by Dion Fortune
This was a most extraordinary thing. Here was he, the living image of the dead monk with whom he felt such a profound sympathy and whose house he had got! What did it all mean? He rose, pulled on his leather coat, went and fetched the car from the shed that housed it, and sped down the long mile to Monks Farm.
There was no one there when he arrived, Mr Pinker having called his men off to give first aid to a cowshed that threatened to fall down upon its occupants. The first faint dusk was gathering as Hugh made his way round the buildings, and using his duplicate key, he let himself into what had once been the large chapel of the priory.
The rough boarding at the west end had been taken down, and revealed the skeleton of a stone-mullioned rose-window of lovely proportions, with fragments of stained glass still clinging here and there in the highest angles. The dirt floor had been dug out, and revealed patterned tiles. In a corner under the window, carefully laid on an old sack, was a pile of bits of broken, multicoloured glass, that had evidently been picked out of the dirt of the floor as it was shovelled away. Hugh was delighted. He would have a fascinating time piecing the bits together like a jigsaw puzzle and having them restored to their place in the tracery.
Standing beneath the west window, through which the last of the light struck upwards from the sunset, he saw that the roof was steep-pitched, and very lofty for the size of the building, and that it was divided into five bays by buttress pillars. In each bay he could just discern the dim lines of a vast winged figure, evidently an angel.
The east end, contrary to the custom of churches, presented a blank wall instead of a window, and upon its great height Hugh could see the shadowy outlines of a painting. He walked slowly up the aisle, and as he advanced, the picture became clearer, and he saw that it represented a vast green tree bearing multi-coloured fruit. Ten of them, he counted, in the faded remains of crude primary colours, arranged in stiff triangles, three by three, with the odd one low down on the trunk at the bottom.
Immediately in the centre, as if it were a pot for the tree to grow in, was a square stone pedestal like a short pillar, waist-high. Hugh wondered what in the world this had been, for it was exactly where the altar ought to have stood. On the stonework of the wall he could see clearly the marks where the altar had been fastened, and it evidently completely enclosed the stone pedestal.
Three steps led up from the nave of the chapel into the sanctuary, and there the tiling ended and mosaic began. He saw that the design on the mosaic represented the twelve signs of the Zodiac, with the seven planets within their circle, and the symbols of the four elements of earth, air, fire and water in the centre. It was an exact reproduction of a picture in one of Jelkes’ books.
Then the solution of the curious stone pedestal, enclosed in the altar, suddenly dawned on him. He had been reading about exactly the same thing in another of Jelkes’ books. One of the charges against the Knights Templars was that they had made cubical stone altars to the goat-god, Baphomet, and concealed them underneath orthodox wooden table-altars, made to open up like cupboard doors, so that the unitiated suspected nothing.
Hugh was thrilled to the marrow. This chapel, outwardly Christian, was inwardly pagan. No wonder they bricked up Ambrosius!
It was fast becoming too dark to see any details of the shadowy building, and as he sat, he felt a curious sensation. It seemed to him as if the chapel were the focus of all the forces of the universe and they all converged upon it. He sat listening, as it were, to the sensation, and it went on steadily, like the sound of a waterfall. The chapel grew darker and darker, and he rose, groped his way round the buildings, switched on the car headlights with a sense of relief, and returned to the Green Man.
Settling down over the fire after his meal with a cup of tea and a cigarette Hugh set to work to puzzle out the situation concerning Mona Wilton, whom at first sight he had not found to be particularly prepossessing, but who was gradually becoming — he did not quite know what. A friend, unquestionably, but that was an odd relationship to have with a youngish woman.
