close on his lip to stay its trembling. He swallowed in his throat once
or twice. Then he went on in a very low, hissing voice.
* * * * *
“Gentlemen, I swear to you by God Almighty that this was what I saw.
I kept my eyes on the bread and meat. It lay there beneath my eyes,
and yet I saw, too, the good Father Lasserre lean forward to the woman
again, and heard him begin, ‘_Exorcizo te._...’
“And then this happened--this happened....
“The bread and the meat corrupted themselves to worms before my
eyes....”
Father Meuron dashed forward, turned round and dropped into his chair
as the two English priests on either side sprang to their feet.
In a few minutes he was able to tell us that all had ended well; that
the woman had been presently found in her right mind, after an incident
or two that I will take leave to omit; and that the apparent paroxysm
of nature that had accompanied the words of the third exorcism had
passed away as suddenly as it had come.
* * * * *
Then we went to night-prayers and fortified ourselves against the dark.
III
_Father Brent’s Tale_
It was universally voted on Monday that the Englishman should follow
Father Meuron, and we looked with some satisfaction on his wholesome
face and steady blue eyes as he took up his tale after supper.
* * * * *
“Mine is a very poor story,” he began, “after the one we heard on
Saturday and, what is worse, there is no explanation that I have ever
heard that seemed to me adequate. Perhaps some one will supply one this
evening. I feel very much like the ant in London whom Monsignor has
such sympathy with.”
He drew at his cigarette, smiling, and we settled ourselves down with
looks of resolute science on our features. I at least was conscious of
wishing to wear one.
* * * * *
“After my ordination to the sub-diaconate I was in England for the
summer, and went down to stay with a friend on the Fal at the beginning
of October.
“My friend’s house stood on a spot of land running out into the
estuary; there was a beech wood behind it and on either side. There was
a small embankment on which the building actually stood, of which the
sea-wall ran straight down on to the rocks, so that at high tide the
water came half way up the stone-work. There was a large smoking-room
looking the same way and a little paved path separated its windows from
the low wall.
“We had a series of very warm days when I was there, and after dinner
we would sit outside in the dark and listen to the water lapping below.
There was another house on the further side of the river about half a
mile away, and we could see its lights sometimes. About three miles
upstream--that is, on our right--lay Truro; and Falmouth, as far as I
remember, about four miles to the left. But we were entirely cut off
from our neighbors by the beechwoods all round us, and, except for the
house opposite, might have been clean out of civilization.”
Father Brent tossed away his cigarette and lit another.
He seemed a very sensible person, I thought, unlike the excitable
Frenchman, and his manner of speaking was serene and practical.
“My friend was a widower,” he went on, “but had one boy, about eleven
years old, who, I remember, was to go to school after Christmas. I
asked Franklyn, my friend, why Jack had not gone before, and he told
me, as parents will, that he was a peculiarly sensitive boy, a little
hysterical at times and very nervous, but he was less so than he used
to be, and probably, his father said, if he was allowed time, school
would be the best thing for him. Up to the present, however, he had
shrunk from sending him.
“‘He has extraordinary fancies,’ he said, ‘and thinks he sees things.
The other day--’ and then Jack came in, and he stopped, and I clean
forgot to ask him afterward what he was going to say.
“Now, if any one here has ever been to Cornwall they will know what a
queer county it is. It is cram full of legends and so on. Every one
who has ever been there seems to have left their mark. You get the
Phœnicians in goodness knows what century; they came there for tin,
and some of the mines still in work are supposed to have been opened
by them. Cornish cream, too, seems to have been brought there by
them, for I need not tell you, perhaps, that the stuff is originally
Cornish and not Devon. Then Solomon, some think, sent ships there,
though personally I believe that is nonsense; but you get some curious
names--Marazion, for instance, which means the bitterness of Zion. That
has made some believe that the Cornish are the lost tribes. Then you
get a connection with both Ireland and Brittany in names, language, and
beliefs, and so on. I could go on forever. They still talk of ‘going to
England’ when they cross the border into Devonshire.
“Then the people are very odd--real Celts--with a genius for religion
and the supernatural generally. They believe in pixies; they have got a
hundred saints and holy wells and holy trees that no one else has ever
heard of. They have the most astonishing old churches. There is one
convent--at Lanherne, I think--where the Blessed Sacrament has remained
with its light burning right up to the present. And lastly, all the
people are furious Wesleyans.
“So the whole place is a confusion of history, a sort of palimpsest, as
the Father Rector here would tell us. A cross you find in the moor may
be pagan, or Catholic, or Anglican, or most likely all three together.
And that is what makes an explanation of what I am going to tell you
such a difficult thing.
“I did not know much about this when I went there on October 3d, but
Franklyn told me a lot, and he took me about to one or two places here
and there--to Truro to see the new Cathedral, to Perranzabuloe, where
there is an old mystery theatre and a church in the sands, and so on.
And one day we rowed down to Falmouth.
“The Fal is a lovely place when the tide is in. You find the odd
combination of seaweed and beech trees growing almost together. The
trees stand with their roots in saltish water, and the creeks run right
up into the woods. But it is terrible when the tide is out--great
sheets of mud, with wreckage sticking up, and draggled weed, and
mussels, and so on.
“About the end of my first week it was high tide after dinner, and
we sat out on the terrace looking across the water. We could hear it
lapping below, and the moon was just coming up behind the house. I
tossed over my cigarette end and heard it fizz in the water, and then I
put out my hand to the box for another. There wasn’t one, and Franklyn
said he would go indoors to find some. He thought he had some Nestors
in his bedroom.
“So Franklyn went in and I was left alone.
“It was perfectly quiet; there was not a ripple on the water, which
was about eight feet below me, as I got up from my chair and sat on
the low wall. There was a sort of glimmer on the water from the moon
behind, and I could see a yellow streak clean across the surface from
the house opposite among the black woods. It was as warm as summer,
too.”
Father Brent threw his cigarette away and sat a little forward in his
chair. I began to feel more interested. He was plainly interested
himself, for he clasped his hands round a knee and gave a quick look
into our faces. Then he looked back again at the fire as he went on.
“Then across the streak of yellow light, and where the moon glimmered,
I saw a kind of black line moving. It was coming toward me, and there
seemed to be a sort of disturbance behind. I stood up and waited,
wondering what it was. I could hear Franklyn pulling out a drawer in
the bedroom overhead, but everything else was deadly still.
“As I stood it came nearer swiftly; it was just a high ripple in the
water, and a moment later the flat surface below heaved up, and I could
hear it lapping and splashing on the face of the wall.
“It was exactly as if some big ship had gone up the estuary. I strained
my eyes out, but there was nothing to be seen. There was the glimmer
of the moon on the water, the house lights burning half a mile away,
and the black woods beyond. There was a beach, rocks, and shingle on my
right, curving along toward a place called Meopas; and I could hear the
wave hiss and clatter all along it as it went upstream.
“Then I sat down again.
“I cannot say I was exactly frightened; but I was very much puzzled. It
surely could not be a tidal wave; there was certainly no ship; it could
not be anything swimming, for the wave was like the wave of a really
large vessel.
“In a minute or two Franklyn came down with the Nestors, and I told
him. He laughed at me. He said it must have been a breeze, or the turn
of the tide, or something. Then he said he had been in to look for
Jack, and had found him in a sort of nightmare, tossing and moaning; he
had not wakened him, he said, but just touched him and said a word or
two, and the boy had turned over and gone to sleep.
“But I would not let him change the subject. I persisted it had been a
really big wash of some kind.
“He stared at me.
“‘Take a cigarette,’ he said; ‘I found them at last under a hat.’
“But I went on at him. It had made an impression on me, and I was a
little uncomfortable.
“‘It is bosh,’ he said; ‘but we will go and see if you like. The wall
will be wet if there was a big wave.’
“He fetched a lantern, and we went down the steps that led round the
side of the embankment into the water. I went first, until my feet were
on the last step above the water. He carried the lantern.
“Then I heard him exclaim.
“‘You are standing in a pool,’ he said.
“I looked down and saw that it was so; the steps, three of them, at
least, were shining with water in the light of the lantern.
