None Other Gods - Robert Hugh Benson (e book reader for pc .txt) 📗

which, so to speak, the knife and fillet were hidden. He changed his mood half a dozen times even in that quarter of an hour's walk through the town. Now the thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous; now rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace. After all, Jack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and they survive. Why should not Frank? He had gipsy blood in him, too. What in the world was he--Jack--frightened of?

"Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?" he said suddenly, as they neared the lodge.

"Yes. Why?"

"Only I've just thought of something else. Wasn't one of your people executed under Elizabeth?"

"By gad, yes; so he was. I'd quite forgotten. It was being on the wrong side for once."

"How--the wrong side?"

There was amusement in Frank's voice as he answered.

"It was for religion," he said. "He was a Papist. All the rest of them conformed promptly. They were a most accommodating lot. They changed each time without making any difficulty. I remember my governor telling us about it once. He thought them very sensible. And so they were, by George! from one point of view."

"Has your religion anything to do with all this?"

"Oh, I suppose so," said Frank, with an indifferent air.

* * * * *


There were a good many doors open in the High Street as they went up it, and Jack saluted half a dozen people mechanically as they touched their hats to him as he passed in the light from the houses.

"What does it feel like being squire?" asked Frank.

"Oh, I don't know," said Jack.

"Rather good fun, I should think," said Frank.

* * * * *


They were nearing the steep part of the ascent presently, and the church clock struck nine.

"Bit late," said Frank.

"When will you come again?" asked the other suddenly. "I'm here another fortnight, you know, and then at Christmas again. Come for Christmas if you can."

"Ah! I don't know where I shall be. Give my love to Cambridge, though."

"Frank!"

"Yes?"

"Mayn't I say what I think?"

"No!"

* * * * *


Ah! there was the roof of the old church standing out against the stars, and there could be no more talking. They might come upon the other two at any moment now. They went five steps further, and there, in the shadow of the gate, burned a dull red spot of fire, that kindled up as they looked, and showed for an instant the heavy eyes of the Major with a pipe in his mouth.

* * * * *


"Good-evening, sir," came the military voice, and the girl rose to her feet beside him. "You're just in time."

"Good-evening," said Jack dully.

"We've had a pleasant evening of it up here, Mr. Kirkby, after we'd stepped down and had a bit of supper at the 'Crown.'"

"I suppose you heard my name there," said Jack.

"Quite right, sir."

"Give us the key," said Frank abruptly.

He unlocked the door and pushed it back over the grass-grown gravel.

"Wait for me here, will you?" he said to Jack.

"I'm coming in. I'll show you where to change."

* * * * *


Twenty yards of an irregular twisted path, over which they stumbled two or three times, led them down to the little ruined doorway at the west end of the old church. Jack's father had restored the place admirably, so far as restoration was possible, and there stood now, strong as ever, the old tower, roofed and floored throughout, abutting on the four roofless walls, within which ran the double row of column bases.

Jack struck a light, kindled a bicycle lamp he had brought with him, and led the way.

"Come in here," he said.

Frank followed him into the room at the base of the tower and looked round.

"This looks all right," he said. "It was a Catholic church once, I suppose?

"Yes; the parson says this was the old sacristy. They've found things here, I think--cupboards in the wall, and so on."

"This'll do excellently," said Frank. "I shan't be five minutes."

Jack went out again without a word. He felt it was a little too much to expect him to see the change actually being made, and the garments of sacrifice put on. (It struck him with an unpleasant shock, considering the form of his previous metaphor, that he should have taken Frank into the old sacristy.)

He sat down on the low wall, built to hold the churchyard from slipping altogether down the hill-side, and looked out over the little town below.

The sky was more noticeable here; one was more conscious of the enormous silent vault, crowded with the steady stars, cool and aloof; and, beneath, of the feverish little town with sparks of red light dotted here and there, where men wrangled and planned and bargained, and carried on the little affairs of their little life with such astonishing zest. Jack was far from philosophical as a rule, but it is a fact that meditations of this nature did engross him for a minute or two while he sat and waited for Frank, and heard the low voices talking in the lane outside. It even occurred to him for an instant that it was just possible that what Frank had said in the smoking-room before dinner was true, and that Something really did have him in hand, and really, did intend a definite plan and result to emerge from this deplorable and quixotic nonsense. (I suppose the contrast of stars and human lights may have helped to suggest this sort of thing to him.)

Then he gave himself up again to dismal considerations of a more particular kind.

* * * * *


He heard Frank come out, and turned to see him in the dim light, bag in hand, dressed again as he had been three days ago. On his head once more was the indescribable cap; on his body the indescribable clothes. He wore on his feet the boots in which he had tramped the moors that day. (How far away seemed that afternoon now, and the cheerful lunch in the sunshine on the hill-top!)

"Here I am, Jack."

Then every promise went to the winds. Jack stood up and took a step towards him.

"Frank, I do implore you to give up this folly. I asked you not to do it at Cambridge, and I ask you again now. I don't care a damn what I promised. It's simple madness, and--"

Frank had wheeled without a word, and was half-way to the gate. Jack stumbled after him, calling under his breath; but the other had already passed through the gate and joined the Major and Gertie before Jack could reach him.

"And so you think up here is the right direction?" Frank was saying.

"I got some tips at the 'Crown,'" said the Major. "There are some farms up there, where--"

"Frank, may I speak to you a minute?"

"No.... All right, Major; I'm ready at once if you are."

He turned towards Jack.

"By the way," he said, "what's in this parcel?"

"Something to eat and drink," murmured Jack.

"Oh ... I shan't want that, thanks very much. Here's the bag with the clothes in it. I'm awfully grateful, old man, for all your kindness. Awfully sorry to have bothered you."

"By the way, Frankie," put in the hateful voice at his side, "I'll take charge of that parcel, if you don't want it."

"Catch hold, then," said Frank. "You're welcome to it, if you'll carry it. You all right, Gertie?"

The girl murmured something inaudible. As at their first meeting, she had said nothing at all. The Major lifted a bundle out of the depths of the hedge, slung it on his stick, and stood waiting, his face again illuminated with the glow of his pipe. He had handed the new parcel to Gertie without a word.

"Well, good-by again, old man," said Frank, holding out his hand. He, too, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief, as on the bridge when they had first met. Jack took his hand and shook it. He could say nothing.

Then the three turned and set their faces up the slope. He could see them, all silent together, pass up, more and more dim in the darkness of the hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them. Then they turned the corner and were gone. But Jack still stood where Frank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of their footfalls had died away.


(VII)

Jack had a horrid dream that night.

He was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on the high moors. It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, when the light is so dim that very little can be seen. He was aware of countless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profound darkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned. His sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings. Enormous birds, larger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredible swiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky. He fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell. Once he inflicted an indescribable wound ... and the bird sped across the sky, blotting out half of it, screaming. Then as the screaming died he became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank was crying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horror that had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerable climax. Then began one of the regular nightmare chases: he set off to run; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his way in the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and dragged his feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearable burden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should need it presently.... The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stop running; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet