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Page 15

"I've never seen any," said Austin, "but of course I've read about
it--Gobelin, Bayeux, and so on. I should love to see what it looks
like in reality."

"Come, then," said St Aubyn, crossing the lawn. "I have the key in my
pocket."

He flung open the door. Austin found himself in the vast apartment,
groined and vaulted, measuring about a hundred and twenty feet by
fifty, and lighted by exquisite pointed windows enriched with
coats-of-arms and other heraldic devices in jewel-like stained glass.
The walls were completely hidden by tapestries of rare beauty, woven
into the semblance of gardens, palaces, arcades and bowers of clipped
hedges and pleached trees with slender fountains set meetly in green
shade; while some again were crowded with swaying Gothic figures of
saints and kings and warriors and angels, all far too beautiful,
thought Austin, to have ever lived. Yet surely there must be some
prototypes of all these wonderful conceptions somewhere. There must be
a world--if we could only find it--where loveliness that we only know
as pictured exists in actual reality. What a dream-like hall it was,
on that still summer afternoon. Yet there was something uncanny about
it too. St Aubyn had stepped out of sight, and Austin left by himself
began to experience a very extraordinary sensation. He felt that he
was not alone. The immense chamber seemed _full of presences_. He
could see nothing, but he felt them all about him. The place was
thickly populated, but the population was invisible. Everything looked
as empty as it had looked when the door was first thrown open, and yet
it was really full of ghostly palpitating life, crowded with the
spirits of bygone men and women who had held stately revels there
three hundred years before. He was not frightened, but a sense of awe
crept over him, rooting him to the spot and imparting a rapt
expression to his face. Did he hear anything? Wasn't there a faint
rustling sound somewhere in the air behind him? No. It must have been
his fancy. Everything was as silent as the grave.

He turned and saw St Aubyn close beside him. "The place is haunted!"
he exclaimed in a husky voice.

"What makes you think so?" asked St Aubyn, without any intonation of
surprise.

"I feel it," he replied.

"Come out," said the other abruptly. "It's curious you should say
that. Other people seem to have felt the same. I'm not so sensitive
myself. You're looking pale. Let's go into the library and have a cup
of tea."

The hot stimulant revived him, and he was soon talking at his ease
again. But the curious impression remained. It seemed to him as if he
had had an experience whose effects would not be easily shaken off. He
had seen no ghosts, but he had felt them, and that was quite enough.
The sensation he had undergone was unmistakable; the hall was full of
ghosts, and he had been conscious of their presence. This, then, was
apparently what Lubin had alluded to. Oh, it was all real
enough--there was no room left for any doubt whatever.

It was a quarter to five when he took leave of his entertainer,
responding warmly to an injunction to look in again whenever he felt
disposed. He walked very thoughtfully homewards, revolving many
questions in his busy brain. How much he had seen and learnt since he
left home that morning! Worlds of beauty, of art, of intellect had
dawned upon his consciousness; a world of mystery too. Even now,
tramping along the road, he felt a different being. Even now he
imagined the presence of unseen entities--walking by his side, it
might be, but anyhow close to him. Was it so? Could it be that he
really was surrounded by intelligences that eluded his physical senses
and yet in some mysterious fashion made their existence _known_?

At last he arrived at the stile leading into the meadow, and prepared
to clamber over. Then he hesitated. Why? He could not tell. A queer,
invincible repugnance to cross that stile suddenly came over him. The
meadow looked fresh and green, and the road--hot, dusty, and
white--was certainly not alluring; besides, he longed to saunter along
the grass by the river and think over his experiences. But something
prevented him. With a sense of irritation he took a few steps along
the road; then the thought of the cool field reasserted itself, and
with a determined effort he retraced his steps and threw one leg over
the top bar of the stile. It was no use. Gently, but unmistakably,
something pushed him back. He _could_ not cross. He wanted to, and he
was in full possession of both his physical and mental faculties, but
he simply could not do it.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 19th Dec 2025, 18:38

Austin and His Friends by Frederic H. Balfour