THE SUPERNATURAL OMNIBUS (56 page)

Mr Charrington was thrown from the dogcart on his way to the station at half past one. Killed on the spot!

And he was married to May Forster in our parish church at half past three, in presence of half the parish.

'I shall be married, dead, or alive!'

What had passed in that carriage on the homeward drive? No one knows--no one will ever know. Oh, May! oh, my dear!

Before a week was over they laid her beside her husband in our little churchyard on the thyme-covered hill--the churchyard where they had kept their love-trysts.

Thus was accomplished John Charrington's wedding.

from
MYSTIC VOICES

Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1923

***

It was some little time before the subject of the old priest’s experiences cropped up again, and I did not like to refer to it deliberately for fear of trying his patience, and so making him avoid the matter entirely. One day, however, he mentioned it I himself, and that gave me my opportunity.

‘I want to ask you something about these events,’ I told him. ‘Have you yourself any theory to account for them at all?’

‘Distinguo,’ said he, after a short pause; ‘without committing myself to a theory to fit every case, they do seem to me to fall into several classes.

‘In one category I should place those “voices” which warn me of events that have happened quite recently, or are actually happening at the moment, but a long distance away; such as the ones that told me of the deaths of my father and brother. Cases of this kind may, perhaps, be due to thought transference, or telepathy; as you yourself suggested, if you recollect, when I first told you of those instances.

‘A second type are the “voices” which order me to go to some place or do some special thing, which I should probably have avoided if left to myself; and on these I have my own opinion, but, if you do not mind, I would rather keep it to myself.

‘A third class are those experienced in certain places or in connection with certain articles; such as the story I told you of the Persecution Chalice, or of_my hearing the last Mass of Father Philip Rivers the martyr. Such as these would fall into line with the cases we often hear of haunted houses. You know the modern theory of the subject, of course?’

‘I’m not at all sure that I do,’ I answered, ‘but, in any case, I should like you to explain it to me, and how it bears upon your own experiences.’

‘Oh, well,’ he replied, ‘the idea is just this; that a place or a thing, such as a weapon or article of furniture - almost anything, in fact, which has played a part in events that aroused very intense emotional activity on the part of those who enacted them - becomes itself saturated, as it were, with the emotions involved. So much so, in fact, that it can influence people of exceptional sympathetic powers, and enable them to perceive the original events, more or less perfectly, as if they were re-enacted before them. Thus, in some cases, the person will see the occurrence as if taking place before his eyes. In my case, I hear the words or sounds, just as if they were present on the original occasion, possibly some centuries before.’

‘That is a new idea to me,’ I said, ‘but it doesn’t seem impossible. Hitherto the only theory of haunting which ever seemed at all plausible to me was the old-fashioned one that the spirit of a guilty person was sometimes compelled, as part of its purgatory, to frequent the scene of its crime, and there re-enact the events which it now detested. Much in the same way as we hear of a murderer being irresistibly drawn to revisit the spot where he slew his victim, in spite of the evident danger he runs of arousing suspicion thereby.’

‘I see no reason why both theories should not be true,’ he answered; ‘some cases would demand one explanation, some another. In fact, if my experiences go to prove anything, they show that the theory you call “old-fashioned” is at least as likely to be true as the one I outlined for you just now.’

‘I scent another story,’ I cried, ‘for none of those you have told me, as yet, suggested a soul in purgatory as the chief agent in the “direct speech”.’

‘If it comes to that,’ said he, with a smile, ‘I suppose I could give you half a dozen instances where such an explanation seems the most obvious and natural one. But, before we leave the question of explanations, is there anything else you would like to ask me about the subject?’

‘Well, yes,’ said I, with some hesitation, ‘but if you think me impertinent or too inquisitive, please do not hesitate to say so. I would far sooner drop the subject altogether, than run any risk of hurting your feelings.’

