Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (83 page)

“Well,” said the Vice Provost, “he might have spared himself the question, Glynne. I never knew you have any business in this life yet. Never matter! ’Tis time to turn unto the coffeehouse, Gentlemen. I have told Dr. Cotes we should be there before eight, and the clocks are going the quarter now.”

The company adjourned therefore to a coffeehouse on the Market Place, and smoked clay pipes till ten with Dr. Roger Cotes and some other gentlemen from Trinity, Queens’ and Bene’t Colleges.

The curfew bell was ringing and it was a fine night when Hardman and Ashe, each with a packet and a stick, emerged from the gates of King’s College and told the porter—a fuddling old ruffian, as were most College servants of that day—that they were not like to be returning that night. Neither said any word until they were clear of the town and on the Huntingdon road. Then said Nicholas Hardman, “If all goes as it should tonight, Ashe, we shall know a matter worth knowing.”

“Yes, Nick, and there will be a matter worth having in one of these bundles,” said Ashe: “I dare swear though that there will be some disappointment. Newborough’s tale of the old witch set me a-thinking. You have the book upon you, Nick?”

“Book, what book? Dr. Gales’ print of Malmesbury, I suppose? A fat folio of a stone weight. It is likely?”

“No, not Malmesbury.
Our
book,
the
book, I mean.”

“Call me fool if you like, Stephen, but don’t ask such another question: have I come forth without my head? That is as likely as it would be for me to leave the book in my chambers. But why, pray, does that ass Newborough’s old story set you thinking?”

“Why, only, that if the same gentry that came for their friend in that story were thinking of waiting upon
our
friend at Fenstanton tonight, it is like we may see trouble.”

Hardman gave a snort. “And if they did, do you think a circle is broken so easily? Have I nothing here that avails to make them give back? Still, you are right in a way, Stephen, as you have been before. If we are later in the field than they, there may be trouble, even danger. But what we would have is not what they want. If we get the three locks of hair and the winding sheet, we are masters of the Elementals. The
others
want the soul.”

It was a thought that seemed to dash both of them for a moment, and they were silent. So the clouds flew across the moon, and the wind blew over the bare fields, and the bells of Cambridge came more faintly to the ear, as they walked quietly on toward the sleeping village of Fenstanton.

Those who remember the road between Cambridge and Fenstanton will bear me out when I say that it is eleven miles long, and presents few features of interest. There is an occasional wayside inn, a few farms lie a little off the road, and on a clear day we may see the lantern and western tower of Ely, and a good many nearer church towers. The church that lies nearest to the road is that of Lolworth, on the left hand, some five or six miles out. There was something doing at Lolworth when Hardman and Ashe passed it. The bell was going, and the windows lighted. Nocturnal funerals were almost the
rule in Queen Anne’s time for anyone who claimed to be a magnate, so that it did not surprise the lookers-on when they saw two lines of torches working their way slowly through the trees near the church, and when they saw a figure in white flit out of the south porch to meet the
cortège
, they knew that it must be the parson. Yet a few moments, and the procession was in the church: then they walked on again, for they had paused a moment.

The turning out of the main road toward Lolworth church lay some little distance ahead, and down the lane were coming a group of figures at a great pace. They reached the road and turned down it toward the travelers: who were a little daunted thereby, because they did not wish to be recognized as Cambridge parsons at that hour of the night. There appeared to be seven people clustering around one in the midst, and their action and gait was like that of watchmen who had taken a prisoner. The party came on, and it seemed as if this conjecture might fit the situation, for the person in the midst was plainly reluctant, and as plainly was being hurried on by the rest. Hardman and Ashe drew toward the hedge to let these men pass, and their eyes were riveted upon the face of the captured man. It was not lightly to be forgotten, for it is not often that any one beholds the face of a man who has lost all hope, and yet has room in his brain for an unspeakable fear. This is the sight which those two ill-starred priests were now looking upon: and they saw moreover that, in spite of his terror and desperation, the captive could look nowhere save straight in front of him, for anything seemed tolerable rather than to see the faces of the seven who were about him. When they pictured the scene to themselves thereafter, they realized that his was the only face of which they had caught sight at all; nay, it even seemed to them that there was no other face for their eyes to catch.

