More Deadly than the Male

by Graeme Davis

  My father called to her to stop, with a voice of thunder. “Philip, leave us at once. It is not a matter to be discussed with you.”

  And then in a moment it became clear to me what it was. It had been with difficulty that I had kept myself still. My breast was labouring with the fever of an impulse poured into me, more than I could contain. And now for the first time I knew why. I hurried towards him, and took his hand, though he resisted, into mine. Mine were burning, but his like ice: their touch burnt me with its chill, like fire. “This is what it is?” I cried. “I had no knowledge before. I don’t know now what is being asked of you. But, father—understand! You know, and I know now, that some one sends me—some one—who has a right to interfere.”

  He pushed me away with all his might “You are mad,” he cried. “What right have you to think—? Oh, you are mad—mad! I have seen it coming on—”

  The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, watching this brief conflict with the terror and interest with which women watch a struggle between men. She started and fell back when she heard what he said, but did not take her eyes off me, following every movement I made. When I turned to go away, a cry of indescribable disappointment and remonstrance burst from her, and even my father raised himself up and stared at my withdrawal, astonished to find that he had overcome me so soon and easily. I paused for a moment, and looked back on them, seeing them large and vague through the mist of fever. “I am not going away,” I said “I am going for another messenger—one you can’t gainsay.”

  My father rose. He called out to me threateningly, “I will have nothing touched that is hers. Nothing that is hers shall be profaned—”

  I waited to hear no more: I knew what I had to do. By what means it was conveyed to me I cannot tell; but the certainty of an influence which no one thought of calmed me in the midst of my fever. I went out into the hall, where I had seen the young stranger waiting. I went up to her and touched her on the shoulder. She rose at once, with a little movement of alarm, yet with docile and instant obedience, as if she had expected the summons. I made her take off her veil and her bonnet, scarcely looking at her, scarcely seeing her, knowing how it was: I took her soft, small, cool, yet trembling hand into mine; it was so soft and cool, not cold, it refreshed me with its tremulous touch. All through I moved and spoke like a man in a dream, swiftly, noiselessly, all the complications of waking life removed, without embarrassment, without reflection, without the loss of a moment. My father was still standing up, leaning a little forward as he had done when I withdrew, threatening, yet terror-stricken, not knowing what I might be about to do, when I returned with my companion. That was the one thing he had not thought of. He was entirely undefended, unprepared. He gave her one look, flung up his arms above his head, and uttered a distracted cry, so wild that it seemed the last outcry of nature—“Agnes!” then fell back like a sudden ruin, upon himself, into his chair.

  I had no leisure to think how he was, or whether he could hear what I said. I had my message to deliver. “Father,” I said, labouring with my panting breath, “it is for this that heaven has opened, and one whom I never saw, one whom I know not, has taken possession of me. Had we been less earthly we should have seen her—herself, and not merely her image. I have not even known what she meant. I have been as a fool without understanding. This is the third time I have come to you with her message, without knowing what to say. But now I have found it out. This is her message. I have found it out at last.”

  There was an awful pause—a pause in which no one moved or breathed. Then there came a broken voice out of my father’s chair. He had not understood, though I think he heard what I said. He put out two feeble hands. “Phil—I think I am dying—has she—has she come for me?” he said.

  We had to carry him to his bed. What struggles he had gone through before I cannot tell. He had stood fast, and had refused to be moved, and now he fell—like an old tower, like an old tree. The necessity there was for thinking of him saved me from the physical consequences which had prostrated me on a former occasion. I had no leisure now for any consciousness of how matters went with myself.

  His delusion was not wonderful, but most natural. She was clothed in black from head to foot, instead of the white dress of the portrait. She had no knowledge of the conflict, of nothing but that she was called for, that her fate might depend on the next few minutes. In her eyes there was a pathetic question, a line of anxiety in the lids, an innocent appeal in the looks. And the face the same: the same lips, sensitive, ready to quiver; the same innocent, candid brow; the look of a common race, which is more subtle than mere resemblance. How I knew that it was so, I cannot tell, nor any man. It was the other—the elder—ah no! not elder; the ever young, the Agnes to whom age can never come—she who they say was the mother of a man who never saw her—it was she who led her kinswoman, her representative, into our hearts.