‘My dear boy,’ said the old priest, with more emotion than I had seen him exhibit hitherto, ‘please, please do not talk to me like that. God knows I am a poor enough specimen of what a priest should be, but heaven forbid that I should allow my feelings to block the way whereby you, or I, or any man, may come to understand the manner of his dealings with his creatures. I may fail, indeed I must fail to some degree, in making clear the truth in these matters; just as everyone who tries to express himself always fails to convey things to others as perfectly as he himself perceives them. But that is quite another thing from hiding the light that God reveals to me, in order to save my feelings from possible laceration.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said I, ‘I spoke foolishly; but I need not assure you that no such suggestion was intended by me, for a moment.’

‘I know, I know,’ he answered quickly, ‘but the point is one on which I feel strongly, more strongly than most men, perhaps; and you will humour an old man in it, will you not? But go on and ask the question which you had in mind.’

‘Well, sir,’ I said rather slowly, for his gentle outburst had distracted me from what I meant to say, ‘the point I wished to put to you was this. With regard to these experiences of yours, does their occurrence, their frequency, or intensity, coincide with any special state, or set of circumstances, in yourself? I mean such things as physical health, spiritual fervour, intellectual activity or their opposites.’

‘Really, I don’t know that I ever analyzed them in that way,’ he answered. ‘But, speaking generally, I should say that in the great majority of cases I have been in perfect health at the time, and certainly up to my normal standard of intellectual activity. As regards the spiritual atmosphere on such occasions, I have often remarked that events of this kind always seem to take place when my state of soul is absolutely calm and natural, and, consequently, when my sense perception and judgement are least likely to be deceived.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said! ‘that seems to me an important point, since for anyone who knows you personally it disposes of the idea that the whole thing may be self-deception. But you spoke just now of an instance, or possibly of half a dozen instances, where the “voice” you heard seemed to be that of a soul in purgatory. Would you mind telling me of such a case?’

‘I will do so with pleasure,’ said he, ‘and the story I will tell you has this further interest, that it is free from an objection you made once before; I mean, that so many of these events seem purposeless. In this case, as you will see in the sequel, what I heard was very much to the point.

‘You may remember my telling you of an Austrian priest, a great friend of mine, to whose home I was travelling when I was obliged to undertake an extraordinary “sick call”; and how I next met my friend years later in Rome?’ I nodded my acquiescence, and he continued, ‘Well, it was then that the event took place of which I propose to tell you. By that time my friend had become the head of one of the ecclesiastical colleges m Rome, and, at the personal request of the Austrian Emperor he had been made a titular archbishop. As he was now a penonaggio distincto, I felt a little doubtful about intruding on him, but he was so genuinely pleased when I did call that my fears all vanished, and we soon became as intimate as ever.

‘One afternoon I had arranged to call for him soon after lunch, so that we might take a long walk together; but on my arrival he met me with apologies.

‘“I am sorry to upset our plan,” he said, “but this morning I received a note from my sister, begging me to go and see her at once. She is a nun in one of the strictly enclosed convents here in Rome, and was solemnly professed only a few weeks ago, just before you came out from England. You have never met her, she is the youngest of the family, and a good many years my junior.” ‘Of course I said that the postponement of our excursion did not matter in the least, and proposed that I should walk with him to the convent. “I will wait in the church, during your interview,” I said, “and afterwards we can take a stroll on the Pincio, if you are not kept too long.” He fell in with the proposal at once, and we set out for the convent, which was quite at the other side of the city, fully half an hour’s walk from the college. ‘On our arrival the out-sister conducted us both to the parlour, when I explained that I would wait in the church, while the archbishop spoke with his sister. The nun then said that she was the sacristan, and would take me to the church through the sacristy, as that was the shortest way. Accordingly, we left the archbishop, and, crossing the passage, passed through a doorway inscribed “Sagrestia”.

“‘But what a large, handsome sacristy,” I exclaimed in Italian, for I had not expected anything on such a big scale. “Si, Signore,” answered the nun, evidently pleased at my surprise; and she explained how, some years before, the nuns had converted the upper portion of one transept into a new choir for themselves, and the lower half had then become the sacristy. “See,” she added, “the old pavement is still here,” and she pointed to a number of incised slabs in the floor which marked the site of old interments. Then she opened another door and I passed into the church, asking her to let me know when the archbishop was ready.

