning anyhow,’ and then the door slammed.
“A minute later the old man shouted, I think, to his son. Then there
was a great noise which I will not describe more particularly, and a
dreadful screaming and crying inside the house and a sound of rushing
feet. They all cried out at once to each other. I heard the daughter
crying, ‘it is no good, mother, he is dead, indeed they have killed
him,’ and Mrs. Griffith screaming to the girl to let her go. And then
one of them rushed out of the kitchen and shot the great bolts of oak
across the door, just as something beat against it with a thundering
crash.
“I ran downstairs. I found them all in wild confusion, in an agony of
grief and horror and amazement. They were like people who had seen
something so awful that they had gone mad.
“I went to the window looking out on the farmyard. I won’t tell you all
that I saw. But I saw poor old Griffith lying by the pond, with the
blood pouring out of his side.
“I wanted to go out to him and bring him in. But they told me that he
must be stone dead, and such things also that it was quite plain that
any one who went out of the house would not live more than a moment. We
could not believe it, even as we gazed at the body of the dead man; but
it was there. I used to wonder sometimes what one would feel like if
one saw an apple drop from the tree and shoot up into the air and
disappear. I think I know now how one would feel.
“Even then we couldn’t believe that it would last. We were not
seriously afraid for ourselves. We spoke of getting out in an hour or
two, before dinner anyhow. It couldn’t last, because it was impossible.
Indeed, at twelve o’clock young Griffith said he would go down to the
well by the back way and draw another pail of water. I went to the door
and stood by it. He had not gone a dozen yards before they were on him.
He ran for his life, and we had all we could do to bar the door in
time. And then I began to get frightened.
“Still we could not believe in it. Somebody would come along shouting
in an hour or two and it would all melt away and vanish. There could
not be any real danger. There was plenty of bacon in the house, and
half the weekly baking of loaves and some beer in the cellar and a
pound or so of tea, and a whole pitcher of water that had been drawn
from the well the night before. We could do all right for the day and
in the morning it would have all gone away.
“But day followed day and it was still there. I knew Treff Loyne was a
lonely place—that was why I had gone there, to have a long rest from
all the jangle and rattle and turmoil of London, that makes a man alive
and kills him too. I went to Treff Loyne because it was buried in the
narrow valley under the ash trees, far away from any track. There was
not so much as a footpath that was near it; no one ever came that way.
Young Griffith had told me that it was a mile and a half to the nearest
house, and the thought of the silent peace and retirement of the farm
used to be a delight to me.
“And now this thought came back without delight, with terror. Griffith
thought that a shout might be heard on a still night up away on the
Allt, ‘if a man was listening for it,’ he added, doubtfully. My voice
was clearer and stronger than his, and on the second night I said I
would go up to my bedroom and call for help through the open window. I
waited till it was all dark and still, and looked out through the
window before opening it. And then I saw over the ridge of the long
barn across the yard what looked like a tree, though I knew there was
no tree there. It was a dark mass against the sky, with wide-spread
boughs, a tree of thick, dense growth. I wondered what this could be,
and I threw open the window, not only because I was going to call for
help, but because I wanted to see more clearly what the dark growth
over the barn really was.
“I saw in the depth of the dark of it points of fire, and colors in
light, all glowing and moving, and the air trembled. I stared out into
the night, and the dark tree lifted over the roof of the barn and rose
up in the air and floated towards me. I did not move till at the last
moment when it was close to the house; and then I saw what it was and
banged the window down only just in time. I had to fight, and I saw the
tree that was like a burning cloud rise up in the night and sink again
and settle over the barn.
“I told them downstairs of this. They sat with white faces, and Mrs.
Griffith said that ancient devils were let loose and had come out of
the trees and out of the old hills because of the wickedness that was
on the earth. She began to murmur something to herself, something that
sounded to me like broken-down Latin.
“I went up to my room again an hour later, but the dark tree swelled
over the barn. Another day went by, and at dusk I looked out, but the
eyes of fire were watching me. I dared not open the window.
“And then I thought of another plan. There was the great old fireplace,
with the round Flemish chimney going high above the house. If I stood
beneath it and shouted I thought perhaps the sound might be carried
better than if I called out of the window; for all I knew the round
chimney might act as a sort of megaphone. Night after night, then, I
stood in the hearth and called for help from nine o’clock to eleven. I
thought of the lonely place, deep in the valley of the ashtrees, of the
lonely hills and lands about it. I thought of the little cottages far
away and hoped that my voice might reach to those within them. I
thought of the winding lane high on the Allt, and of the few men that
came there of nights; but I hoped that my cry might come to one of
them.
“But we had drunk up the beer, and we would only let ourselves have
water by little drops, and on the fourth night my throat was dry, and I
began to feel strange and weak; I knew that all the voice I had in my
lungs would hardly reach the length of the field by the farm.
“It was then we began to dream of wells and fountains, and water coming
very cold, in little drops, out of rocky places in the middle of a cool
wood. We had given up all meals; now and then one would cut a lump from
the sides of bacon on the kitchen wall and chew a bit of it, but the
saltness was like fire.
