by Dion Fortune
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you like that.’
‘It’s very stupid of me,’ said Mona. ‘I don’t know why I jumped like that. I can’t imagine.’
But he knew perfectly well, and so did she. It was the hawk face in the black cowl she dreaded to see.
‘This is rather awkward,’ said Hugh, dropping into his accustomed chair. ‘Sit down, Mona, we’ve got to face up to this, otherwise we shall never be able to exist together in the same house. You’re not scared of me, are you? No one on God’s earth could be scared of me. Is it Ambrosius you’re scared of?’
‘Yes, perhaps I am; but all the same he has got to come through.’
Mona sat silent for quite a while, staring at the fire, and Hugh sat watching her. He could imagine Ambrosius watching like that, from the window in the Abbey gate-house that overlooked the market-place — watching the women that were forbidden to him as a Churchman.
Mona seemed to have forgotten Hugh’s presence, and he sat watching her in the dying firelight, wondering whether he dared think of Ambrosius, or whether, if he did, he would wreck the whole show. For a moment it seemed to him that he could almost see with his physical eyes the arched stone mullions of the gate-house window through which he looked.
At length she spoke once more. ‘Hugh, has it ever occurred to you to wonder exactly what Ambrosius is?’
‘Well, I took it for granted that I’m more or less mediumistic, without ever having realized it, and that a dead monk would speak through me, given half a chance.’
‘That’s one possibility,’ said Mona. ‘Ever heard Uncle Jelkes speak of reincarnation?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard him talk, but I’m not sure I took in very much of it. He’s too metaphysical for me. But anyway, what about it? Supposing I was Ambrosius in a past life, what do I do about it in this one?’
‘That was just what I was puzzling over,’ she said. ‘So far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is to face up to Ambrosius, and then absorb him. Only I don’t quite know how it is to be done.’
‘I do, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I have only got to think of myself as him, and feel him strongly, and I am him. I’ve done it several times for brief moments.’
‘If you do that,’ said Mona, ‘Ambrosius will absorb you instead of your absorbing him.’
‘I shouldn’t object to that,’ said Hugh, ‘he’s a sight better specimen than I am. I believe you’d like Ambrosius a lot better than you like me, Mona. Oddly enough, you know, it’s through you I always get into touch with Ambrosius. He missed a lot in life, and so have I; and it’s when I get comparing what I have missed with what Ambrosius missed that I get in touch with him.’
Mona did not offer any comment.
Hugh spoke again:
‘Do you know what I shall do, Mona, if things turn out all right? I shall ask you if you’ll marry me. Now don’t you start getting worried. There’s no need for you to go to the trouble of refusing me, for I’m not asking you now. But if things straighten out for me, I shall come and ask you.’
They both did more thinking than sleeping that night. Mona had said more than she had meant to, and was very worried in consequence. With the suggestion of reincarnation Hugh had been started off on a line of ideas that would bear fruit in the near future. Any wavering or uncertainty in handling him, and there would be a crash.
Hugh’s suggestion of marriage she did not take seriously. She was not in the least attracted by him, though she liked him and was exceedingly sorry for him. She was old enough, and disillusioned enough, to consider the possibility of marrying for the sake of a home, but they came from such totally different worlds. None of his friends would accept her, and she would loathe his way of life. She could not play bridge she had not a notion how to give a dinner-party, or even how to attend one; and as for a week-end at a country house, it would be the death of her. She could neither dress nor walk nor talk as did the women of his world, and her dignity was a thing that Mona valued highly.
