The story hunter

I have a friend who is a well-known ecclesiastic glass-painter, and who, as a relaxation, delights in gardening; consequently he lives just out of London, so as to be enabled to carry out his hobby for horticultural pursuits. To work in his London studio during four days of the week, and to reserve Saturday, Sunday, and Monday for his country life is his plan, by adopting which he is neither a countryman nor a town-dweller, but something of both: he is pleased to call himself an “Urberusticite.”

Recently, when near the metropolis, I trundled my van down the North Road to his snug little villa, and spent a few days with him.

I promised if he would help me in my hobby, by one evening giving himself up to me as a victim, that I would help him during the day with his garden. And I did help him, till every bone in my body ached with the unusual exertion of digging, and wheeling gravel in a great barrow. He gave me the hardest work he could possibly find, observing, as he saw the perspiration streaming down my face, that “you will feel quite another man to-morrow.” And so I did, for I was so stiff next morning that I could scarcely raise my hands to my head, to comb my tawny locks. After the toil of the day I was quite prepared for dinner that evening, but when the meal had been eaten with keen appetite—for gardening certainly does create havoc among the dishes—I prepared for my revenge.

My friend was quite prepared to give me an opportunity of hypnotizing him, if I could; but he laughed at the absurdity of the idea, believing it, as he said, all moonshine, and asserting that he could, by exerting his will against mine, prevent my passes having any power over him.

I commenced operations upon him, and to my very great surprise signally failed. All I could do was to produce a drowsy feeling in him, and at length I gave it up for the evening, conjecturing that the manual labour which I had undergone during the day had tired and weakened my hypnotic powers. My friend was delighted at the failure, and laughed very heartily at my discomfiture; declaring that the hypnotic power I exercised was only efficacious in the case of young people and old women, who had no power of brain to withstand my passes, but simply gave themselves up to my wishes or will, like so many automata.

He was good enough, however, to give me another trial next evening, and that I might not be tired he sent me to the river, at a short distance from the house, to fish and—get back my “vanished will.” I was very much piqued, but dare not show it, for my friend is a very demon at sarcasm; so with rod and line I wandered off, and spent a quiet day, reserving all my brain energies for the coming mental fray in the evening.

In the evening, dinner being over, my friend signified his readiness to commence, by making idiotic passes at the portraits hanging round the room, and appeared to imagine that to hypnotize him was a thing not to be accomplished, at least not by my humble powers. So certain was he that I should fail, that he was willing to do anything but give up his will to me. He made fun of my idea of obtaining a story from him, even if I could put him to “bye-bye,” as he expressed it; and if I did make him ass enough to divulge anything like a story, I should tell it when or where I liked, or even publish it for the delectation of the public; but, as he assured me he did not know a story, he could not see how I was going to make him tell one.

All being ready, we commenced our little séance, and in two minutes my victim was in a trance state. In spite of his bumptiousness and disbelief in my powers, and in hypnotism generally, he related the following very curious experience in his own career.

THE MONK’S PENANCE.

The profession of glass-painting is not exactly a precarious one, but, unlike many others, it has neither season nor certainty with it. People do not usually die to order, consequently, as Death hurls his dart at irregular intervals, a glass-painter is at one time quite idle, while at other periods, when he least expects it, the commissions roll in “thick and threefold.” He cannot spread his work out over the year as a mother applies jam to the bread of her eager-mouthed offspring; but when certain work has to be done, the painter has to stick to his task early and late, or the glass would stand in danger of becoming “ancient” before it could be inserted in the church for which it is intended.

Very well; just at the time the curious incident happened which I will endeavour to relate, I was busy, very busy, and working in my studio from nine in the morning till nearly midnight. I was restoring a large window—the east window of H—— Church, Yorkshire—and had been requested to have it finished and fixed again for the re-opening ceremony on Christmas Day.

It was a late fourteenth-century window, of rare beauty both in colour and workmanship, and contained many quaintly-drawn figures of saints and martyrs of all ages. Among them was one figure on which a greater amount of care had evidently been bestowed than upon any of the others, especially in regard to the painting of the face, which was probably a portrait.