The thing was passed; it passed quite silently, and for many moments these two men stayed breathless to within an ace of sudden flight or swooning. They knew that they had seen that which no mourner at that funeral had seen, and it was in their minds that it is not always well for those whose eyes are opened. It may happen to some to see the mountains full of bones and chariots of fire, but to others are shown very different sights from that. Yet the natures of both were so obstinate and dogged that neither would broach to the other the thought of returning, and giving up the dismal project they had in their minds. They went on.

Soon they sighted Fenstanton spire, and half a mile further they left the road and made their way across the fields to the side where the churchyard was accessible away from the street. It was not a difficult wall to climb, yet they were unnerved and took several minutes to get over it. Then they proceeded to go through the sinister rites and ceremonies which were to safeguard them against those powers with whom they supposed themselves to be leagued, for they are treacherous allies, as those tell us who claim to know the heart of the matter. On the north side of the dark church, even in its shadow, and not more than ten yards from a new-made grave—the only one on that side of the building—they picked out a space where the grass was shortest, and drew two large circles, one within the other. And in the space between the circles they marked out with some pains the symbols of the planets and a few Hebrew letters which were meant to indicate names of angels and of the Great Power, whose aid, by one of the strange contradictions of art magic, they promised themselves they would gain for the work they were at. When their defense was completed they stopped, and Ashe looked at his time-piece. The hour was something short of a quarter to twelve, so they must wait till the middle of night was reached.

And now—what was it that these two educated clergymen proposed to themselves? And how came it that they were on an enterprise which one associates, not always correctly, with the darkest medievalism and the most defective civilization?

You have guessed that they were earnest and credulous students of art magic: how came such men to be in Cambridge in the reign of Queen Anne? I can only answer that in that day there were many such men in Germany, and that the instinct which prompts men to seek intercourse with the unseen peoples of the air is one that may come to the surface in any civilization and in any century. Many have a sneaking idea that the intercourse has been sometimes gained, but that is little to the point.

That which Hardman and Ashe were determined upon was the obtaining of an ingredient for future spells, which should end in making them able to command the forces of nature to a degree which they believed many to have attained before them. They meant on this night—and they were confident of accomplishing it—to go through certain forms of words which would have power to make the corpse of the old woman buried that day to arise out
of the grave and come to them, and give them—it is horrid to think of—the portion of the grave-clothes and the locks of hair of which Hardman spoke when they were on the road. Then should the body return to the earth as it was, and the soil be replaced above it. They were to go back to their College the next day; and in seven days’ time, who so rich and powerful as Nicholas Hardman and Stephen Ashe, Esquires?

It was with a strange kind of exaltation that, as midnight came near, Hardman drew from his bosom a paper book, about a hundred years old, ill-written and full of diagrams like that which had just been drawn upon the ground, and within whose compass both of them were standing. He began to read, or intone, a Latin form of conjuration, a sinister kind of Church service, in which the most sacred of names were freely employed; and to this Ashe made the set appointed responses. The night had been disturbed throughout and windy, but no rain had fallen and the thin clouds kept covering the moon, which was by this time low and near the horizon. The wind rattled in the louvers of the tower, and every now and then swung the tongue of a bell so that it sounded in a dim and far off fashion. Nicholas Hardman read on, and read faster and louder, and Ashe responded at short intervals. They had now entered upon the 91st Psalm:
“Qui Habitat”
, “Whoso dwelleth,” and they were just promising themselves deliverance from the terror that walks in darkness when a blacker cloud than usual left the moon’s face and Stephen Ashe fell like an ox at the feet of Hardman. For it seems that it had been determined that these fools should be answered according to their folly.