  My father recovered after a few days: he had taken cold, it was said, the day before—and naturally, at seventy, a small matter is enough to upset the balance even of a strong man. He got quite well; but he was willing enough afterwards to leave the management of that ticklish kind of property which involves human wellbeing in my hands, who could move about more freely, and see with my own eyes how things were going on. He liked home better, and had more pleasure in his personal existence in the end of his life. Agnes is now my wife, as he had, of course, foreseen. It was not merely the disinclination to receive her father’s daughter, or to take upon him a new responsibility, that had moved him, to do him justice. But both these motives had told strongly. I have never been told, and now will never be told, what his griefs against my mother’s family, and specially against that cousin, had been; but that he had been very determined, deeply prejudiced, there can be no doubt. It turned out after, that the first occasion on which I had been mysteriously commissioned to him with a message which I did not understand, and which for that time he did not understand, was the evening of the day on which he had received the dead man’s letter, appealing to him—to him, a man whom he had wronged—on behalf of the child who was about to be left friendless in the world. The second time, further letters, from the nurse who was the only guardian of the orphan, and the chaplain of the place where her father had died, taking it for granted that my father’s house was her natural refuge—had been received. The third I have already described, and its results.

  For a long time after, my mind was never without a lurking fear that the influence which had once taken possession of me might return again. Why should I have feared to be influenced—to be the messenger of a blessed creature, whose wishes could be nothing but heavenly? Who can say? Flesh and blood is not made for such encounters: they were more than I could bear. But nothing of the kind has ever occurred again.

  Agnes had her peaceful domestic throne established under the picture. My father wished it to be so, and spent his evenings there in the warmth and light, instead of in the old library, in the narrow circle cleared by our lamp out of the darkness, as long as he lived. It is supposed by strangers that the picture on the wall is that of my wife; and I have always been glad that it should be so supposed. She who was my mother, who came back to me and became as my soul for three strange moments and no more, but with whom I can feel no credible relationship as she stands there, has retired for me into the tender regions of the unseen. She has passed once more into the secret company of those shadows, who can only become real in an atmosphere fitted to modify and harmonise all differences, and make all wonders possible the light of the perfect day.

  THE SHRINE OF DEATH

  by Lady Dilke

  1886

  Emilia Francis Strong—known as “Francis,” with its masculine spelling, to family and friends—was educated at South Kensington Art School, and married Mark Pattison, the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, in 1861; after he died in 1884, she married the Liberal politician Sir Charles Dilke. Accordingly, she is credited as Francis Pattison, Mrs. Mark Pattison, or E. F. S. Pattison
in her earlier publications, and as Lady Dilke or Emilia Dilke thereafter.

  The bulk of her work was serious: she wrote about the trade union movement, art history, British and European politics, and women’s issues. She contributed to London’s respected Saturday Review newspaper, and for some years she was the fine-art critic—and later art editor—for The Academy, a London-based review of literature, science, and art. She was also involved with the Women’s Protective and Provident League (later the Women’s Trade Union League) from near its inception in 1874, serving as its president for many years until her death.

  Lady Dilke published two collections of supernatural stories in her lifetime—The Shrine of Death and Other Stories and The Shrine of Love and Other Stories—and a third, partial volume posthumously. Her stories are marked by a lyricism which contrasts with the rest of her writing: rather than evoking feelings of horror in the reader, they are dreamlike fables, more like dark fairy tales than the “spook stories” popular at the time. “The Shrine of Death,” from the collection of the same name, is no exception: it may be short, but it is satisfying and disturbing in equal measure, full of powerful imagery that her rich language brings vividly to life.

