THE MENACE AT SUNSET
The Rev. Philip Alletson, Vicar of Worlstoke, in the county of
Somerset, walked slowly and easily along the main path of the great
wood that bordered his parish.
Occasionally he stopped and absently contemplated the hard stony path,
or unconsciously plucked a leaf from a bush and slowly tore it up, then
went on again.
It was evident, from the slightly contracted brows, that he was deeply
considering some question of grave importance—at least to him—and as
he walked with head bent, a first impression of his rather tall, yet
slenderly-built figure, and iron grey hair, would be that he was middle
aged. Moreover, a slight stoop of the shoulders—a habit he had when in
thought—tended to confirm it. But to see him face to face would shatter
that first impression, for the clear skin, keen nose, and full though
firm mouth, denoted youth; besides, one was conscious of energy and
power when meeting the steady grey eyes.
He might have been fifty; possibly thirty; probably he was nearer
forty—no one could say, and, after all, it did not matter.
His thoughts troubled him, owing, perhaps, to his extremely sensitive
temperament—one might almost say with truth, “supersensitive.” Be that
as it may, there is no doubt that the average man, with steady nerves
(as it is said), would not have thought twice about the matter which
troubled the vicar. He would simply have dismissed it from his mind as
one of those strange, inexplicable coincidences that do happen in life.
Mr. Alletson had only been installed at Worlstoke a month, but that
period had been sufficient for him to learn much of which he had been
ignorant before he accepted the living. Had he known then what he now
knew, it might have affected his decision; but indeed only a very
weighty consideration would have caused him to refuse the offer, for
at the time when it was laid before him, the strain of an arduous
curate’s life in the East End of the great City had all but wrecked his
health. When his rector had intimated that there was a small country
and seaside living, with a fair stipend and a comfortable house, at the
disposal of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and that he (the rector) had
been able to secure for him the refusal of it, the Rev. Philip Alletson
had not, under the circumstances, taken long to make up his mind. For
who could tell? such another offer might not present itself for years.
He had certainly accepted the living “in haste,” but the “repentance at
leisure” stage had hardly yet arrived, though an extraordinary incident
that happened about a week ago had gone a long way to make him feel
that he had acted without forethought, in not inquiring into things
before he had finally settled.
It was this incident, coupled with one or two things that he had
learned, which perplexed his mind this cool spring evening, for it
looked as if the quiet rest which he sought was not to be.
Briefly, the points were:
1. The late vicar, the Rev. Henry Thornton, a mild, good man, if a
little weak and easy-going, of forty-five years of age, bachelor, had
suddenly and unaccountably disappeared, leaving no trace whatever,
and in spite of exhaustive efforts by the police and other people
interested, no rational clue had been discovered.
The only light that had been shed on the matter was contained in the
detective’s report after the search at the vicarage. It tended to show
that no premeditated flight had been thought of. All his papers were
found in order, and practically every article of clothing he possessed
had been sworn to by his housekeeper, with the exception of one suit
of everyday clothes and a soft hat. He had gone out on the Saturday
evening in the usual way, and had never returned.
2. It had been mooted that Mr. Thornton’s ghost had been seen by
someone in the village close by the ruins of the old priory of Melsea,
and there had been a lot of small talk about ghosts.
3. A small farmer at Melton-Storton had sworn that when coming home
through the Great Wood of Westsea one evening, he had been suddenly
confronted by two apparitions, one that of a woman, and the other that
of Mr. Thornton, both of whom had looked at him in a most evil and
threatening way, and then vanished.
4. A fortnight ago, Elsie Hobson, the twenty-four-year-old daughter of
the people’s churchwarden, had disappeared as mysteriously and suddenly
as the Rev. Henry Thornton.
Now it was the coincidence of points 1 and 4 that caused Mr. Alletson
to give the matter grave consideration. Point No. 2 could be accounted
for in various ways, and as to Point No. 3, well, Farmer Joicey had not
the best of reputations for sobriety, particularly when returning from
Westsea late at night.
