by Ethel Rolt Wheeler.
As published in Behind the Veil (David Nutt; 1906)
She shivered as she entered the church.
'How chill it strikes!' she said.
They had come into this grey, empty gloom, already dusked by the approaching twilight, out of the vivid glory of an autumn day. Basil Kent was writing a short monograph on Milton, and he and Sybilla Deering, to whom he was engaged, had planned a country excursion under the pretext of visiting Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles and the old village church. The walk from the station would be for ever memorable to them both. It was as full of enchantment as the time of Haroun al Raschid; the distant fields opened in great rifts of jewels, emerald and ruby; the trees flapped languidly with ruddy flame that defied the daylight; mystery lurked in the azure and opalescent distances, and an autumnal glamour transfigured the veriest grass-blade. The changing changelessness of the world carried them back in imagination to ancient epochs. They looked upon the landscape with eyes borrowed from Saxon, from Plantagenet, from Tudor times; they were Crusaders that found in the gorgeous colouring reminiscences of the barbaric East, or Puritans meditating on divine mysteries as they walked across the fields to visit Milton. And through all these fancies Sybilla saw, as through a halo, the dear reality: the keen, sweet face of Basil Kent—a face stern, austere in outline, softened and shadowed with the tenderness of love.
But as she entered the church a chill struck through her—a physical sensation that yet affected the mind with something like a sense of foreboding. The marvellous glamour of the day became in memory ominous; it seemed like the Celtic glow that precedes disaster. She felt as if she had been walking upon the fragile edge of a beauty that would shatter into winter and death.
This was the first day that Basil Kent had become fully aware of her extreme sensitiveness to impressions. The variations in leaf-tint seemed to excite in her subtly differing emotions; she caught the spirit of the past times they had chatted about with an exact insight that threw sudden illumination on his year-long studies. In Milton's Puritanic little room she had closed her eyes that she might enter into the soul of the blind poet; and when she opened them to tell him that she had seen visions of divine glory, it did not occur to him to suggest the misty gold of autumn lingering on the retina: she seemed so near to deep, inexpressible things that she might well be able to pierce into the very heart of their mystery and meaning. And how potently the church impressed her, vague in the dusk, dumb with the weight of years! Her exquisite face, cut against the smooth stone pillar, was pale as ivory; a transient fatigue showed upon it vaguely, like the shadows on ivory, and some of the light was gone out of her starry eyes.
The little old caretaker pointed out to them the ancient frescoes on the walls, the brasses, and the tombs. He then led them to the chancel and showed them a small window, through which could be witnessed, from without, the service of the church. Such windows, known as 'lepers' squints,' have been built into many churches, so that when leprosy was common in England its wretched outcasts could, through this means, participate distantly in the divine service, and receive distantly the Church's forgiveness and blessing.
At sight of the window Sybilla grew rigid with horror. The whole tragedy of a leper's life was borne in suddenly upon her mind—its awful loneliness, its frustrate aspirations. But her realisation was merely intellectual—emotionally the sufferings of such an outcast were beyond the pale of her comprehension. Her sympathies went out rather to the ignorant people of past ages, possessed with an unreasoning terror and driven to unreasoning cruelty. She understood their condition of mind, and excused it. She felt that thus to refuse her sympathy to a life of such dreadful agony was unworthy of her; she strove to think of the leper as a fellow-being, with thoughts and feelings like herself; in vain—her reason had lost all power, and she shuddered from head to foot.
She sat down on the altar steps opposite the window, trembling and exhausted. 'I am tired, Basil, and will rest here a little,' she said. 'Will you come back and fetch me when you have been round the church and churchyard?'
They left her, and the darkness grew about her. It clung to the arches with a shadowy sense of fear. It assumed body in the darker ingles, developing into lurking shapes. Sybilla was in that condition of physical fatigue when the imagination is preternaturally active—unless she controlled her thoughts she knew they would evolve into horrid presences. With an effort of will she forced her mind into other channels—she conjured up the ancient celebrations of mass, the solemn chantings of other days. The scene grew before her: the swinging censers, the tinkling bells, the priest in his gorgeous vestments, raising the Host above the kneeling worshippers. She wondered if he ever glanced at that window—the lepers' window? ... God in Heaven! there was a face there now—a face white as death, white as snow. She sprang up terrified. It did not pass away. It was no illusion of the brain, no hysterical fancy. The face shone in upon her through the gloom with dreadful whiteness—a familiar face, but distorted with horror. She grasped the altar-rail to save herself from falling. Then it was gone.
Something had come into the church and was approaching her. She gave a half-stifled shriek as it loomed nearer. Could it be Basil? Was it his face she had seen at the window, so horrible, so white?
It was too dark now for him to notice her emotion. He came quite close up to her and spoke in a low, hoarse voice.
'Sybilla,' he said, 'I have had a terrible shock. I looked in at the leper's window just now—I wanted to put myself in the place of a leper, to imagine how a leper felt—and, Sybilla—the horror of it!—the scene was familiar—absolutely familiar down to the smallest detail! I recognised the curious perspective and angle of pillar, the shape of window, the proportion and colour of altar, and reiterated flashes of some forgotten existence leaped and leaped through my brain. I saw mistily the celebration of a shadowy mass—it was a torture of mysteries beyond my comprehension, of promises beyond my hope; I experienced a misery which even in memory racks my whole being. I knew an existence different to its roots from the one I now know; my thoughts were many-coloured, limited, grotesque; my ideas strangely concrete. Sybilla, in some past life I must have been one of those dreadful outcasts—I must have been a leper: think of it, a leper! ... Sybilla, are you ill?'
He caught her in his arms as she fell, and carried her, half-fainting, into the open air. A new moon cut sharply the softness of lingering sunset, and there was sufficient light to see the rigidity, the painful tension, of her face. He cursed his rash impetuosity that had led him to jar her nerves with his horrid tale, knowing how sensitive she was, how easily overwrought. She breathed more freely in the fresh air, and presently opened her eyes; then involuntarily shrank away from his touch.
'Are you better, dearest?' he asked anxiously.
A flood of tears came to her relief. She sat down on a tombstone and sobbed and sobbed. Kent stood watching her in dire distress. He had never seen her other than calm and bright, and her agony of emotion alarmed him. He knelt beside her and strove to take her hand. 'Sybilla, Sybilla!' he pleaded.
She stood up and moved a few paces away from him. 'Basil, shall I ever be able to explain to you?' she murmured, 'I saw you at the window, white—white as snow,' she continued, in a low whisper, 'your face, I did not know it; but it was horrible, horrible! Basil, I shall never see you any other way again.'
'Sybilla, this is madness!' cried Kent, 'I was pale and horror-stricken because of that strange illusion I told you about—the illusion of familiarity; but now, in the clear evening light, I am myself again; you must forget that ghostly glimpse of me. Come, dearest, say I am forgiven for causing you so cruel a fright.'
'I am very sorry, Basil,' she replied, 'but, indeed, it can never be the same. I did love you—now, you only inspire me with fear. I know, I know. It is foolish, irrational, unkind. But it is stronger than I am; and here I must bid you good-bye.'
'You are still under the influence of the shock,' he said, 'the terror of it will pass away. In a day, in a week, the memory will be dim; you will forget, you must forget.'
'Basil, I cannot reason, I can only feel. ... We must be brave, and part here and now.'
'Sybilla!' ... It was the voice of one who is heartbroken.
'I want you to get me a carriage at the inn,' she said gently, 'I am very tired, and I will drive to the station. You must not come with me, Basil. ... I must travel by myself.'