The figure to which I wish to draw attention was that of a Dominican friar, habited in the garb of his order, black and white in colour, which made a fine contrast to the ruby background on which the monk was placed in the window.

This “light,” as the panel is technically called, was in a very bad state of repair, and as one of my assistants passed through my studio on his way home, for he had finished his day’s work, he remarked that a very little shaking would cause the old monk to fall from the leadwork and demolish himself. To which I replied by asking him to make it his first care in the morning to relead the figure, and thus render it secure for a few more generations, as such fine figures were not very frequently seen.

At eight o’clock I was left alone in the studio, as I had determined to work on till midnight, and get my painting well forward for “firing” (burning in the vitreous colours). Somehow I can always do a vast deal more work when alone than when others are present, however quiet they may be in their movements. There is in solitude nothing to distract the attention, and one rapidly becomes absorbed in one’s work, which is more expeditiously and accurately executed.

Ten o’clock came, and I prepared myself a cup of café au lait, and smoked a cigarette. I cannot smoke and work at the same time, as many artists have the knack of doing—for either my attention is more on my cigarette than on my work (which is a loss of time), or I become so engrossed with my painting that the paper cylinder is forgotten, and goes out, necessitating frequent and irritating relightings.

As I puffed my little white tube of Dubec, I could not help taking another look at the monk in all his glossy rigidity, and the thought came into my head that being an ecclesiastic of the fifteenth century, it was just possible that the monk so carefully delineated was a portrait of the painter of the whole window!

Why not?

Who could tell?

There he hung, upon a glass screen, behind which was a gas-jet, giving sufficient light for me to be able to discern every detail of the drawing and painting of the figure. This was more apparent because the studio in which I stood was in darkness, except for the brilliant light behind the easel upon which I was working.

It may be well to point out that the easel used for painting glass upon is very different to the one in use by artists when painting on canvas, as it consists of two rectangular wooden frames the front one of which sustains the easel glass, upon which the various fragments of glass forming the subject in hand are fastened, by means of a kind of cement made of wax and resin. The frame immediately behind is covered with white tissue paper, a material that not only diffuses the light equally all over the subject which is being painted, but renders the otherwise bright light soft to the artist’s eyes, and prevents the glare of the various pieces of coloured glass from making them ache, as they would do if a naked light were used. Thus, in painting a subject on canvas, the light is thrown upon the front of the easel, but in painting a figure for a church window the light is behind it, and passes through it to show up the transparent colours.

I sipped my coffee and admired the monk, especially his eyes, which appeared dark and lustrous and full of life, although his body was of the lay-figure order, and his hands as absurdly grotesque in pose as those of a Chinese mandarin on a tea-tray.

Then I turned my attention to the figure of St. Agnes upon my easel and painted away again in a most diligent and vigorous manner.

Eleven o’clock came, and I began to grow sleepy and to give an involuntary yawn now and again, but I had resolved to work till midnight, and work I would.

Half-past, and I was becoming still more drowsy, and for some reason a certain nervousness seemed to come over me—mental strain and long hours I suppose; but presently I heard a sound as of glass lightly jarring against some metallic or hard substance.

I glanced round and tapped my mahl-stick upon the floor, but no mouse scurried away responsive to my sh—h—h! so I resumed work.

A little time elapsed, and again I heard the same rattle of glass; very quiet, but quite distinct; it was a sharp, bright, but subdued noise, familiar to my ear as the noise made by glass when touching another hard substance.

Again I glanced round: all was silent. Only it seemed to me that the glass monk solemnly returned my enquiring look with a gaze such as that with which the Ancient Mariner fixed the wedding guest.

Work again—then another rattle, louder than before. This time I jumped up from my seat, opened the door, thinking some one must be outside, but nothing was to be seen. I looked again at my companion, Friar Aylmer, and this time, to my astonishment, his eyes seemed to move—to blink, in fact (for probably, as a religious man, he never learned the art of winking). I approached, but the eyes were again fixed, fixed full upon me, whichever way I turned. I simply laughed at myself: of course I conjectured that the flickering gaslights in the adjoining room were playing an optical prank upon me.

I sat down and seized my brushes, determined to finish the figure of St. Agnes before I left; half-an-hour or so more and I should be ready to trot homeward to bed.

As I sat before the easel quietly whistling to keep up my courage and my spirits, the jingling of glass was once more heard, and this time such a strange dread seized me that I was positively afraid to turn my head. Then I heard a soft footfall, and my mahl-stick and brushes dropped from my palsied hands, as my hair erected itself on my head, the result of horrific terror.

Some one approached me—at my left side—and paused. I was simply petrified with fright; turned to stone, body and limbs; only my brain retained control of its natural functions.

I knew, although I could not look, that the painted monk stood at my side!

A long pause, in which I could hear my heart beating audibly, and then a fine, mellow voice at my elbow said—

“Good friend, why this fear? I am a man of peace, and would cause no harm to the least of God’s creatures, much less to thee. Calm thy perturbed spirit, and, prithee, let us converse for the short time allotted me once in each century—one short hour!”

I calmed myself a little, and looked at my weird visitor. His appearance was very natural, a man of flesh and blood apparently; and he smiled benignly upon me as he toyed with the knotted ends which dangled from the thick cord bound about his waist.

He sat upon a high stool, and my eyes were riveted upon him as if I were being hypnotized by the strange visitor—indeed, so I was, for his presence held me spellbound.

With soothing words he gradually calmed me, and after a long interval, during which I several times unsuccessfully essayed to speak, I at last found utterance, and inquired who my midnight visitor might be.

“My dear friend,” replied the dreaded shade, “listen, and I will tell you about myself; then, perhaps, you may feel inclined to give me your assistance.”

“Assistance? I? How can I assist a spirit, a phantasy? I beg you leave me and return to your place in the window.”

“Listen,” said he, in a beautiful voice, which at once dispelled all alarm from my mind; “listen, and you will soon discover how you can be of service to me. I pray you do not interrupt, for remember I have but one short hour in which to assume my earthly form, and if in that time I cannot obtain mortal aid to release me from my leaden bonds, I am doomed to resume my form of a painted monk in yon window for yet another century. But tempus fugit, as the motto on the pedestal of our old sundial used to inform us, and I will not lose another instant.

“I am Friar Aylmer—the label under my feet in the window is correct, for I painted it myself, as indeed I did the whole window, and although I wrought at it for six long years, it was destined at length to become my prison, as you shall hear.

“I am not old, as you may judge from my appearance; although nearly five centuries have rolled by since my birth, I am scarcely forty.”

I looked at his kindly features and bowed my assent to his assertion, knowing that stained-glass figures do not grow old when once they are permanently painted and burnt into the glass. He proceeded—

“My father, you must know, was Prior Aylmer, of St. Benet’s Abbey, Norfolk; and by some means appeared to fall into the evil ways of the sadly dissolute times in which he lived; at least he made one great slip, one that he did not try to palliate in any way, but took so to heart, that till the end of his days he lived an exemplary life, and gained the love of all those who were under his sway in the great abbey.

“The monks used to notice that my father spent more time in the village than was compatible with his monastic life, but then, as ecclesiastics went in those days, he was a jolly fellow, and no one thought harm of his frequent absence from the duties of the monastery, till one day an event happened which set the whole brotherhood agog, and caused much scandal.

“It was a simple, but very significant event; one so unusual, that every one was taken by surprise, so that the whole place was in a ferment of excitement.

“It happened that the porter was very late in taking down the great bars which fastened the huge, heavy, oaken outer gate; so late indeed that several of the brethren were about at the time, and when the door swung open on its massive hinges, they saw just what the porter saw—a long osier-work basket, with a thong of parchment upon it bearing the words ‘For Father Aylmer.’

“The basket was quickly carried to the refectory and placed in the great arm-chair of the Prior, to await the arrival of that worthy to take his seat at the head of the table for the morning meal.

“It had rested there but a short time, when a noise was heard within which caused a thrill to startle the slowly-assembling monks—it was the cry of a baby!

“What was to be done?

“Who would open the lid?

“Should the Prior be called?

“Whatever was best to do? All these questions were cut short by the entrance of the Prior himself.