I have said that the miserable and criminous old woman whom the fenmen had killed was buried a bare ten yards away from the two conjurors: and their eyes were often fixed upon her grave as upon the point to which their spells were directed. Looking over at the grave, Hardman beheld crouched upon it a shape which there was small likelihood of his ever forgetting. It was the figure, one would say, at first sight, of an enormous bat, with folded wings and hints of head approaching the human form. In a short moment, Hardman caught sight of the folds of wrinkled skin or hide that hung down from the cheeks, of the wide ears which shone transparent in the moonlight, and of the two lines of dusky red fire which marked the almost closed eyes. And further, he declared afterward, he saw the earth heap upon which this being was crouched stir and wave beneath it. Not long was he allowed to
remain a spectator, for this terrific appearance rose to its height and for a minute seemed to look about as if for a victim whom it knew to be near. Hardman, almost at the pitch of despair, yet trusted dimly in his charmed circle. But the creature on a sudden turned full in his direction and stepped swift and straight toward him, not flinching for an instant at angelic names or planetary symbols. In another moment, its talons were raised toward his face, and he knew no more.

It was Ashe who helped him back to Cambridge in the morning of the next day: and it was Ashe also who, for the twenty years that he survived, sheltered him in the parsonage of Willoughton and ministered to him, himself a stricken man. But Hardman never saw light again.

The College at large never learned the rights of the story. Two days after the catastrophe, Mr. Glynne says to Mr. Morell, being Vice Provost, “What did you do at the Seniors’ Meeting this morning, Mr. Vice—?”

“Sealed the presentation to Weedon Lois, and received a declaration, Glynne.”

“A royal declaration, or what?”

“No, Glynne; Mr. Provost will tell you about it, maybe, if you ask him.”

So off goes Mr. Glynne to the Lodge. But Provost Roderick is pale, which is not natural to him, and not smoking, which is decidedly unnatural, and disturbed and uncommunicative. And Mr. Glynne can only learn that it is a matter which the Seniors have decided to keep private. During the next week, a barrowload of matters from one set of chambers in the King’s College is wheeled off in the direction of Barton and does not come back: and most of the Seniors are very regular in their attendance in the Chapel for some months.

I cannot help connecting these events I have set down with that entry in the Protocollum book, which states that two gentlemen, being Fellows of the College, were permitted to register a solemn abjuration of all unlawful acts in the practicing of which they had grievously transgressed: and that it was agreed that the Provost and Seniors shall exercise their utmost discretion to the end that this matter be kept strictly private to the Seniority.

A
YOUNG MAN
is leaning over a gate that leads into a wood. The wood is on the top of a ridge. The man’s back is turned to it, and he is looking at a wide and lovely view. The slope before him is fairly steep, and from its base spreads out a broad vale—perhaps the Vale Royal of England, perhaps another, for I must not be too precise in my indications. When I have said that my hero is gazing at a September sunset over an English river-valley, I have said nearly all that I am competent to put into words: my readers must fill in for themselves the details of the distant layers of moorland glorified in a golden mist, of smoke rising from unseen villages and great houses, and of a pinnacled tower here and there. And now that the scene is set, however sketchily, let the historic present be dropped.

The spectator did not soon tire of the view: few people would. But at length the sun sank in a limpid sky behind the wooded hills in the west, and he remembered that duty called him home. He scaled the gate and took his way down by a path through ancient pastures. He walked quickly, with his eyes for the most part of the time fixed on the ground before him and casting only an occasional glance ahead. A man or woman coming in his direction some two fields off was the only thing that diversified the familiar scene. Familiar it was, for he had been brought up in the manor house a mile or so away; a house which one or two unexpected deaths had thrown, with the surrounding estate, into his possession only a few months before. I do not think it necessary to set forth the genealogy nor to detail the accidents which had made him what he was: but briefly the situation was this, that
John Humphreys, an orphan and an only child, age twenty-two, having just taken a very good degree at Cambridge, and intending to compete for a post in the Home Civil Service, was now a considerable landowner in a beautiful English county, and might expect to figure very respectably in the next issue of Burke’s
Landed Gentry
.