Hugh was accustomed to women who took love-making as a matter of course, but Mona obviously did not want him to flirt with her, in fact, would have strongly objected to any attempt at so doing. He also suspected that even as a friend, she intended to keep him at arm’s length. In one way he liked the unacknowledged friendship, with its steady sense of fidelity and goodwill, better than any more explicit and open relationship, which might have proved embarrassing; but on the other hand, the manhood in him wanted to press on to more intimate matters. It slowly dawned on him that he was getting awfully fond of her. Not in love with her, as he had been with his wife, who had been a very beautiful and very sensual woman, but just fond of her. He couldn’t describe it in any other way, even to himself. Mona Wilton was very far from being a sensual woman. She treated him like a brother, and nothing more. Hugh was so used to that deep, inner, spiritual loneliness of the soul which lies so heavily upon those who live in an unsympathetic environment, that he had accepted it as the natural lot of man, never having known anything else. The lines he had read as a schoolboy stuck in his head when all the Imagists were forgotten —
‘Yes, in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless, water wild,
We million mortals live alone.’
These seemed to him, even when he read them first, to enshrine an ineluctable truth, and life had confirmed it. Hugh felt more acutely than ever that the only thing he had to offer anybody was his money, and if they did not want that — what had he to give them? He went to bed very depressed; lay on his back and tried to dream of Greece, but only succeeded in dreaming of his mother, who seemed to be angry with him.
Mr. Pinker, under the stimulus of Hugh’s constant presence, bestirred himself in a way he might not have done if left to his own devices, and the smaller house was fast approaching habitability. Hugh dropped Mrs Macintosh a line requesting her presence, and that lady duly turned up in the local taxi, dressed in impeccable housekeeper’s black, as was her invariable custom. She had entirely recovered her poise, and expressed neither approval nor disapproval when Hugh introduced her to the farm, but merely acquiesced. She measured and took notes as bidden, and finally, equally professionally, took her seat in Hugh’s unhandy racing car and permitted him to run her down to the station.
As they waited on the platform for the train, she said to him: ‘How much longer do you think you will want me, Mr Paston?’
‘I was wondering whether you would care to take charge at the farm?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Macintosh emphatically, ‘I would not. It feels sinister to me. Sinister and wicked. I don’t know how you can stand it. I wouldn’t live there for anything you could offer me.’
Hugh, who had not counted on Highland psychism backed by Highland Calvinism, was nonplussed. His plans were going astray. How was he going to get Mona Wilton to come to the farm unless Mrs Macintosh were there to play propriety and look after her while she was still convalescent?
‘I think I ought to tell you, Mr Paston, that Lady Paston came to the bookshop to inquire after you, and Mr Jelkes was very short with her. She is very anxious about you, and I do not think that Mr Jelkes’ attitude allayed her anxiety.’
Hugh groaned. ‘Does she know about the farm?’
‘She knows nothing. Mr Jelkes refused to tell her a thing, and was, if you will pardon my saying so, very rude to her. Miss Wilton and I sat in the kitchenette with the light out while she was there.’
‘Why ever did you do that?’
‘I thought the position of Miss Wilton might be misunderstood, and involve you in unpleasantness.’
‘I don’t see why. Oh, well, no good worrying about that. Here is your train.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Paston. And if it is convenient to you, I would like to get off at the end of the week. I have the offer of another post, and I want to pay a visit to some friends in Scotland before ac
cepting it. I do not think Miss Wilton needs me any longer.’
Hugh put her into the train with a sigh of relief. She was a good woman. She was a kind woman. She was trustworthy. She was efficient. He liked and respected her, but one could not associate Mrs Macintosh with attendance at a rite of Pan.
Knowing that she meant to go North, and that she had a long journey before her, he thought he would be quite safe in putting in an appearance at the bookshop round about lunch-time on Saturday. Arriving at the bookshop, he found to his surprise that Mrs Macintosh was still there.
‘Might I have a word with you, Mr Paston?’ she said. ‘I wish to apologize for the way I spoke of your new house. And I hope, I hope very much, that I have not put you to inconvenience if you were counting on me to look after it for you, but I couldn’t — I really couldn’t go there, Mr Paston. You know, we have second sight in our family, and I am certain I should see things.’