‘The building was a typical Roman church of the seventeenth century; a nave with small side chapels off it, but no aisles, a low dome at the crossing of nave and transepts, and a shallow apsidal sanctuary. A short inspection of the interior revealed nothing of special interest, so I soon settled down in a quiet corner of the transept opposite the sacristy door and said a few prayers. After some minutes I rose from my knees and sat down on a bench at the side, chancing as I did so to glance at the windows of the nuns’ choir, high up in the opposite transept.

‘The windows were filled with glass, frosted in some way to prevent one seeing through, but the strong light behind cast the shadow of a kneeling nun across the window as she prayed with her face towards the Blessed Sacrament, which was reserved on the High Altar of the church below. Vaguely I wondered who she was and for what she was praying, and then the figure rose and moved to one side. The silhouette was in profile now, so evidently she was kneeling before some shrine or picture which stood in the choretto itself, at the side of the window.

‘I think I have mentioned that, in some cases, when the “direct speech” comes to me it is heralded by a kind of premonition in myself. Gradually I become less and less perceptive of the things around me, a feeling of bodily fatigue and a sense of muscular lassitude grows upon me, while my mind becomes unusually alert. Then, out of this - physical insulation, may I call it? - a kind of sympathetic union seems to arise between myself and the unknown person, and, finally, the “direct speech” is heard. It was so in this case, as I gazed up at the figure of the nun who knelt and prayed before the shrine. Then, as from sheer fatigue I closed my eyes, abruptly in my ears came the voice of someone speaking, speaking rapidly, in Italian, with piteous tense accents, as if in extreme pain and distress.

‘“No, no, no - do not ask me to pray for you. It is all wrong, I say; terribly wrong. A saint! My God, it is I who need your prayers. Oh, why do not they pray for me, that I may rest in peace? O my God, I am punished indeed. Punished for my folly, my pretences, my hypocrisy. Oh, do hot pray to me, pray for me. Pray, pray for me, the wretchedness of sinners. Oh, pray for me, that God may grant me rest.”

‘This went on for some minutes, the distress of the speaker becoming more intense, as if her protests went unheeded by those to whom she spoke. Then, all at once, came silence, and, opening my eyes, I looked up at the tribune. For a moment the shadow of the nun’s figure fell across the window, and then she moved away, her prayers completed, and I heard no more.

‘With a sense of great relief I came back to myself again, and for some minutes sat pondering over what I had heard. What could it all mean? Something was wrong inside the convent, I felt certain, but before I had got my thoughts clear, the Sister Sacristan returned and told me that the archbishop had left the parlour, and was waiting for me in the vestibule.

‘I got up at once, and joining my companion, we left the convent together. My mind was still full of the words I had heard, and of speculation about their meaning, and we must have walked a considerable distance without either of us speaking. All at once it struck me that I was neglecting my friend, and I glanced towards him, with some trifle of small talk on my lips- To my surprise his face was set and stern, with tense lips and frowning eyes, and, as I thought, an expression half puzzled and half angry. At this the trifle I had meant to say fled from my mind, and instead of it I blurted out abruptly:

‘“Something is wrong, then, in the convent, as I fancied?” With a look of surprise the archbishop turned his gaze full upon me, and I felt that I had given myself away.

‘“Explain yourself, friend Philip,” he said at length.

‘“Oh, well!” I answered, as lightly as I was able, “it is easy to see that something has upset you, and in any case your sister would not have sent you such an urgent message, unless she had some reason for it.”

‘“That is not good enough, my friend,” he answered gently. “You spoke as if my expression of annoyance had confirmed a suspicion of your own. There is something behind those words of yours, Philip; something which it may be important for me to know. See now, I will be quite frank with you. I left the convent, disturbed and mystified by something which had just been said to me, and your first words show that you too have been affected in the same way. My dear Philip, you must tell me the cause of your anxiety, and then, in my turn, I will tell you what is troubling me.”