“I put out my hand for the lantern, held on to a ring by my left hand,
and leaned out as far as I could, looking at the face of the wall. It
was wet and dripping for at least four feet above the mark of the high
tide.
“I told him, and he came down and looked, too, and then we went up
again to the house.
“We neither of us said very much more that evening. The only suggestion
that Franklyn could make was that it must have been a very odd kind
of tidal wave. For myself, I knew nothing about tidal waves; but I
gathered from his tone that this certainly could not have been one.
“We sat about half an hour more, but there was no sound again.
“When we went up to bed we peeped into Jack’s room. He was lying
perfectly quiet on his right side, turned away from the window, which
was open, but there was a little frown, I thought, on his forehead, and
his eyes seemed screwed up.”
The priest stopped again.
We were all very quiet. The story was not exciting, but it was
distinctly interesting, and I could see the others were puzzled.
Perhaps what impressed us most was the very matter-of-fact tone in
which the story was told.
The Rector put in a word during the silence.
“How do you know it was not a tidal wave?” he asked.
“It may have been, Father,” said the young priest; “but that is not the
end.”
He filled his lungs with smoke, blew it out, and went on.
* * * * *
“Nothing whatever happened of any interest for the next day or two,
except that Franklyn asked a boatman at Meopas whether he had heard
anything of a wave on the Monday night. The man looked at us and shook
his head, still looking at us oddly.
“‘I was in bed early,’ he said.
“On the Thursday afternoon Franklyn got a note asking him to dine in
Truro, to meet some one who had come down from town. I told him to go,
of course, and he went off in his dog-cart about half-past six.
“Jack and I dined together at half-past seven, and I may say we made
friends. He was less shy when his father was away. I think Franklyn
laughed at him a little too much, hoping to cure him of his fancies.
“The boy told me some of them, though, that night. I don’t remember any
of them particularly, but I do remember the general effect, and I was
really impressed by the sort of insight he seemed to have into things.
He said some curious things about trees and their characters. Perhaps
you remember Macdonald’s ‘Phantastes.’ It was rather like that. He was
fond of beeches, I gathered, and thought himself safe in them; he liked
to climb them and to think the house was surrounded by them. And there
was a lot of things like that he said. I remember, too, that he hated
cypresses and cats and the twilight.
“‘But I am not afraid of the dark,’ he said. ‘I like the dark as much
as the light, and I always sleep with my windows open and no curtains.’”
Monsignor Maxwell nodded abruptly. I could see he was watching.
“I know,” he said--“I knew another child like that.”
“Well,” went on Father Brent, “the boy said good-night and went to bed
about nine. I sat in the smoking-room a bit, for it had turned a little
cold, and about ten stepped out on to the terrace.
“It was perfectly still and cloudy. I forget whether there was a moon.
At any rate, I did not see it. There was just the black gulf of water,
with the line of light across it from the house opposite. Then I went
indoors and shut the windows.
“I read again for a while, and finished my book. I had said my office,
so I looked about for another novel. Then I remembered there had been
one I wanted to read in Franklyn’s room overhead, so I took a candle
and went up. Jack’s room was over the smoking-room, and his father’s
was beyond it on the right, and there was a door between them. Both
faced the front, remember.
“Franklyn’s room had three windows, two looking on to the river and
one upstream toward Truro, over the beach I spoke of before. I went
in there, and saw that the door was open between the two rooms, so I
slipped off my shoes for fear of disturbing the boy and went across
to the book-shelf that stood between the two front windows. All three
windows were open. Franklyn was mad about fresh air.
“I was bending down to look at the backs of the books, and had my
finger on the one I wanted when I heard a kind of moan from the boy’s
room.
“I stood up, startled, and it came again. Why, he had had a nightmare
only three days before, I remembered. As I stood there wondering
whether it would be kind to wake him, I heard another sound.
“It was a noise that came through the side window that looked up the
beach, and it was the noise of a breaking wave.”
The priest made a momentary pause, and as he flicked the end of his
cigarette I saw his fingers tremble very slightly.