“There was a great shower of rain one night. The girl said we might
open a window and hold out bowls and basins and catch the rain. I spoke
of the cloud with burning eyes. She said ‘we will go to the window in
the dairy at the back, and one of us can get some water at all events.’
She stood up with her basin on the stone slab in the dairy and looked
out and heard the plashing of the rain, falling very fast. And she
unfastened the catch of the window and had just opened it gently with
one hand, for about an inch, and had her basin in the other hand. ‘And
then,’ said she, ‘there was something that began to tremble and shudder
and shake as it did when we went to the Choral Festival at St. Teilo’s,
and the organ played, and there was the cloud and the burning close
before me.’
“And then we began to dream, as I say. I woke up in my sitting-room one
hot afternoon when the sun was shining, and I had been looking and
searching in my dream all through the house, and I had gone down to the
old cellar that wasn’t used, the cellar with the pillars and the
vaulted room, with an iron pike in my hand. Something said to me that
there was water there, and in my dream I went to a heavy stone by the
middle pillar and raised it up, and there beneath was a bubbling well
of cold, clear water, and I had just hollowed my hand to drink it when
I woke. I went into the kitchen and told young Griffith. I said I was
sure there was water there. He shook his head, but he took up the great
kitchen poker and we went down to the old cellar. I showed him the
stone by the pillar, and he raised it up. But there was no well.
“Do you know, I reminded myself of many people whom I have met in life?
I would not be convinced. I was sure that, after all, there was a well
there. They had a butcher’s cleaver in the kitchen and I took it down
to the old cellar and hacked at the ground with it. The others didn’t
interfere with me. We were getting past that. We hardly ever spoke to
one another. Each one would be wandering about the house, upstairs and
downstairs, each one of us, I suppose, bent on his own foolish plan and
mad design, but we hardly ever spoke. Years ago, I was an actor for a
bit, and I remember how it was on first nights; the actors treading
softly up and down the wings, by their entrance, their lips moving and
muttering over the words of their parts, but without a word for one
another. So it was with us. I came upon young Griffith one evening
evidently trying to make a subterranean passage under one of the walls
of the house. I knew he was mad, as he knew I was mad when he saw me
digging for a well in the cellar; but neither said anything to the
other.
“Now we are past all this. We are too weak. We dream when we are awake
and when we dream we think we wake. Night and day come and go and we
mistake one for another; I hear Griffith murmuring to himself about the
stars when the sun is high at noonday, and at midnight I have found
myself thinking that I walked in bright sunlit meadows beside cold,
rushing streams that flowed from high rocks.
“Then at the dawn figures in black robes, carrying lighted tapers in
their hands pass slowly about and about; and I hear great rolling organ
music that sounds as if some tremendous rite were to begin, and voices
crying in an ancient song shrill from the depths of the earth.
“Only a little while ago I heard a voice which sounded as if it were at
my very ears, but rang and echoed and resounded as if it were rolling
and reverberated from the vault of some cathedral, chanting in terrible
modulations. I heard the words quite clearly.
“_Incipit liber iræ Domini Dei nostri._ (Here beginneth The Book of the
Wrath of the Lord our God.)
“And then the voice sang the word _Aleph,_ prolonging it, it seemed
through ages, and a light was extinguished as it began the chapter:
“_In that day, saith the Lord, there shall be a cloud over the land,
and in the cloud a burning and a shape of fire, and out of the cloud
shall issue forth my messengers; they shall run all together, they
shall not turn aside; this shall be a day of exceeding bitterness,
without salvation. And on every high hill, saith the Lord of Hosts, I
will set my sentinels, and my armies shall encamp in the place of every
valley; in the house that is amongst rushes I will execute judgment,
and in vain shall they fly for refuge to the munitions of the rocks. In
the groves of the woods, in the places where the leaves are as a tent
above them, they shall find the sword of the slayer; and they that put
their trust in walled cities shall be confounded. Woe unto the armed
man, woe unto him that taketh pleasure in the strength of his
artillery, for a little thing shall smite him, and by one that hath no
might shall he be brought down into the dust. That which is low shall
be set on high; I will make the lamb and the young sheep to be as the
lion from the swellings of Jordan; they shall not spare, saith the
Lord, and the doves shall be as eagles on the hill Engedi; none shall
be found that may abide the onset of their battle._
“Even now I can hear the voice rolling far away, as if it came from the
altar of a great church and I stood at the door. There are lights very
far away in the hollow of a vast darkness, and one by one they are put
out. I hear a voice chanting again with that endless modulation that
climbs and aspires to the stars, and shines there, and rushes down to
the dark depths of the earth, again to ascend; the word is _Zain._”
Here the manuscript lapsed again, and finally into utter, lamentable
confusion. There were scrawled lines wavering across the page on which
Secretan seemed to have been trying to note the unearthly music that
swelled in his dying ears. As the scrapes and scratches of ink showed,
he had tried hard to begin a new sentence. The pen had dropped at last
out of his hand upon the paper, leaving a blot and a smear upon it.
Lewis heard the tramp of feet along the passage; they were carrying out
the dead to the cart.