Ghost Stories of an Antiquary | Page 2

to be
hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as if he were expecting
every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The
Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a man haunted by
a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an
unbearably henpecked husband. The probabilities, when reckoned up,
certainly pointed to the last idea; but, still, the impression conveyed
was that of a more formidable persecutor even than a termagant wife.
However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too
deep in his note-book and too busy with his camera to give more than
an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he
found him at no great distance, either huddling himself back against the
wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became
rather fidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the
old man from his déjeuner, that he was regarded as likely to make away
with St Bertrand's ivory crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that
hangs over the font, began to torment him.
'Won't you go home?' he said at last; 'I'm quite well able to finish my
notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at least two
hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?'
'Good heavens!' said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to
throw into a state of unaccountable terror, 'such a thing cannot be

thought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no;
two hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I
am not at all cold, with many thanks to monsieur.'
'Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun to himself: 'you have been
warned, and you must take the consequences.'
Before the expiration of the two hours, the stalls, the enormous
dilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop John de Mauléon, the
remnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamber
had been well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping at
Dennistoun's heels, and every now and then whipping round as if he
had been stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a
large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were,
sometimes.
'Once,' Dennistoun said to me, 'I could have sworn I heard a thin
metallic voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiring
glance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. "It is he--that is--it is
no one; the door is locked," was all he said, and we looked at each
other for a full minute.'
Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was
examining a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a
series illustrating the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of the
picture is well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below,
which runs thus:
Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat
strangulare. (How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the Devil long
sought to strangle.)
Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular
remark of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the old
man on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant in
agony, his hands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks.
Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but the
question would not go away from him,'Why should a daub of this kind

affect anyone so strongly?' He seemed to himself to be getting some
sort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been puzzling him
all the day: the man must be a monomaniac; but what was his
monomania?
It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and the church
began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises--the muffled
footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all
day--seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and the consequently
quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent and insistent.
The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry and
impatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and note-book
were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned
Dennistoun to the western door of the church, under the tower. It was
time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great
bell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice
up among the pines and down to the valleys, loud with
mountain-streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to
remember and repeat the salutation of the angel to