A SAINT AND A SINNER
On Thursday morning, at the appointed hour, the Rev. Philip Alletson
made his way to the Manor. The maid who answered the door admitted him
immediately, and conducted him up to the tower study.
His host was not there, so he went and seated himself upon the
“Chesterfield” that filled the recess of the west window. Considering
the short time he had been at Worlstoke, he knew the room well. Many a
pleasant hour had he spent in it with his friend, over a game of chess,
or in discussing mutually interesting subjects.
He always felt at home in this room, with its comfortably arranged
furniture. There was a sense of Eastern luxury in it, conveyed no doubt
by the beautifully figured tapestry that draped the north and south
walls; the thick, richly coloured rugs that covered the well-polished
floor, and the heavily upholstered furniture. In fact, the only article
of modern appearance was a plain leather-topped writing-desk in the
east window, supplemented by a business-like swivel oak chair.
As he thought of these things he grew easier, and the doubt he had
about Brentwood’s attitude respecting what he was going to say, almost
disappeared.
He gave a sigh of relief, and turning his head, looked out of the
window. Far away over the rich fields he could see the restless
changing sea, sweeping across the Bristol Channel; while to the south
he could just discern the end of the low-water pier of Westsea. It was
a beautiful view, with the rich green fields running almost to the edge
of the bay. Here and there amongst the green were farms and cottages,
while splashes of white at irregular intervals denoted the winding road
that ran from the shore through Storton to the old priory at Melsea.
While thus absorbed, the door quietly opened, and his host entered
noiselessly. Seeing that his visitor was preoccupied, he took advantage
of the fact to contemplate him at his leisure.
“Yes,” he thought, “the Vicar has a good face, there is strength in it
too, shown by the firmly set mouth and jaw.” Here he paused, surveying
him critically. “Eyes rather too closely set, tending to narrowness,
but that to some extent obviated by a fairly broad brow. Temperament
nervous, very nervous.” He almost said “unfortunately so,” but instead
he only said “umph,” which observation caused the Vicar to turn
suddenly round.
He rose immediately, and crossing the room, shook hands with his host,
who, in his quiet way, greeted him cordially enough.
The contrast between the two men was very marked, as they stood
facing each other. The one tall and slender, with grey eyes set in a
rather stern face, almost ascetic, his temperament highly strung and
imaginative. The other, half Eastern, with dark skin, deep brown
dreamy eyes, and closely cropped black hair, yet heavily built,
denoting great physical strength, full-blooded and healthy, and
possessed of a cool and calculating mind, that rarely lost its balance.
“I hope,” began the Vicar, “you will forgive this informality. Really,
I——”
“Oh, that is all right,” interrupted the other. “If the matter is so
important as your note indicates, there is no question of formality.
Let’s get seated and then you can begin.”
Alletson settled himself down in one of the comfortable chairs, and
then comprehensively and concisely related his experience of the Monday
night, right down to when he lost consciousness in the summer arbour.
Here he paused and looked at Brentwood, who had been gazing out of the
window while he was speaking. The silence caused the other to glance
round, and for a minute he eyed his friend questioningly. Then he rose
slowly, and approaching him, said shortly, “Let me feel your pulse.”
The Vicar drew in his breath and started forward in his chair. This was
just what he had dreaded. Was he going to laugh at him? However, he
controlled himself and held out his left arm.
The Master of Storton watched the second hand of his watch, in silent
ease. When he had finished, he resumed his seat and, without saying
anything, returned his gaze to the window, waiting for the other to
proceed.
There was a pause. The Vicar did not quite understand. He was not aware
that his host was a doctor, and it looked as though he were joking.
Before he proceeded any further he must know in what light he viewed
the narrative.
“Do you take me seriously?” he asked rather coldly.
The other turned and slightly lifted his brows.
“Why should I not?”
Alletson looked relieved.
“I hardly understood your testing my pulse.”