“I didn’t hesitate then, but went straight into the room next door, and
as I went across the floor heard the boy moaning and tossing. It was
pitch dark, and I could see nothing. I was thinking that tidal waves
don’t come downstream. Then my knee struck the edge of the bed.
“‘Jack,’ I said, ‘Jack.’
“There was a rustle from the bed-clothes, and (I should have thought)
long before he could have awakened I heard his feet on the floor, and
then felt him brush past me. Then I saw him outlined against the pale
window, with his hands on the glass over his head. Then I was by him,
taking care not to touch him.
“All this took about five seconds, I suppose, from the time when I
heard the wave on the beach. I stared out now over the boy’s head, but
there was nothing in the world to be seen but the black water and the
glimmer of the light across it.
“Jack was perfectly silent, but I could see that he was watching. He
didn’t seem to know I was there.
“Then I whispered to him rather sharply.
“‘What is it, Jack? What do you see?’
“He said nothing, and I repeated my question.
“Then he answered, almost as if talking to himself.
“‘Ships,’ he said; ‘three ships.’
“Now I swear there was nothing there. I thought it was a nightmare.
“‘Nonsense,’ I said; ‘how can you see them? It’s too dark.’
“‘A light in each,’ he said; ‘in the bows--blazing!’
“As he said it I saw his head turning slowly to the left as if he was
following them. Then there came the sound of the wave breaking on the
stone-work just below the windows.
“‘Are you frightened?’ I said suddenly.
“‘Yes,’ said the boy.
“‘Why?’
“‘I don’t know.’
“Then I saw his hands come down from the window and cover his face, and
he began to moan again.
“‘Come back to bed,’ I said; but I daren’t touch him. I could see he
was sleep walking.
“Then he turned, went straight across the room, still making an odd
sound, and I heard him climb into bed.
“I covered him up and went out.”
Father Brent stopped again. He had rather a curious look in his face,
and I saw that his cigarette had gone out. None of us spoke or moved.
Then he went on again abruptly.
“Well, you know, I didn’t know I was frightened exactly until I came
out on to the landing. There was a tall glass there on the right
hand of the staircase, and just as I came opposite I thought I heard
the hiss of the wave again, and I nearly screamed. It was only the
wheels of Franklyn’s dog-cart coming up the drive, but as I looked
in the glass I saw that my face was like paper.... We had a long talk
about the Phœnicians that evening. Franklyn looked them out in the
Encyclopædia; but there was nothing particularly interesting.
“Well, that’s all. Give me a match, Father. This beastly thing’s gone
out. It’s a _spaghetto_.”
* * * * *
We had no theories to suggest. Monsignor alone was temerarious enough
to remark that the story was an excellent illustration of his own views.
IV
_The Father Rector’s Tale_
The Father-Rector of San Filippo was an old man, a Canadian by birth,
who had been educated in England, but he had worked in many parts of
the world since receiving the priesthood nearly fifty years ago, and
for my part I certainly expected that he would have many experiences to
relate.
At first, however, he entirely refused to tell a story. He said he had
had an uneventful life, that he could not compete with the tales he had
heard. But persuasion proved too strong, and on going in to see him on
another matter one morning I found him at his tin despatch-box with a
diary in his hand.
“I have found something that I think may do,” he said, “if no one else
has promised for this evening. It is really the only thing approaching
the preternatural I have ever experienced.”
I congratulated him and ourselves; and the same evening after supper he
told his story, with the diary beside him, to which he referred now and
then. (I shall omit his irrelevancies, of which there were a good many.)
* * * * *
“This happened to me,” he said, “nearly thirty years ago. I had been
twenty years a priest, and was working in a town mission in the south
of England. I made the acquaintance of a Catholic family who had a
large country house about ten miles away. They were not very fervent
people, but they had a chapel in the house, where I would say mass
sometimes on Sundays, when I could get away from my own church on
Saturday night.
“On one of these occasions I met for the first time an artist, whose
name you would all know if I mentioned it, but it will be convenient to
call him Mr. Farquharson. He made an extremely unpleasant impression on
me, and yet there was no reason for it that I could see. He was a big
man, palish, with curling brown hair. He was always very well dressed,
with a suspicion of scent about him; he talked extremely wittily and
would say the most surprising things that were at once brilliant and
dangerous; and yet in his talk he never transgressed good manners. In
fact, he was very cordial always to me; he seemed to go out of his way
to be courteous and friendly, and yet I could not bear the fellow.