‘Did you see anything there?’
Mrs Macintosh flinched. She would not tell a lie, and she did not want to tell the truth. Such people are at a great disadvantage. ‘It was your face, Mr Paston.’
‘My face? What do you mean?’
‘Your face changed completely as you went into the old part of the house.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Did you know that?’
The tables were turned on Hugh, and he too had either to lie or give information he had no mind to. For as he had crossed the threshold he had thought of Ambrosius, and for a brief second the curious sensation had come to him that he sometimes got when he thought of the renegade monk.
‘I think it must have been this that Miss Wilton spoke of when she was light-headed one night,’ continued Mrs Macintosh. ‘I could not think at the time why it had frightened her so badly, but I understood as soon as I saw it. It is very alarming, Mr Paston, I don’t think you quite realize how you look when you do that.’
‘But look here, Mrs Macintosh, you’ve been with us over two years, and I’ve never done anything desperate that I know of, why are you suddenly getting scared of me now?’
‘I am not scared of you, Mr Paston.’ Mrs Macintosh bridled indignantly at this aspersion. ‘But when you change before my very eyes into somebody else — I think you will admit that is enough to alarm anybody.’
‘You think that was what scared Miss Wilton?’
‘Yes, I’m certain it was. You seemed to get into her dreams when her temperature was up, and she called out in her sleep, not once but several times, “Don’t turn into Ambrosius again—!” She was badly frightened, Mr Paston; and I don’t mind telling you, so was I when I saw you do it.’
Before he could reply a battery of knocks sounded on the shop door. ‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Macintosh, ‘I expect that is the man for my luggage,’ and she went down the narrow, dusty stairs. Hugh heard her open the door at the bottom and an exclamation of surprise followed.
‘Mrs Macintosh, you here?’ he heard in the voice of his eldest sister.
‘Yes, Lady Whitney,’ came the noncommittal tones of the Scotswoman.
‘I want to see my brother. His car is outside, so it is no use saying he isn’t here.’
Hugh thought that the best thing to do was to bow to the inevitable. He did not want Alice to have a stand-up row with old Jelkes. Knowing them both, he thought they would come to blows.
He came down the stairs. ‘Hullo, Alice?’ he said.
‘So there you are, Hugh? We have been looking for you everywhere. Whatever is the meaning of all this nonsense?’
‘Well, I thought I would like to get away from everything and be quiet for a bit.’
‘You might have let us know where you were. It has been most inconvenient. Everybody asking, and no letters answered. Where were you, all this time?’
‘Never mind where. I’d sooner not tell you. Just a place of retreat that I want to keep quiet.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then who is this Miss Wilton?’
‘She’s an artist I’ve been employing to do the decorations for my new house.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s not your business.’
‘What has come over you? I’ve never known you like this before. What’s all this secrecy about?’
‘The secrecy is because I don’t want to be bothered. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Do you expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t care whether you believe it or not.’
A tide of anger utterly unlike anything he had ever known before, had been rising in Hugh while they were wrangling, and suddenly it brimmed over in a flood of rage that held him speechless. A curious heat and burning went through him, and he found himself staring down into the face of a strange woman whose flushed angry cheeks gradually went dead white under her paint. He pointed to the door and said ‘Get out!’ and she went without another word.
He walked up the stairs again and at the top saw another strange woman, and heard her calling to someone in a terrified voice. The place was unfamiliar, he did not know where he was. A man came, and behind him yet another woman, peering anxiously round his shoulder. And he knew that woman!
For the first time he saw in the flesh the face he had so often seen in his dreams. The succuba that had haunted his sleep for years. Now he saw her. And he could not take his eyes off her, nor could she take hers off him.