She cast her mind back to the scene of Greece about which Hugh had told her, and of the sun-drenched hill-side above the sea where he had followed a woman clad in a fawn-skin who had had her carriage and walk. Mona, who was well read in modern psychology, knew at once what Hugh’s subconscious had said in that dream. But she also knew that such a scene as this had been a favourite phantasy of hers all through her childhood and girlhood. As a child she had daydreamed of racing over sun-warmed rocks beside a boy comrade, clad in the short Spartan tunic she had seen in her book of Greek legends. As she grew older, the phantasy had grown more romantic, and it was the pursuit of the lover, not the hand in hand running of comrades that she phantasied. Later, when Jelkes introduced her to the knowledge of the ancient Mysteries and what was taught at Eleusis, the phantasy took on yet another content, and she visualized herself as the maenad adoring Dionysus, giver of ecstasy, and following the beautiful god over the mountains in the frenzied running dance.
It was odd that Hugh should have had the same phantasy in his dream but she must not take the shared phantasy as indicative of twin soulery. That was merely asking for trouble. It was quite a tricky enough business even when handled impersonally, and utterly impossible if she let her feelings in any way become involved.
Remembering Hugh’s reactions in his dream, and the face of Ambrosius when he appeared in the upper room of the museum, Mona considered the possibility of some fairly drastic experiences before they had got Hugh safely onto his feet. Remembering Freud’s dictum that cure proceeds via transference, she faced the possibility of having to become Hugh’s mistress for a time, and concluded that it wouldn’t kill her if she had to. Mona cared nothing for conventions and had her own ideas on the subject of morals. She was not a sensual woman, but she would give herself for love freely, and under whatever conditions she saw fit; and oddly enough, she would also give herself out of pity if the need were great enough.
Hugh, for his part, stood in front of his low-pitched window with his hands in his pockets staring out into the moonlight hour after hour, totally unconscious of the lapse of time. He saw the Greek hillside and knew that the woman he had been pursuing was beyond all question Mona, and wondered whether in a still earlier incarnation he had enacted just such a scene. He saw Ambrosius walking around the priory as it was a-building, just as he himself had walked around it while it was being restored. He thought of the discovery he had made in the chapel of the, trick of looking out of Ambrosius’ hood in order to become Ambrosius.
This checked the flight of his imagination and gave him a cold feeling all down his spine. If it came off, what the devil would happen? He did not care what happened to himself. The thing that worried him was what he might do to Mona Wilton. He had no confidence in Ambrosius’ morals. He judged that that repressed celibate would break out pretty badly once he started, and whether he were the result of Greek magic in the past or a marriage gone wrong in the present, the consequences would be the same.
In the morning Mona met a dispirited Hugh at breakfast, and could have shaken him for the way in which his moods veered with the wind. So far as could be judged from his demeanour, yesterday’s conversation might never have taken place. After breakfast he disappeared and she saw him no more.
Her household duties concluded, she took a note-book and measuring-rod and set out to plan the garden she intended to make inside the courtyard of the old farmhouse. There should also, she thought, be a wide double herbaceous border leading from the west door out across the pasture to the fir-wood, bordering the faint track that led thither and that was a favourite sunset stroll. There could be no question of stately hollyhocks and regal delphiniums in the shallow, stony soil upon the chalk, but grey, aromatic things such as sea-lavender and old man’s beard; goat’s rue and thrift; flowering sage, scarlet and blue, and southernwood and rosemary.
She went just inside the door of the chapel to make her notes and calculate her measurements. She was busily engaged in adding and s
ubtracting when there stole over her a feeling that she was not alone. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, cross with herself for being so nervous, and saw Hugh standing bolt upright and motionless in the centre of the crude Zodiac on the tessellated pavement of the sanctuary. That motionless, absorbed figure produced a very queer feeling as one watched it. She wondered whether it were Ambrosius or Hugh, or a blend of the two, and for some reason she could not define, inclined to the latter idea.
He stood in the centre of the circle of the Zodiac, his feet in a smaller circle which contained the signs of the four elements of earth, air, fire and water. In the compartments formed by the radii of the signs were small holes into which Mona knew the signs representing the seven planets could be fitted according to the manner in which they stood in their heavenly houses as the wheel of the skies revolved. Hugh was standing in the exact centre of the symbolic representation of the universe, and Mona thought that she had never believed it possible that any living being could be so absolutely alone.