However, I tried to conceal that, and with some success, as you will
see.
“I was astonished that he asked me no questions about our beliefs or
practices. Such people generally do, you know; and they profess to
admire our worship and its dignity. In the evening he played and sang
magnificently--very touching and pathetic songs, as a rule.
“On the following morning he attended mass, but I did not think much
of that. Guests generally do, I have found, in Catholic houses. Then I
went off in the afternoon back to my mission.
“I suppose it was six weeks before I met him again, and then it was at
the same place. My hostess gave me tea alone, for I arrived late, and
as we sat in the hall, told me that Mr. Farquharson was there again.
Then she added, to my surprise, that he had expressed a great liking
for me, and had come down from town partly with the hope of meeting me.
She went on talking about him for a while; told me that three of his
pictures had been taken again by the French Salon, and at last told
me that he had been baptized and educated as a Catholic, but had for
many years ceased to practise his religion. She had only learned this
recently.
“Well, that explained a good deal; and I was a good deal taken aback.
I did not quite know how to act. But she talked on about him a little,
and I became sorry for the man and determined that I would make no
difference in my behavior toward him. From what she said, I gathered
that it might be in my power to win him back. He had everything against
him, she told me.
“Now, let me tell you a word about his pictures. I had seen them here
and there, as well as reproductions of them, as all the world had at
that time, and they were very remarkable. They were on extraordinarily
simple and innocent subjects, and often religious--a child going to
first Communion; a knight riding on a lonely road; a boy warming his
hands at the fire; a woman praying. There was not a line or a color in
them that any one could dislike, and yet--yet they were corrupt. I know
nothing about art; but it needed no art to see that these were corrupt.
I did not understand it then, and I do not now; but--well, there it is.
I cannot describe their effect on me; but I know that many others felt
the same, and I believe that kind of painting is not uncommon in the
French school.”
The priest paused a moment.
“As I went down the long passage to the smoking-room I declare that I
was not thinking of this side of the man. I was only wondering whether
I could do anything, but the moment I came in and found him standing
alone on the hearth-rug all this leaped back into my mind.
“His personality was exactly like his own pictures. There was nothing
that one could point to in his face and say that it revealed his
character. It did not. It was a clean-shaven, clever face, strong and
artistic; his hand as he took mine was firm and slender and strong,
too. And yet--yet my flesh crept at him. It seemed to me he was a kind
of devil.
“Again I did my utmost to hide all this as we sat and talked that
evening till the dressing gong rang; and again I succeeded, but it was
a sore effort. Once when he put his hand on my arm I nearly jerked it
off, so great was the horror it gave me.
“I did not sit near him at dinner; there were several people dining
there that night, but our host was unwell and went to bed early, and
this man and myself, after he had played and sung an hour or so in the
drawing-room, talked till late in the smoking-room, and all the while
the horror grew; I have never felt anything like it. I am generally
fairly placid; but it was all I could do to keep quiet. I even
wondered once or twice whether it was not my duty to tell him plainly
what I felt, to--to--well, really, this sounds absurd--but to curse him
as an unclean and corrupt creature who had lost faith and grace and
everything, and was on the very brink of eternal fire.”
The old man’s voice rang with emotion. I had never seen him so much
moved, and was astonished at his vehemence.
“Well, thank God, I did not!
“At last it came out that I knew about his having been a Catholic. I
did not tell him where I had learned it, but perhaps he suspected. Of
course, though, I might have learned it in a hundred ways.
“He seemed very much surprised--not at my knowing, but at my treating
him as I had. It seemed that he had met with unpleasantness more than
once at the hands of priests who knew.
“Well, to cut it short, before I went away next day he asked me to call
upon him some time at his house in London, and he asked me in such a
way that I knew he meant it.”
The priest stopped and referred to his diary. Then he went on.
“It was in the following May, six months later, that I fulfilled my
promise.