Brentwood looked enlightened and replied:
“Oh, I see. I simply did that just to prove to myself that you were
normal. Will you please proceed? I take it that you have not told me
all you want to say?”
“To be quite plain,” continued Alletson, “I believe there is some power
at large in the neighbourhood, something evil, and that it has caused
the disappearance of Elsie Hobson and Henry Thornton!”
Brentwood faced round with a jerk. He was not necessarily surprised,
but this conclusion seemed to cause him to concentrate his attention.
“What should make you think it has caused the disappearance of those
two people, presuming that such a power as you have mentioned is at
large?”
The Vicar shrugged his shoulders in despair. Here he felt he might fail
with his neighbour. These scientific men were such sticklers for hard
facts, and he had none of those facts to give.
“I am afraid I cannot satisfactorily answer that, but let me be as
explicit as I can. Inwardly I feel quite sure about it. Somehow or
other I _know_; just the same as I know that there is a sympathetic
link between you and me, though I could not explain it.”
Brentwood got up and walked to the window, and for a space looked out
silently. He felt he had somewhat misjudged this man. He was almost
certain before he came that the matter he wished to discuss was
something to do with the Church, and he regretted that even in thought
he should have wronged him. At last he walked back to his chair and
said:
“Cannot you give me any idea why you should think such a thing? Haven’t
you any train of thought which leads up to it?”
“To be quite frank, No! But I ‘sense’ it.”
“‘Sense’ it?” echoed his host. “Excuse me cross-examining, Alletson,
but it is necessary if we are to arrive at a common basis. What do you
mean by ‘sense’ it?”
The Vicar thought for a minute.
“It would be very difficult for me to explain that; but really I think
you understand what I mean.”
His friend looked grimly amused.
“You repose a lot of confidence in me. Do you know how the scientific
mind interprets that word when it is used (or rather I should say
‘abused’) outside its ordinary meaning?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Imagination.”
A hard expression came into Alletson’s eyes. Brentwood noticed it, for
he added quickly:
“But I quite understand that that is not what you wished to convey to
me. What you mean, I take it, is, outside your known five physical
senses, you have, through one or more as yet unknown senses, become
cognisant of this evil force. Is not that so?”
His friend looked relieved.
“That’s exactly what I mean. It is a similar sensing to that which one
has when, say, going out of an ordinary room into a cathedral. Do you
understand?”
The other laughed. “Yes, I do understand, although your analogy
might easily be explained away by the different structure of the two
buildings. Remember that the vastness of a cathedral and the ominous
silence usually connected with it naturally impress one with a feeling
of littleness and consequently of awe. But what made me laugh was the
fact that your explanation reminded me of a so-called Eastern mystery
which I came across in Circassia. There are two caves in one of the
mountains of the Caucasus, very nearly alike. One is called ‘Evil,’
wherein the devil is supposed to dwell, and the other ‘Good,’ where God
resides. The rogues who run this show invite guileless strangers to see
for themselves, solemnly warning them not to treat the mystery lightly,
as they are in the hands of powerful influences.
“The effect is remarkable. You are shown firstly into the cave ‘Good,’
and soon you are astonished at the happy feeling that comes over
you. Then you go into the cave ‘Evil,’ similar in size, shape, and
appearance to the other, and in about two minutes most people gladly
come out, with a feeling that their hair is standing on end. It is
merely a clever trick of Oriental magic. However, to return to the
main path; I take it you seriously want me to probe this matter?”
“To that end I have come here with the fixed intention of obtaining
your co-operation, if it is possible.”
Brentwood thought seriously for a time. At last he said:
“Have you had any practical experience of things of this nature?”
The Vicar hesitated somewhat.
“Well, I can hardly say. I have studied hypnotism fairly closely, also
magic, but I’m afraid I know more of the theory than the practice of
either.”
His host looked interested.
“Have you had any results?”