“Every man was immediately silent; mouths were closed, but ears and eyes were very wide open, and the question was in every one’s mind—‘What will he do with it?’

“He quietly opened the lid, and before all the assembly raised a baby form to view.

“That baby was myself!

“Before them all he blessed me, and in humble tones acknowledged his sin, at the same time taking an oath upon the crucifix that, till the grave closed over him, his tongue should not speak to woman more, neither should his form be seen outside the Abbey walls.

“He lived thirty-five years after this startling event, but his oath he kept inviolate, and, as I have already said, he led an exemplary life, and died beloved and respected by all men, both lay and ecclesiastic.

“I was placed in the hands of a village dame to nurse, and she, kind creature, had care of me till I was six years of age, when I was received into the monastery, and under my father’s guidance instructed in the various ecclesiastic accomplishments then in vogue.

“Wood-carving, missal-painting, and finally glass-painting were taught me, and in them I soon became proficient. These things filled my time when not studying the usual routine of religious education. As a child I was a plaything for the monks, who delighted to hear me sing, some of my efforts, I am sorry to say, being far from a religious nature, and more fitted for an amorous cavalier than a budding monk.

“As I grew to man’s estate, my fondness for glass-painting asserted itself; a fondness which enabled me, more than any other of my accomplishments, to beautify the old Abbey, although some of my wood-carving, for stall ends and misereres, was considered exceptionally fine.

“As the years rolled on I filled the small aisle windows with stained glass, and this so pleased the good Abbot, that he requested me to paint the large east window of the Abbey church. I undertook the task, but it took me several years to accomplish.

“Just before the window was completed, I had the sorrow of parting with my dear father for ever. After a few days’ illness he succumbed to an attack of fever, and was laid to rest in the burying-ground by the Abbey wall. My grief was so poignant that for a long time I had not the heart to finish the great east window, which now wanted but the figure of another saint to complete it.

“One night, as I lay in my little cell, the thought came into my head suddenly, ‘Why not paint a figure of my dear dead father to complete the window?’

“I turned the idea over in my mind and could see no reason why it should not be so, as for many years my father had been Prior of the Abbey, second only to the great Abbot himself, and since my birth had lead a truly pious life, an example to all those who received religious instruction from his erudite brain.

“Full of love for my parent’s memory, I painted the figure of a monk robed in the dress of our order, and from drawings I had made during my father’s lifetime, I reproduced the features of his dear face as far as possible.

“In due time the panel was fixed in its place and the great east window was at last finished. A grand supper was given in honour of the event, at which I was complimented upon my untiring energy and skill in having enriched the Abbey church with such a splendid work of art. The Abbot avowed it was second to none in the realm, but I was always a modest man, and took his kind words as complimentary, but nothing more; I knew he flattered me, and blushed accordingly.

“That night, when I retired to rest in my cell, I felt peculiarly heavy and depressed; I ascribed the feeling, however, to reaction after the excitement of the evening.

“I stepped into bed, but for a long time could not sleep. I simply tossed and turned about till long past midnight, when, lying with my face to the wall, I became aware of a light in the room. I looked around but could see nothing, although the small cell appeared unusually light, becoming indeed brighter and brighter, until near the door the brilliance was so dazzling, that my eyes could not bear to look upon it.

“I sat up on my humble wooden bedstead, and endeavoured to pierce the effulgence, but instead I was forced to close my eyes, for the glare was positively blinding. Then out of the radiance of glory came a voice, which from its thrilling accents I knew belonged not to this earth, and slowly, distinctly, and musically, uttered these words of dreadful import—

“‘O gifted monk, thy skill is great, though thy veneration for holy things but small; amongst Heaven’s saints thou hast presumed to place one who, of this earth, was earthy, although doubtless dear to thee. He whose portrait is shown in the east window—who is not of the elect—shall stand in his vitreous form as a penance till accident doth destroy his effigy. He shall know and hear all that passes around, but except for one hour in each century, shall have neither movement nor speech. Accident, not design, can alone cancel this dread sentence. Vale.’

“I sank back upon my bed trembling with fear, and pinching myself to see if I was awake or dreaming; but I knew that I was awake, for the light still illumined the room, although it grew fainter each moment; till, in the space of perhaps a full minute, it died quite out; the last portion to melt away being a circular aureole or nimbus, which remained for some time after the larger blaze of light had disappeared.

“No sleep drew down my eyelids that long night, and in the morning I was so ill that I could not rise for matins, and the good Abbot came to my cell to ascertain the cause of my absence.

“‘Too much wine, my son, eh?’ he good-humouredly suggested.

“‘Nay, father, jest not, I pray, for I have a confession to make, if you will bid my worthy brethren depart.’

“We were quickly left alone, and the door being closed, I related to the Superior my vision of the night, at which his smiling face gradually became sedate, and even stern, as he listened to my recital of the strange apparition.

“‘My son, the long hours spent in study, and the work of painting our great east window, have been too much for thy teeming brain; thou art feverish, and require rest. Stay thou in bed for a day or two, and I will forego thee thy duties. Rest patiently, my son, and be not over thoughtful of the vision, which was probably but the hallucination of an overwrought brain.’

“‘Nay, father, I need not rest, for the vision I last night saw was no phantasy of a distraught or wearied brain, but a reality; and it maddens me to think I may have doomed my father to a purgatory of centuries. Holy father, will you grant me one request, a simple one truly?’

“‘Ay, my son, that will I, for thou wilt not, I know, ask aught that I may not in duty readily grant. What is it thou desirest?’

“‘Holy father, it is but a small thing. It is that I may be allowed to take out my father’s portrait from the window and paint my own in its place!’

“‘Hum! Well, well, if you think it will ease your mind you have my dispensation to do it: one monk’s head is as good as another. I will quietly give out before the brethren that as you are the painter of the window, I should rather desire your portrait there, instead of that of your good father. At this thou must demur, though not so pertinaciously but that I may override thy entreaties. This and more I would gladly do for thee.’

“In due course my portrait replaced that of my father, and shortly after I was taken ill with brain fever, and died on my thirty-ninth birthday.

“I was placed in a grave by the side of my father, but alas! I did not rest there; for when next day dawned, behold my soul and understanding faculties had entered the painted monk, and there, in the east window, for five centuries I have been cognizant of all things going on around me, but with no power of speech or movement, except for one all too brief hour every hundred years.

“In 1494 I came down from my window, and scared the brethren in the dear old Abbey, who, crossing themselves, gabbled their Paters and Aves, and conjured me to go back to my place in the window. I did so, and then they put out all the candles, rushed from the church, and locked the door behind them. Left alone, I had not long to reflect on the awfulness of my position; but in a short time, dreadful as it may appear, I determined to jump down from my lofty niche in the window, and endeavour to kill myself, for I had only a few more minutes to live!

“I ascended to my place beneath the canopy of the window, and, closing my eyes, bent forward, and hurled myself heavily to the stone floor, to try if I could break my neck, rather than live in death for another hundred years.

“Down I fell—swiftly: but my impact with the floor was as if a feather had been wafted down from the wing of some passing bird.

“I was foiled in my wicked attempt to avert my doom, and as I sat on the encaustic pavement a fiend stood by me, who, with mocking laugh and leering eye, whispered in a discordant voice in my ear—

“‘From the grid to the fire is but poor change; from thy doom up there, to my cavern below, would not have availed thee much. I am disappointed in not taking down a monk with me, for monks seldom lay violent hands on themselves. But he! he! ha!—list to the rusty iron tongue of yon bell; get thee to thy vigil; into thy niche; I may have thee yet. I wish thee joy of thy hundred years. Be patient, good monk!’

“I was in my niche again ere the rolling boom of the great bell had ceased to reverberate in the black vastness of night.

“1594 at length came, and this time I found myself in the east window of St. F——’s Church, whither I had been transported soon after the Reformation. Midnight crashed out from the great bell, and I was once more free for one short, solitary hour—a mere speck in the revolution of a whole century of time.

“This time I stepped from my niche rearward into the churchyard, and made my way into the town, walking boldly into the High Street, without an idea of what I was about to do, except that I wished to find the vicar of the church in which I was incarcerated.

“I accosted two swaggering soldiers, and desired them to kindly tell me where he lived, but they, being somewhat in liquor, looked at me and then at each other, and laughed as if I had been some raree show.

“‘Come, comrade,’ said one, ‘we will show thee the vicar,’ and linking their arms in mine they dragged me through the street to the Town Hall, where, thrusting me before them, they forced me into the centre of a group of boisterous soldiers, who opened out to receive me, evidently thinking I was some Jack Pudding, masquerading in monk’s attire. They bandied jests with me, and when I resented their rudeness, they only laughed the louder, taking my remonstrance as part of my performance, which they thought most excellent. Knowing my time was short, I became so angry that they at length found a mistake had been made, and I forced my way out of the throng, intending to find the vicar’s house by myself, but, ere I reached the entrance door, I was hauled back into the presence of the captain of the guard, who had just entered the hall, and who leisurely proceeded to question me in a very rude and imperious manner.

“I objected; and in turn became insolent to him, whereupon he ordered me to be locked up till morning, that I might be haled before the magistrate to give an account of myself. At this I saw my last chance of finding the vicar gone, so, seizing a large sword that lay on the table, I let drive at the nearest man to me, but he was too quick for me, and guarded my blow, in turn aiming a blow at me which, had I not parried, would have cut me in twain. I guarded the stroke involuntarily, else might my life and penance have been severed at a blow.

“Fool that I must have been: next instant I was flying through space, and before I had time to draw a single breath I was again a stained-glass figure.

“1693 gave me one more brief respite from my penance, but it was again abortive, not bringing any kindly accident for my release. I was again revivified at midnight, a most inappropriate time, as you will allow, for one to carry out any important business, such as the release of a man from centuries of purgatory. During my weary imprisonment I heard all the news of the period from the gossip of those who chose to chatter just beneath me; I knew what king reigned, what battles were fought; all the grand events that took place in England, and even all the local scandal; but nothing I heard or saw gave me the slightest interest. I was dumb but could hear; hear and understand all that was said; but not a ray of hope ever came to me in the way of a plot to blow up the church, although I heard many plots to demolish the State.

“Now and again an aimless stone struck one or other of the saints around me and fractured him or her, but never a one gave me a kindly blow, although my broad face and tonsured head gave a splendid target at which a school urchin might have been pleased to try his skill; but none ever did.

“On the night of my third revival a terrible storm was raging; the lightning was flashing most vividly around the old church, and I longed for a bolt to strike me; but I appeared to bear a charmed existence, even in the flesh, for although I sat with my back to the lightning-conductor which came down from the tower, not a spark of the current touched me, although it toppled over the upper portion of the spire, and hurled it in shivered atoms at my feet; not a stone from the falling mass touched me, though I had designedly placed myself in the way of danger. I sat on a gravestone and pondered what I should do, but could think of nothing in the way of accident that could befriend me.

“As I sat thus, two soldiers passed by along the road, and one, on perceiving me, stopped suddenly and clutched his comrade’s arm in terror, pointing his finger tremblingly at me.

“They took me for a ghost.

“Here was my chance. If they would only fire at me, and kill me, I should be absolved from my penance.

“They challenged me, but I answered never a word.

“Again they hailed.

“‘Who are you? speak, or we will fire.’

“I stood upon tiptoe and faced them, making a weird sound with my lips that they might take me for something unearthly, and, if they had the courage, fire upon me.

“One man raised his flintlock and fired deliberately at me, and the bullet actually shore off a lock from my temple, which blew away among the rank wet grass.

“He looked surprised as I gave a loud, hollow ‘ha! ha!’ as apparitions and goblins are supposed to do; upon which he turned and fled, leaving his more courageous comrade to face me alone. He was a noble, brave fellow, and I blessed him as he knelt by the churchyard wall, upon the top of which he rested his gun and took deliberate aim at my breast.

“My heart throbbed for joy as I awaited the releasing leaden missile; but there was only a puff and a snap, and I knew that only a flash in the pan had resulted when the soldier drew his trigger.

“‘Hang the damp powder!’ I heard him say; then in a louder tone—‘Hold, old Hyter sprite! I’ll have at thee again; stay thee steady till I prime afresh. I’ll see of what thou’rt made, and whether thou art foul fiend in priestly guise, or some hair-brained loon who would scare an old soldier who has fought the battles of his country these twenty years.’

“Then, to my dismay, as he primed his weapon with dry powder the bell rung out the hour of one, and I found myself amid the saints in the window again. I saw the soldier go and examine the tomb on which I had recently stood, and its surroundings, and then stride away after his comrade, shaking his head, and I mentally blessed him.

“A hundred years ago—in 1793—I once more gained my life for the allotted sixty minutes, and knew that in Paris the Revolution was at its height. But what did that signify to me. St. F——’s Church was not in Paris, or I might have been released unknowingly by one of the dreadful bands of ruffians to whom nothing was sacred.

“I stood in the dark old church and pondered.

“What should I do?

“Where could I go?

“What could I do?

“Nothing, absolutely nothing! Stay; I would spend my time in fervent prayer, kneeling before the cross on the Holy Table, and see if that could release me from my awful doom.

“I knelt, and prayed, and wept, wringing my hands as the tears coursed down my cheeks, like burning streams of molten lava; but as I thus knelt at my devotions the vestry door of the church opened, and two men entered, one of them bearing a lantern. They paused near the communion rails, and one (by whose attire I judged him to be the vicar) said:

“‘Now, Giles, I may have dropped it here whilst performing the evening service, and if so we should see the stone glitter by the light of the lantern; let us look around the chancel.’

“The speaker had evidently lost a gem ring and was seeking it.

“Not knowing what to do I continued kneeling, to see what course events might take. I had not long to wait, for a sudden shrill scream, a moan, and a dull thud caused me to look round. Down the nave bounded the man who bore the lantern, yelling lustily for help, and his companion lay prone upon his face quite near me. I approached, bent over the prostrate form, and turned the body over on its back—for body only it was, the soul had fled. Happy man! he could die and be at rest, while I, who courted death in any form, could only be—(Boom! the bell tolled One)—a quaint, stiff, transparent figure of glass!

“And now, my dear friend (for you will befriend me if it is in your power, I know, after hearing my awful story) I find myself in 1893 in your studio, and to my horror hear that I am to be bound in fetters of new leadwork: a new lease, as it were, of my penance!

“My time is short; what can you do for me?

“How can you destroy me?

“How can a catastrophe be brought about without premeditation? How can one think without premeditation?

“My friend, save me! but five minutes remain. I cannot think, my brain is on fire.

“My dear friend, think for me, I implore you!

“Oh! Heaven help me; do not extend my penance till the crack of doom!

“Watch the minutes gliding by—but two remain.

“I am going mad; mad! and you sit there dumb, who might, by an effort of thought, be my saviour.

“One minute; and then—purgatory for one hundred years!”

I looked at my guest and saw the great beads of perspiration chasing each other down his temples; I saw his fingers writhing like serpents, clutching at the empty air; I saw his eyes glaring upon me, and piercing me through like two arrows; I saw him rise as if to fly at me and strangle me, and recoiled with horror at the sight of him; but he never came a step nearer for the bell of the neighbouring church struck a big, reverberating One! and as the corporeal figure of the monk began quickly to dissolve into its glassy form, I sprang at it not knowing what I did, and tried to grasp it, but my arms pierced through it as if it were tissue paper, and I fell headlong upon the floor, with a terrible pain in my forehead, and as I fell I distinctly heard the words—“Joy and rest for ever; my doom is past! God in His mercy be praised!”

When I recovered consciousness it was 8.30 a.m., and a doctor and my assistants were round me, using various restoratives. Across my forehead was a terrible gash, which the doctor had sewn and bandaged, and at the foot of the glass screen lay the broken fragments of my visitor, the Monk.

To show that it does not always do to rely on one’s own strength, either physically or mentally, I may say that not only did I obtain complete control over the will of my stained-glass artist friend, but taking him at his word, I received from his unconscious self the material for several capital stories; and all this from the man who could neither be hypnotized nor tell a single story! The overplus of this glass-painter’s genius as a story-teller I reserve for future consideration.