CHAPTER II
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.