“In hypnotism, yes; I’ve had some queer results. When in the
third, or trance stage, my sister—with whom I conducted the
experiments—forewarned me of a serious breakdown in health which came
true. On one occasion she, apparently without any effort, told me
where to find my signet ring, which I had mislaid some three months
previously and given up for lost. That was done when the matter was far
from my mind, in fact, almost forgotten. Another time she exclaimed
in a joyous voice that she was free and was going away. For an hour
or more I could not get her to speak, and I was beginning to feel
uneasy. All the colour had left her face and her breathing was hardly
perceptible. At last, much to my relief, she began to come round, and
then she started to upbraid me, saying I was cruel to call her back,
and entreating me to let her go again. Unfortunately she could not
remember anything of this episode when in the normal state. These in
particular, and some minor results, I have had.”
The Master of Storton opened his eyes widely. He had no idea his friend
had progressed that far in such a study. He was really surprised,
though he did not say so.
“Have you had any experience of vampires, werewolves, or anything of
the kind?”
The Vicar laughed.
“Of course I’ve read about them, if that’s what you mean.”
Brentwood repeated his question, though this time he emphasised the
word “experience.”
His friend looked at him in amazement.
“No! certainly not. But surely you don’t mean to suggest that such
things exist except in legend?”
His host surveyed him calmly, and there was a suggestion of mockery
in his eyes. How was it, he thought, that so many folk jumped to
conclusions upon certain things, particularly of this stamp, without
attempting to verify them? Here was a man intellectually in the prime
of life, well-educated and well-read, who, while admitting that he knew
practically nothing about them—excepting what he had casually read—was
satisfied that they did not exist! It was irritating.
“Have you ever travelled in the East?”
“No, I’ve never been further than Italy.”
“You know that I have spent some years out there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what I was doing?”
The Vicar looked a little guilty. He was conscious that he had
sought information about his neighbour; not bluntly, but had taken
opportunities when they occurred to obtain knowledge of him.
“Well, I understand that you were engaged in psychological research.”
“Quite so. Incidentally, I had to investigate other things closely
connected with it, and my experiences have led me to grave conclusions.
To be quite plain, I am convinced that the existence of so-called
vampires and werewolves is not based on myth. Some of the extraordinary
phenomena I have witnessed and dealt with have settled that point
in my mind, beyond doubt; though there is of course a good deal of
superstition mixed up with the matter and its origin is obscure.”
Alletson studied the carpet. His friend’s tone was serious and sincere;
besides, so far as he knew, Brentwood was not a man to play with words.
But this was remarkable news; it had never occurred to him that there
could possibly be any truth in such things—it was generally taken for
granted that they were myth, and that idea was so firmly implanted in
his mind it could not be eradicated at once.
“It is difficult to believe,” he said, “though I cannot contradict what
you say; but it seems incredible.”
“The tricks of the illusionist seem incredible until we find out
how they are done,” was the terse reply. “But let me remind you, as
Shakespeare said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy.’ We are too apt to take things for
granted. The tendency of the present age seems to be: We know this
and we know that; what we don’t know is not. Could anything be more
arrogant? Is it not more rational to allow that things which appear to
be impossible may be, than to assume that what we don’t know cannot be?”
The Vicar smiled interestedly.
“If,” he replied, “I am to take up the cudgels for modern thought, I
would answer that although it is argued that what we don’t know is not,
the analysis of it is that though a thing may exist, it is unknowable
to us, and therefore, as far as we are concerned, it is not.”
“Your answer is the one that is usually put forward; but do you take
that view yourself?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Beyond a certain point, I trust largely to
intuition; and no reasoning I can bring to bear can affect that view.”
Brentwood half closed his eyes.
“If I may say so, I take it that that applies to you in your religion?”
The Vicar was silent a moment, then, looking straight at his friend,
replied frankly:
“Certainly, no broad-minded cleric would attempt to narrow down his
religion to a creed.”
“Quite so,” said the other; “and yet a few minutes ago you did
not make use of the same principle when I mentioned werewolves and
vampires.”