What concerned Mr. Alletson was that two people should disappear in so
remarkable a manner. True, there was a lapse of six weeks between the
events, but they bore such a resemblance that it made him feel the same
cause had probably accounted for both. But what cause? He smote the
air with his fist in perplexity; there was no apparent cause. Neither
Henry Thornton nor Elsie Hobson had any enemies; both were well liked,
in fact the former, from all accounts, was popular, and there was no
intelligible reason for either of them to “clear out.”
Poor Mrs. Hobson, who had been prostrated with the shock, had not yet
recovered. Her husband, a hale man of fifty-five, had grown old in
that week of trouble; and Arthur Shepperton, to whom Miss Hobson was
engaged, had worn himself haggard in tiring but fruitless search. The
surrounding country had been scoured, and the wood beaten from end to
end; but all in vain.
The Vicar sighed, and paused in his thoughts. A cool breeze from the
north-west blew in his face and brought him suddenly to himself. For a
moment he hesitated, surprised, not quite knowing where he was; then he
uttered an audible “Oh!” He found he had passed out of the wood, down
the gentle slope that adjoined the White Worlstoke Road, passed the
church and vicarage a quarter of mile further on; in fact, was quite
two miles beyond them, and within a stone’s-throw of Melsea Priory.
The sun was setting in gorgeous hue, over the sea to his left, and the
last lingering rays, striking the grey stones of the tower, threw out
in bold relief the remains of the once beautiful building. He turned
and looked at the ruins, with silent admiration, for it was the first
time he had seen them. The tower stood out in sentinel fashion, high
and commanding; but the sunlight softened the cold look of the stones,
and dispersed the otherwise grim appearance which they usually had.
Just behind, the thick ivy clung protectingly to the crumbling walls.
In the background were ploughed fields, while far in the distance could
be seen the dim outline of the Mendip Hills.
He walked a little nearer, to gain a better view, and again stood,
drinking it in. Gradually the last bright ray disappeared, leaving the
ruin in dull twilight, grey and old-looking.
The evening was very still; hardly a sound broke the silence. Once or
twice the distant barking of a dog came across the fields, and the
murmuring echo of voices. Occasionally, from the west behind him, the
sad voice of the sea caught his ear.
The dusk deepened, and in that calm period just before darkness sets
in, a space of time which no language can adequately express, but which
the heart and mind alone can feel, the man lost himself in reverie. The
night was gently casting a veil over a troubled world before it slept.
Gradually the coming darkness seemed to lift, then a faint silvery
light, playing on the walls of the priory, betrayed the new crescent
moon, soon to follow the sun over the western rim.
The man breathed deeply; it was exquisite. Forgotten for the time was
the pitiful tragedy that had absorbed his thoughts but an hour ago. He
was entranced by the unspeakable grandeur of the closing day.
All at once he felt strangely and completely alone; a quaint, eerie
feeling, as though he were cut off from all humanity—a curious sense of
abandonment and desolation seized him. It was as if he only were left
in a great universe.
Shaking himself, he smiled. Why, of course he was alone; but although
he passed it over, that feeling of loneliness was not merely the
absence of living flesh and blood, as he well knew. Still, the
sensation had turned his thoughts into another channel.
He was back in London, fifteen years ago, a young and healthy man,
eager for the work before him, and with that remarkable faith in his
heart which carries some people through the most arduous struggles.
Ah! how he worked in those days. His heart was great as well as his
faith, and he used to carry out his duties with a vigour that had won
for him a name.
And then, slowly but surely, doubts began to trickle through the armour
of his beliefs; and while reason began to coldly drive him one way, he
clung with a tenacity almost desperate to his early teachings. They had
wound themselves into his life, and it was hard and bitter to even have
to think that they were a mere nothing. But he was not satisfied, and
he read—heavens! how hungrily he read, hoping without hope, all types
of works; striving to obtain that for which many others have sacrificed
their lives: aye! and perhaps their souls too.
He shuddered, for in his searchings he had studied and practised Magic!
And yet, why should one exclaim? for what will a man not do when his
very self-conscious existence seems to be in the balance, and the long
and stern struggle within gives no light?