  Ah! Life has many secrets!—These were the first words that fell on the ears of a little girl-baby, whose mother had just been brought to bed. As she grew up she pondered their meaning, and, before all things, she desired to know the secrets of life. Thus, longing and brooding, she grew apart from other children, and her dreams were ever of how the secrets of life should be revealed to her.

  Now, when she was about fifteen years of age, a famous witch passed through the town in which she dwelt, and the child heard much talk of her, and people said that her knowledge of all things was great, and that even as the past lay open before her, so there was nothing in the future that could be hidden from her. Then the child thought to herself, “This woman, if by any means I get speech of her, can, if she will, tell me all the secrets of life.”

  Nor was it long after, that walking late in the evening with other and lesser children, along the ramparts on the east side of the town, she came to a corner of the wall which lay in deep shadow, and out of the shadow there sprang a large black dog, baying loudly, and the children were terrified, and fled, crying out, “It is the witch’s dog!” and one, the least of all, fell in its terror, so the elder one tarried, and lifted it from the ground, and, as she comforted it—for it was shaken by its fall, and the dog continued baying—the witch herself came out of the shadow, and said, “Off with you, you little fools, and break my peace no more with your folly.” And the little one ran for fear, but the elder girl stood still, and laying hold of the witch’s mantle, she said, “Before I go, tell me, what are the secrets of life?” And the witch answered, “Marry Death, fair child, and you will know.”

  At the first, the saying of the witch fell like a stone in the girl’s heart, but ere long her words, and the words which she had heard in the hour of her birth, filled all her thoughts, and when other girls jested or spoke of feasts and merriment, of happy love and all the joys of life, such talk seemed to her mere wind of idle tales, and the gossips who would have made a match for her schemed in vain, for she had but one desire, the desire to woo Death, and learn the secrets of life. Often now she would seek the ramparts in late evening, hoping that in the shadows she might once more find the witch, and learn from her the way to her desire; but she found her not.

  Returning in the darkness, it so happened, after one of these fruitless journeys, that she passed under the walls of an ancient church, and looking up at the windows, she saw the flickering of a low, unsteady light upon the coloured panes, and she drew near to the door, and, seeing it ajar, she pushed it open and entered, and passing between the mighty columns of the nave, she stepped aside to the spot whence the light proceeded. Having done so, she found herself standing in front of a great tomb, in one side of which were brazen gates, and beyond the gates a long flight of marble steps leading down to a vast hall or chapel below; and above the gates, in a silver lamp, was a light burning, and as the chains by which the lamp was suspended moved slightly in the draught from the open door of the church, the light which burnt in it flickered, and all the shadows around shifted so that nothing seemed still, and this constant recurrence of change was like the dance of phantoms in the air. And the girl, seeing the blackness, thought of the corner on the ramparts where she had met the witch, and almost she expected to see her, and to hear her dog baying in the shadows.

  When she drew nearer, she found that the walls were loaded with sculpture, and the niches along the sides were filled with statues of the wise men of all time; but at the corners were four women whose heads were bowed, and whose hands were bound in chains. Then, looking at them as they sat thus, discrowned but majestic, the soul of the girl was filled with sorrow, and she fell weeping, and, clasping her hands in her grief, she cast her eyes to heaven. As she did so, the lamp swayed a little forwards, and its rays touched with light a figure seated on the top of the monument. When the girl caught sight of this figure she ceased weeping, and when she had withdrawn a step or two backwards, so as to get a fuller view; she fell upon her knees, and a gleam of wondrous expectation shone out of her face; for, on the top of the tomb, robed and crowned, sat the image of Death, and a great gladness and awe filled her soul, for she thought, “If I may but be found worthy to enter his portals, all the secrets of life will be mine.” And laying her hands on the gates, she sought to open them, but they were locked, so after a little while she went sadly away.

  Each day, from this time forth, when twilight fell, the girl returned to the church, and would there remain kneeling for many hours before the shrine of Death, nor could she by any means be drawn away from her purpose. Her mind was fixed on her desire, so that she became insensible to all else; and the whole town mocked her, and her own people held her for mad. So then, at last, they took her before a priest, and the priest, when he had talked with her awhile, said, “Let her have her way. Let her pass a night within the shrine; on the morrow it may be that her wits will have returned to her.”