“That is true,” answered the Vicar; “but is not your analogy a little
irrelevant? There is a reasonable basis for philosophy and also for
religion; but I don’t think you can say that much for vampires, et
cetera. Someone may have dreamed of such things very vividly in the
first place, and believed they were actually real. Besides, there is no
evidence upon which to build.”
Brentwood smiled a little satirically.
“I’m afraid I must contradict you there, and proof of what I say
would make my analogy relevant. But be that as it may, what strikes
me so very palpably is, that where a thing is bred in one’s blood and
bone—like Christianity for nearly two thousand years, and like the
belief in vampires and werewolves for a much longer period still—no
amount of antipathetic environment seems able to entirely eradicate it;
and, consequently, educated people of all nationalities unconsciously
give themselves certain latitude with their own particular racial
peculiarities, _i.e._ allow their intuitive faculties to play upon
them. But when it comes to another person’s national eccentricities, Oh
no, that is idle legend!”
The Vicar, who had listened attentively, took a long breath. There was
undoubtedly reason in his friend’s argument, but he spoke in such a
confident tone that it slightly irritated him. Usually the boot was on
the other foot—it was the clerical mind that adopted that attitude. He
smiled amusedly as he thought of the many times he had seen and heard
his colleagues speak thus.
“You are very confident,” he said at last. “Are you so absolutely
sure of what you say? For instance, how can you speak with authority
about the hereditary instincts of the Eastern races; although you have
studied them, you cannot actually know what they feel?”
“Perhaps the simplest way of answering,” replied the other, “is to tell
you at once that I am not an Englishman. There is Hindoo blood in me
from my mother, who was half a Circassian.”
He paused to see what effect his words would have on the Vicar, but the
latter, if surprised, did not give vent to it; he merely nodded his
head, and his friend continued:
“So you see I’m fairly capable of judging from that standpoint, as well
as from a Western one. However, to return to the subject of your call.
Do I understand that Miss Alletson is mediumistic?”
“Yes, she has power in that way.”
“Is she aware of what you have told me?”
“No. I have not mentioned anything to her. I did not see that it could
serve any useful purpose at present. On the other hand, I concluded
that it might upset her peace of mind.”
“Have you any other reason for withholding this matter from her?”
“No,” he replied, “but I see no reason why I should inform her.”
“Well, I think she could assist us in no small degree.”
“Indeed!”
Their eyes met, and for a time they looked at each other. He could not
have said why, but the first thought that entered Alletson’s head was
one of resentment. No, he would not draw Constance into it. But the
thought vanished for the time, almost as soon as it was born.
His host seemed to read it, for he said quietly:
“I think you may take my word for it that no harm would come to your
sister. So far as I am aware, it would only be necessary for her to act
as the medium of one or two experiments, which appear to me essential
if we are to obtain any clue. But of course, if you would rather not
draw her into the case, I will not pursue the matter further.”
The Vicar was silent. There was really no good reason to refuse, yet he
could not help but realise that he wanted to do so. While he hesitated,
his sister’s words, “Promise you will let me know all that you do,”
came back to his memory and decided his answer:
“Very well, I’ll put the position to her, but of course she must decide
for herself.”
“I take it,” said Brentwood drily, “that you wish to keep things as
quiet as possible, at any rate for the time being, and the fact of your
sister being the medium would ensure secrecy. Moreover, she is to some
extent acquainted with the case.”
“Quite so, quite so,” replied the Vicar. “I have little doubt but that
she will be willing to assist us.”
“There is just one more thing I would like to add,” went on the Master
of Storton. “I shall want to take into my confidence, in a matter of
this kind, my chauffeur, Agar Halfi, the Hindoo.”
Alletson looked up a little surprised as he replied:
“Certainly, if you think it necessary.”
“Well,” continued the other, “I do. He has had great experience of such
matters, besides the fact that he was with me during all my travels.
Now, I don’t think we can get much further at present, and I am sure
you must be hungry. Let us go and have some lunch.”