All her irritation with Hugh vanished. He was the watery type, under the presidency of the Moon and Aquarius; it was his nature to be attentive to the wavering images reflected by moonlight on water. She herself was of the earth, being a Virgo, and Virgo is not Ever-virgin, but also Many-breasted.
She felt a profound pity for that lonely soul up there in the shadows of the east, unlighted by any window in the sanctuary, for Ambrosius, for some reason best known to himself had left the eastern end of his church in darkness. She sat waiting, watching, and wondering. It seemed as if Hugh would stand there indefinitely. Finally she could bear the tension no longer, and moving silently she passed up the aisle and took her stand behind and a little to one side of him.
After a few moments he, like herself became aware that he was not alone, looked over his shoulder, and saw her. He looked at her for a moment, and his face took on a very strange expression; melancholy, fatalistic, and yet with a touch of fire and fanaticism slumbering behind his eyes. She had a queer feeling that more than one pair of eyes were looking out from under Hugh’s rather heavy lids.
They looked at each other without speaking. Speech was impossible. That was a silence that could not be broken. Then Hugh held out his hand and she put hers in it. Her unhesitating response sent a thrill through Hugh, and his face twitched in a manner that Mona knew was a sure indication that he was emotionally moved. Then he turned towards the East again, and drew her to stand beside him within the circle of the Elements, and they stood facing the altar that was not there, and which, if it had been there would have been the throne of the goat-god, hand in hand, as if being married.
Mona’s heart was beating hard in her throat. There was no knowing what was going to happen next. Ambrosius was capable of anything. Then gradually the panic fear passed away and its place was taken by a profound peace. Then the peace gave place to a curious tense thrilling, like a great organ-note sounding in the soul. Then that too gradually died away, and she knew that they were back to normal.
‘Shall we go now?’ she said, touching him lightly on the sleeve. He nodded, and fell into step beside her as they went down the aisle together. She felt a hand laid on her shoulder, looked up, and in the light of the doorway saw Hugh looking very lined and grey and worn and much more round-shouldered than usual.
‘These things are tearing me to pieces, Mona,’ he said in a low voice. ‘God knows what will be the upshot of it.’
They sat down on a low bench in the angle of the wall, the heat of the spring sun warming them after the chill of the chapel; Hugh stretched out his long legs and put his hands behind his head and leant back and shut his eyes. Mona gazed at him anxiously. He looked absolutely done.
The obvious, common-sense remedy was for Hugh to refrain from playing about with Ambrosius any more. But Mona had a profound conviction that Hugh had got to work through Ambrosius and come out the other side if things were ever to be right with him, and that if he turned back now it would be to re-enter into the death-in-life that was closing about him when he had first come to the Marylebone bookshop.
At that moment they heard a footstep on the gravel, and Mr Watney appeared. Mona was never so pleased to see anyone in her life.
Hugh pulled himself together and did the polite. Produced cigarettes and went in search of whisky, leaving Mona and the solicitor together.
‘Well?’ said Mr Watney as soon as they were alone. ‘And how is our friend?’
‘I am rather bothered about him,’ said Mona, ‘and I don’t feel that doctors would be the slightest use. You see, he’s had a pretty bad shock. His wife was killed in a motor-smash, and it all came out about how she was carrying on with another man at the time. He had never suspected it and had absolutely believed in her.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘It must be getting on for two months now.’
‘Then I do not think that was the cause of the trouble, for he was not fond of her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he is obviously very much in love with you.’
Mona was too worried to make the indignant repudiation. ‘What makes you think that?’ she asked soberly.
He looked at her sharply over his spectacles.
‘Hadn’t you seen that for yourself?’
‘I had seen it, but I hadn’t taken it seriously, knowing his type of man.’
‘Then you have made a mistake. He is taking it very seriously. I was watching him when you said that there was no marriage in the offing the other afternoon. It was a knock-out blow for him. Whatever other troubles he may have, that is what is causing the flare-up now.’
