The Watcher by the Threshold: Short Stories by John Buchan

Author:John Buchan [Buchan, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781609778484
Google: qL-XDAAAQBAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 12523947
Published: 2018-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

“Justinian was a Christian,” I said.

He looked puzzled. “It’s all preposterous. Meaning no disrespect to you, I must

decline to believe it. My profession compels me to discourage such nonsense.”

“So does mine,” I said wearily. “Good Lord! man, do you think I came here to tell you a fairy tale? It’s the most terrible earnest. Now I want you to give me an

answer, for I have very little time.”

He was still incredulous and inclined to argue. “Do you know if Mr Ladlaw has

been—eh—a strictly temperate man?” he asked.

With this my patience departed. I got up to go, with rude thoughts on the stupidity of the clergy. But Mr Oliphant was far from a refusal. He had no objection to exchange the barren comfort of the manse for the comparative

luxury of the House, and he had no distrust of his power to enliven. As he accompanied me to the door he explained his position. “You see, if they really want me I will come. Tell Mrs Ladlaw that I shall be delighted. Mrs Ladlaw is a

lady for whom I have a great respect.”

“So have I,” I said crossly. “Very well. A trap shall be sent for you after dinner.

Good evening, Mr Oliphant. It is a pleasure to have met you.”

When I reached the House, I told Sybil of my arrangement. For the first time since my arrival she smiled. “It’s very kind of him, but I am afraid he won’t do much good. Bob will frighten him away.”

“I fancy he won’t. The man is strong in his self-confidence and remarkably dense. He’ll probably exasperate Bob into sanity. In any case I’ll be back by Friday morning.”

As I drove away the trap arrived at the door, bringing Mr Oliphant and his portmanteau.

* * * * * * *

The events of the next twenty-four hours, during which I was travelling in the Scotch express or transacting dreary business in my chambers, are known only

from the narrative of the minister. He wrote it out some weeks after at my request, for I wished to have all the links in the tale. I propose to give the gist of it, as he wrote it, stripped of certain reflections on human life and an inscrutable

Providence, with which he had garnished it.

Narrative of the Reverend Mr Oliphant

I arrived at the House of More at a quarter-past eight on the Wednesday evening.

The family had dined early, as Mr Grey was leaving for London, and when I arrived I was taken to the library, where I found Mr Ladlaw. I had not seen him

for some time, and thought him looking pale and a little haggard. He seemed glad to see me, and made me sit down in a chair on his left and draw it up close

to him. I wondered at his manner, for though we had always been on good terms

he had never admitted me to any close intimacy. But now he was more than amiable. He made me ring for toddy, and though he refused to taste it himself, he

pressed the beverage on me. Then he gave me a large cigar, at which I trembled,

and finally he said that we should play at picquet. I declined resolutely, for it is

part of my conscience to refuse to join in any card games; but he made no trouble, and indeed in a moment seemed to have forgotten his proposition.

The next thing he did startled my composure. For he asked abruptly, “Do you believe in a living personal Devil, Oliphant?”

I was taken aback, but answered that to the best of my light I did not.

“And why not?” he asked sharply,

I explained that it was an old, false, anthropomorphic fiction, and that the modern belief was infinitely more impressive. I quoted the words of Dr Rintoul,

one of our Church leaders. I am sorry to say that Mr Ladlaw’s words were, “Dr

Rintoul be d—d!”

“Who the deuce are you to change the belief of centuries?” he cried. “Our forefathers believed in him. They saw him at evening slinking about the folds and peat-stacks, or wrapped up in a black gown standing in the pulpits of the Kirk. Are we wiser men than they?”

I answered that culture had undoubtedly advanced in our day.

Mr Ladlaw replied with blasphemous words on modern culture. I had imagined

him to be a gentleman of considerable refinement, and I knew he had taken a good degree at college. Consequently, I was disagreeably surprised at his new manner.

“You are nothing better than an ignorant parson,”—these were his words,—“and you haven’t even the merits of your stupid profession. The old Scots ministers were Calvinists to the backbone, and they were strong men—strong men, do you

hear?—and they left their mark upon the nation. But your new tea-meeting kind

of parson, who has nothing but a smattering of bad German to commend him, is

a nuisance to God and man. And they don’t believe in the Devil! Well, he’ll get

them safe enough some day.”

I implored him to remember my cloth, and curb his bad language.

“I say the Devil will get you all safe enough some day,” he repeated.

I rose to retire in as dignified a manner as possible, but he was before me and closed the door. I began to be genuinely frightened.

“For God’s sake, don’t go!” he cried. “Don’t leave me alone. Do sit down, Oliphant, like a good chap, and I promise to hold my tongue. You don’t know how horrible it is to be left alone.”

I sat down again, though my composure was shaken. I remembered Mr Grey’s

words about the strange sickness.

Then Mr Ladlaw fell into an extraordinary moodiness. He sat huddled up in his

chair, his face turned away from me, and for some time neither of us spoke a word. I thought that I had seriously offended him, and prepared to apologise, so I

touched his left shoulder to attract his attention. Instantly he jumped to his feet, screaming, and turned on me a face of utter terror. I could do nothing but stare at

him, and in a second he quieted down and returned to his seat.

Then he became partially sane, and murmured a sort of excuse. I thought that I

would discover what truth lay in Mr Grey’s singular hypothesis. I did not ask him bluntly, as an ordinary man would have done, what was his malady, but tactfully, as I thought then, I led the conversation to demoniacal possession in the

olden time, and quoted Pellinger’s theory on the Scriptural cases. He answered with extraordinary vehemence, showing a childish credulity I little expected from an educated man.

“I see that you hold to the old interpretation,” I said pleasantly. “Nowadays, we tend to find the solution in natural causes.”

“Heavens, man!” he cried. “What do you mean by natural? You haven’t the most rudimentary knowledge of nature. Listen to me, and I will tell you something.”

And with this he began a long rambling account of something which I could not

understand. He talked much about a name which sounded like Canaan, and then

he wandered to another subject and talked about Proserpina, whom I

remembered from Mr Matthew Arnold’s poem. I would have thought him trying

to ridicule me, if I had not seen his face, which was white and drawn with pain;

and, again, I would have thought him drunk, but for his well-known temperate habits. By-and-by even my nerves, which are very strong, began to suffer. I understood fragments of his talk, and the understanding did not reassure me. It

was poisonous nonsense, but it had a terrible air of realism. He had a queer habit

of catching at his heart like a man with the heart disease, and his eyes were like a

mad dog’s I once saw, the pupil drawn to a pin-point with fear. I could not bear

it, so I tried to break the spell. I offered, against my conscience, to play a card

game, but his face showed that he did not understand me. I began to feel a sort of

languor of terror. I could hardly rise from my chair, and when at last I got up the

whole room seemed haunted. I rushed to the bell and rang it violently, and then

tried to open the door.

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