Let us not forget that there is a period in everyone’s life when the
real self demands that the vexed question of purpose in the universe
shall be settled. It is one of our lessons—part of our evolution.
Until we either consciously, or sub-consciously, realise or perceive
ultimate good in the nature of things, how can we set ourselves to work
for good? Unless, indeed, in the evolutionary process we are forced to
travel that path, and are not free to choose the ultimate end, but only
to retard or quicken it.
If we coldly examine our beliefs with critical reason, as we
undoubtedly should, we receive rude shocks; and if we pursue the
process, most of us get landed in an impasse, where we arrogantly
flounder, declaring that we have reached the extent of man’s rational
capabilities.
We treat condescendingly the many who have “faith without reason,”
and, in our blind ignorance, unjustly include with them the few who,
after weary battlings, have struggled out of the man-made cul-de-sac of
logic, and found, through intuitive knowledge, knowledge which is in us
all, but to which man’s artificial reasoning does not lead, some of the
great truths of existence.
But let us not be too harsh. The traps into which logical reasoning
allures us are many and deadly. For instance, if we come to analyse the
conscious desire which is in humanity for prolonged life, the desire
not to be swept into oblivion, where are we landed? Our process of
reasoning will not explain to us whether that desire is inherent merely
as a heritage from primitive man, or is something else which at present
we cannot understand; though its tendency is to convince us of the
former. Neither can logical reasoning explain many of the truths which
we already know—remember that we can know things without reasoning to
them. So let us beware! Though logic is part of truth, truth is not
necessarily logic; for logic is a part of a thing, and truth the whole
of it.
Based upon such premises had been the struggle within the Vicar’s self;
and he wondered now why he had not then gone mad; it must have been
a very near thing. Perhaps he was on the verge when the crisis came,
and his health broke down. Maybe that saved his reason. No doubt the
particularly hard position that he held, combined with the prolonged
struggle within, had been too much. He had not actually been ill, but
after a week of violent headache (neuralgic the doctor called it),
a kind of dull, lethargic spell came over him. He went about as if
crushed, and was rapidly sinking into an old man, when the offer of
Worlstoke came to his rescue.
The young moon sank over the horizon in the wake of the sun, and the
sudden change from the dim mystic light to darkness aroused him to a
sense of his present environment.
It was chilly. Buttoning his coat across his chest, he turned to go;
when once more that queer, lonely feeling crept over him.
It was uncanny; more, it was extraordinary, and puzzled him not a
little. He could not in any way connect it with anything he had
experienced before. It was as though that part of him which in the
evolution of things is always striving for betterment, struggling
to uplift, had been wrenched away, leaving his body a hulk of clay,
helplessly adrift.
He hesitated, trying within himself to understand this newly-born
sensation, and, as he strove to grasp it, he was forewarned that all
the old doubts (which had not troubled him since he came to Worlstoke)
were slowly beginning to rise.
Could it be that he was again going to suffer all the agony of mind to
which he had been exposed in London? He trembled to think of it. Such
an ordeal as that could not again be endured without calamity. No human
reason could twice sustain what he had passed through during those
long, wretched years of trial.
With an effort he controlled himself, overcame the paralysing sensation
which gripped him, and once more started off home.
But it was only momentarily. Those doubts, once roused, could not
so easily be quelled. Moreover, they were taking definite shape!
Something, he could not comprehend what, was actually forcing his
mind to accept there and then that not only was there no hope of God,
and Good, but that the reverse, evil (so-called), was the only real
force or power that existed. That so-called God, or Good, was merely
a phantasm of the disordered brain of man. That the whole universe
was one mighty, struggling mass of individual atoms, each seeking to
destroy the other. That—that—but enough! He stopped dead, mentally and
physically, and a cold perspiration broke over him. What was happening?
Was he really at last going mad?
He gazed dully through the darkness, trying to disentangle his
thoughts. His legs felt heavy and weary, as though the weight of his
troubled mind had been materially added to his body, and they could not
support the double burden. He almost sank to the ground, and probably
would have done so, when something happened which drew him up taut,
every muscle tense and senses alert.
Borne on the cool night wind, a long, low, plaintive cry came fretfully
calling over the fields, like the whine of a creature in pain.