  So a day was set, and they robed her in white as a bride, and in great state, with youths bearing torches, and many maidens, whose hands were full of flowers, she was brought through the city at night fall to the church; and the gates of the shrine were opened, and as she passed within, the youths put out their torches and the maidens threw their roses on the steps beneath her feet. When the gates closed upon her, she stood still awhile upon the upper steps, and so she waited until the last footfall had ceased to echo in the church, and she knew herself to be alone in the long desired presence. Then, full of reverent longing and awe, she drew her veil about her, and as she did so, she found a red rose that had caught in it, and, striving to dislodge it, she brought it close to her face, and its perfume was very strong, and she saw, as in a vision, the rose garden of her mother’s house, and the face of one who had wooed her there in the sun; but, even as she stood irresolute, the haying of a hound in the distant street fell on her ears, and she remembered the words of the witch, “Marry Death, fair child, if you would know the secrets of life,” and casting the rose from her, she began to descend the steps.

  As she went down, she heard, as it were, the light pattering of feet behind her; but turning, when she came to the foot, to look, she found that this sound was only the echoing fall from step to step of the flowers which her long robes had drawn after her, and she heeded them not, for she was now within the shrine, and looking to the right hand and to the left, she saw long rows of tombs, each one hewn in marble and covered with sculpture of wondrous beauty.

  All this, though, she saw dimly; the plainest thing to view was the long black shadow of her own form, cast before her by the light from the lamp above, and as she looked beyond the uttermost rim of shadow, she became aware of an awful shape seated at a marble table whereon lay an open book. Looking on this dread shape, she trembled, for she knew that she was in the presen
ce of Death. Then, seeing the book, her heart was uplifted within her, and stepping boldly forwards, she seated herself before it, and as she did so, it seemed to her that she heard a shiver from within the tombs.

  Now, when she came near, Death had raised his finger, and he pointed to the writing on the open page, but, as she put her hands upon the book, the blood rushed back to her heart, for it was ice-cold, and again it seemed to her that something moved within the tombs. It was but for a minute, then her courage returned, and she fixed her eyes eagerly upon the lines before her and began to read, but the very letters were at first strange to her, and even when she knew them she could by no means frame them into words, or make any sentence out of them, so that, at the last, she looked up in her wonderment to seek aid. But he, the terrible one, before whom she sat, again lifted his finger, and as he pointed to the page, a weight as of lead forced down her eyes upon the book; and now the letters shifted strangely, and when she thought to have seized a word or a phrase it would suddenly begone, for, if the text shone out plain for an instant, the strange shadows, moving with the movements of the silver lamp, would blot it again as quickly from sight.

  At this, distraction filled her mind, and she heard her own breathing like sobs in the darkness, and fear choked her; for ever, when she would have appealed for help, her eyes saw the same deadly menace, the same uplifted and threatening finger. Then, glancing to left and right, a new horror took possession of her, for the lids of the tombs were yawning wide, and whenever her thoughts turned to flight, their awful tenants peered at her from above the edges, and they made as though they would have stayed her.

  Thus she sat till it was long past midnight, and her heart was sick within her, when again the distant baying of a hound reached her ears; but this sound, instead of giving her fresh courage, seemed to her but a bitter mockery, for she thought, “What shall the secrets of life profit me, if I must make my bed with Death?” And she became mad with anger, and she cursed the counsels of the witch, and in her desperation, like a creature caught in the toils, she sprang from her seat and made towards the steps by which she had come. Ere she could reach them, all the dreadful dwellers in the tombs were before her, and she, seeing the way to life was barred for ever, fell to the ground at their feet and gave up her spirit in a great agony. Then each terrible one returned to his place, and the book which lay open before Death closed with a noise as of thunder, and the light which burnt before his shrine went out, so that all was darkness.