He knew the risk; and yet he felt that nothing mattered compared to that one thing, and that at all costs he must grasp it lest it slipped out of his reach for ever. He stepped forward, put the man aside, and gripped the woman by the arm, drawing her towards him. He looked down into her eyes. Greenish eyes, as one would expect in a succuba; but he realized instantly that this was no evil demon sent to lead men’s souls astray. The eyes were steady and sincere, and looked straight back into his. The eyes of a woman, not a fiend.
And he realized with a dreadful hopelessness his isolation; the bondage of his vows; his powerlessness to escape from the life to which he had been given before he knew life’s meaning. He was cut off from all this. He must let go of this woman or he would ruin himself. And then something fierce and terrible rose up in him and said that he might ruin himself, but he would not let go of her.
A sound behind him made him turn round, and there stood the woman he had already driven off, and with her another and older woman who looked like her mother. They spoke to him, but their dialect was incomprehensible save for a word here and there. His wits had returned to him, however, and with them, his dignity. He put the succuba behind him, though he still kept tight hold of her, and saluted them gravely, as became a churchman of his standing. He could see that they were non-plussed. The old man then took a hand and talked with them animatedly in their dialect, of which Hugh understood enough to gather that some learned person was to be summoned forthwith. They departed, plainly very angry and upset, and the old man took him by the shoulders and said:
‘Hugh, you danm fool, you stop this nonsense or I’ll punch your head!’
A sudden giddiness passed over him. He felt himself sway, and if someone had not caught him, would have fallen. Then he recovered himself, and found Jelkes and Mrs Macintosh confronting him with consternation written all over their faces.
‘Huh?’ he said, feeling very foolish. ‘Have I been having one of my seizures? I suppose this is what you have been complaining of?’ turning to Mrs Macintosh.
‘Yes, Mr Paston, that is exactly it,’ was the reply. ‘And if you would let go of Miss Wilton, I think she’d be relieved.’ Hugh turned round startled, to find Mona behind him.
‘What’s it all about?’ he demanded.
‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ said Jelkes, grimly. He led the way down into the shop, and they all followed. Hugh felt he had never been so glad to see anything in his life as he was to see the warmth and cosiness of the little back parlour. It seemed to him as if he had just come out of a long and vivid nightmare of cold, and stone walls,
and loneliness, and frustration.
‘How are you feeling, Hugh?’ said the old bookseller, turning to him abruptly.
‘All right. A bit shaken. What happened?’
‘Goodness only knows. A change of consciousness of some sort. But they’ve gone to fetch the doctor, and if you don’t watch your step, they’ll get you certified. For the love of God, Hugh, keep your hair on when the doctor comes.’
‘So that’s the game, is it?’ said Hugh. ‘That’s a new one. They’ve tried a good many things, but they’ve never tried that before. Tell me frankly, Jelkes, is there any likelihood of their being able to do it?’
‘Well, laddie, frankly, there is, if they give their minds to it. Not that you need certifying, or anything like it, but you’ve got bones that are worth picking, Hugh, and that’s what has always been your trouble.’
A resounding bang at the door startled them. Jelkes girt his dressing-gown about him with a determined air, and went striding off through the bookshop, murder in his eye. He returned in a moment, crestfallen.
‘It’s the man for your box,’ he said to Mrs Macintosh, and together they departed upstairs, leaving Hugh alone with Mona.
He sat down on the sofa, facing her. ‘I know that certification game. I’ve seen it played before. Tell me frankly, was what happened just now the same as what happened in the museum?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was what scared you into your illness, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it was.’
‘I’d be truly thankful to understand all this. Tell me, Mona, tell me all you can.’
‘I’d sooner Uncle Jelkes told you. Wait till he comes back from seeing Mrs Macintosh off.’
‘Is she going? I must say good-bye to her.’
He rose from the sofa, but a sudden sound of altercation in the front shop made Mona catch his hand and pull him back. Uncle Jelkes was evidently denying admission to someone who was demanding it with authority. Jelkes settled the argument by telling him to go to hell and slamming the door with such force that all the books in the window fell down. After that there was silence.