The man’s breath came and went rapidly, in short fits and starts, and
irresolutely he strained his ears to catch the sound.
What was it?
A short deadly silence followed, during which he was conscious of a
dual desire. He wanted to go away from that cry—to run, anything, so
as not to hear it again. He was aware of a feeling of loathing and
repulsion, while something within said “fly.”
Simultaneously, he was aware that the hideous cry appealed to him
in some way, drew him in a mysterious manner; and he had a strong
impelling desire to go in the direction from which it came.
In spite of his usual outward calm, he trembled, though not knowing
why; for it was not physical fear that held him.
Hark! Once more it broke forth upon the stillness, whimpering and
wailing through the night; and in it there was a blood-curdling note of
wicked mockery.
The Vicar gasped; it seemed unnatural; instinct told him that no
human voice could make that sound. Then it must be an animal—but what
animal? What beast could produce a cry of that description? It was
most improbable; for there was a distinct intelligible note in it,
which appealed and called, of which surely no animal was capable; but
what other explanation was there?
Moreover, he was keenly sensible of that subtle note, supplicating in
an alluring manner to something as yet unknown.
Once more it penetrated the darkness, long drawn out, mournful, and
this time—O God! the appeal, the call, was to him. Something in him
stirred and responded to it, holding him fast, although he fought hard,
in palpable fear and disgust, to overcome it.
Slowly, slowly, impelled by he knew not what, he began to move, as
though drawn by invisible hands toward the ruined priory; and as he
stealthily glided over the ground, the feeling of horror which had been
so acute became less so, until it gradually but surely left him.
His pace quickened, and with it his blood circulated more freely, until
a warm glow suffused his body. All at once he felt joyously elated, as
though treading on air—a buoyant feeling of awful gladness dominated
him.
Tiny patches of green mist began slowly to twist and twirl in the
gloom, now at a distance, now close, not more than a couple of yards
away. Faster and faster they danced, in a never-ending maze, until the
pace became bewildering, and he watched them fascinated.
They seemed to be leading him, but where he did not know, nor did he
care much just then, his one desire being to follow, though there was a
dim idea in his mind that they would guide him to some place where he
anxiously wanted to go.
He was walking quickly now, and the heat engendered by the sharp
physical action, caused him instinctively to want to open his coat. He
tried to lift his hand to do so, but some force seemed to hold it down.
Absorbed in watching the dancing mist, he steadily followed in its
wake. But the heat became almost intolerable, and involuntarily he
again tried to lift his hand to release the buttons, and ease the hot
choking feeling at his throat. Once more that same hidden power held it
back; but this time, the strong, overbearing desire to obtain relief
from the heat compelled his attention for a moment, not consciously,
but instinctively, and the resistance irritated, half-angered him.
Natural obstinacy resented it, and with a violent jerk, he brought his
hand to the top of his coat and literally tore it open.
And now a strange thing happened. Practically at the same time that he
released the buttons of his coat, his fingers by accident (?) came in
contact with the little gold cross that he always wore round his neck,
and clutched it....
+Snap!+ Something seemed to part asunder in his brain with a report.
He came to a sudden halt, and stared about him fearfully, as one would
when first waking from a dreadful dream. He gave a little exclamation
of wonder, then started to laugh, but the laughter died away, as
suddenly he remembered that abominable cry. As the thought of it came
surging into his brain, he was for a space seized with an overwhelming
nausea, followed by a sense of revolting disgust.
For half a minute he might have stood thus, and then he regained
control of his muscles. With a gasp of real fear, he turned and blindly
ran as hard as he could run, as though all the powers of Hell were let
loose upon his track.
Over the uneven ground he fled, over the hedge at the bottom of the
field, and up the road, heedless of all and everything but the fear in
his heart, until he fell, exhausted and trembling, but with his fingers
still clutching the little gold cross, on the floor of the summer-house
in the garden of the quiet old Vicarage. For a short space he lay thus,
perhaps sixty seconds, and then he felt himself plunging through black
voids, falling, falling into empty, bottomless nothingness. He had
fainted.