‘Oh dear, this is very awkward,’ said Mona. ‘I knew he wanted to flirt with me, but I had no idea it was as serious as all that. What’s to be done about it?’
‘Don’t you care about him?’
‘Not in that way. It wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘We belong to different worlds. We’ve got nothing in common. I’d never settle with him, and he’d never settle with me.’
‘Well, I suppose you know your own business best, but I’m sorry. He’s a nice fellow, and it would have been the salvation of him.’
At that moment Hugh returned with the drinks, shared the whisky with Mr Watney, and gave Mona a cocktail, which she was very glad to have.
They chatted in a desultory manner. Hugh invited Mr Watney to lunch, which invitation was accepted, and Mona fled to see if there were enough food. It would never have entered Hugh’s head to raise that point before issuing an invitation.
The moment she had turned the corner, Hugh’s manner changed.
‘I want to make a new will,’ he said abruptly.
‘Do you?’ said the solicitor, wondering what was afoot now. ‘If you can give me pencil and paper I’ll jot down the headings and let you have a draft.’
An eighth of Hugh’s personal estate was to go to his mother and to each of his three sisters. The remaining half was to be divided equally between Mona and Jelkes. Mona was to have Monks Farm. Mr Watney gasped. The papers had arrived from his predecessors, and he knew the size of that estate.
An hour later Mona called them to lunch. Everyone did their best, but it was not a cheery meal. After Mr Watney had gone Hugh sat over the fire in the little sitting-room smoking a big cigar that had been given him.
Mona wanted to talk to him, but found it difficult to make a start. Hugh paid no attention to her. The sun outside was shining gloriously, but he had got all the windows tight shut and was throwing logs on the fire.
‘Why don’t you come outside?’ said Mona. ‘It’s a shame to leave this sunshine running to waste.’
‘Too much trouble to move,’ said Hugh, kicking a protruding log impatiently.
Mona, who had scant patience with spoilt children, cleared out and left him, hoping that, what with the large lunch and the many whiskies and the hot room, he would sleep himself sensible by tea-time.
When s
he returned from her walk as the early spring dusk closed in, Hugh said: ‘I can’t expect you to dry-nurse me indefinitely.’
Common sense bade her return an airy answer, but something that was not sensible welled up from deep in her, and she replied: ‘We’ll see this through together, Hugh.’
He made no acknowledgment.
‘Tell me, what were you doing in the chapel this morning?’ said Mona.
‘Trying to work things out.’
‘Did you get Ambrosius?’
‘No, didn’t try for him. To tell you the honest truth, Mona, I’m a bit scared of Ambrosius. You see, I feel that when he comes, he’ll come with the hell of a rush, and I’m not sure that he’s to be trusted.’
‘I’ve got a notion I could handle Ambrosius,’ said Mona. ‘I’ll tell you a curious thing, Hugh, do you know that this business goes back long before Ambrosius?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you remember your dream of the Grecian hill-side? Well, that used to be my favourite day-dream when I was a child. Fawn-skin and all.’
To her surprise this did not elicit the reaction she had expected; she looked round at Hugh, and saw that there was a curious tense immobility about him. She waited.
Presently he spoke:
‘Do you know what struck me about you when I saw you when I was Ambrosius?’
‘No?’
‘That you were the succuba that had haunted my dreams all my life.’
Silence fell between them again as each tried to realize the significance of what the other had said. Mona was well acquainted with what both the old theologians and the modern psychologists have to say about the demons that haunt men’s sleep. She knew all about the theory of dream mechanism and wish fulfilment, and all the rest of the psychological bag of tricks. Whether there was between herself and Hugh a bond of the soul forged in ancient Greece in a bygone life, or whether she was a type that appealed to that particular sex-starved male, depended entirely upon whether one considered time as a mode of consciousness or a matter of clocks.
