Chapter I

YES," said the girl gently. " The doctor says you may talk for half an hour; no more. Tell me, Jack."

The room looked out of its two wide windows straight upon the lawns and woods to the south of the house, where in the midday silence there was heard the contented cooing of the pigeons half a mile away. Beneath, in a little paved space, a fountain splashed gently in its basin.

The room itself calls for no particular remark. It was like a hundred thousand others, scattered in country-houses wherever the well-to-do public sets itself down to be entirely comfortable. A dressing-table between the windows shone with silver. There was a deep pile carpet on the floor; tall chintz curtains hung upon the window-poles; there was a high, white marble fireplace; there was plenty of opulent - looking mahogany furniture; a chintz - covered couch stood at the end of the bed; and within the chintz curtains of the bed itself lay the young man who, it seemed, had had a very remarkable syncope from which he had recovered. And there sat by him his wife, a small, pretty, rather pale girl of about twenty-two years old. They had been married three years — ever since, in fact, Jack's Americanised uncle had suddenly died and left him wealthy.

About Jack Weston himself there is not a great deal to say. The most remarkable thing he had accomplished so far in his twenty-five years of life was his recovery from this syncope which Sir James Martin had actually mistaken for death. And the next most distinguished thing about him was the fact that for two years past he had played cricket for the Gentlemen against the Players; and, as every schoolboy knew, had three weeks before his illness made one hundred and seventy -two runs not out against the South Africans. Beyond these facts, and his inheritance of an immensely large fortune three years ago, there is nothing particular to say about him. He had been an only son; his parents had died while he had been at school at Stonyhurst. He had gone to Oxford, and he had married Mary. They were both Catholics, and had always been so; and there was a chapel in this house which they kindly allowed to be used by the village Catholics and by Father Banting. He was an ordinary, pleasant, straightforward, clean kind of man, without any subtlety at all.

Jack shifted a little on his pillows and took a firmer grasp of his wife's hand.

" He said I might, did he? Well, I'll try."

His blue eyes strayed out to the woods as he meditated his beginning; and his wife noticed with an inexplicable thrill the sane, healthy look of his tanned face and strong throat against the lace-fringed white pillow. Certainly the sun-burning had worn off a little in his fortnight's illness, and the hand that held hers might have been stronger with advantage; yet there was no longer on his face that deathly greyness that had deepened so steadily only yesterday afternoon, and that had faded at last to that horrible tint that had thrown her all but screaming on to her knees. Certainly there was an odd look still on his face, but that would pass. Her hand closed with a yet tighter spasm upon his as she set herself to listen.

" Yes, half an hour, Jack," she said; " then you've got to be quiet before lunch."

His eyes rolled round to hers, and he smiled.

"Very well," he said. "Now listen carefully, please.

" I want to ask you first," he began, " to tell me once more what the doctors say. No, no; I don't mean about the future. I know that's all right; but about yesterday."

She swallowed in her throat. It was dreadful even to speak of yesterday.

" Oh! they say it was very remarkable.... They... they thought "

She could not go on.

" Yes," said the quiet voice. " They thought me dead? They left the room? "

She gripped his hand tighter, for answer.

" Thank you. I thought so. And Sir James was one of them, I think? "

" Yes."

He lay silent a moment.

" And they were perfectly right," he said suddenly. " I was dead.... No; don't interrupt. Just listen."

He shifted again a little on his pillows.

" Mary dear, I must tell you and get it over. You'll see why presently."

She sat back a little, still holding his hand; and her heart began that quick, low hammering that is one of the signs of a fierce nervous strain held in check by the will.

" It was about three o'clock that I felt I was going to die for certain. I heard the church clock in the village. I wasn't the least frightened; and hardly even interested. I suppose I was too weak. I know I ought to have sent for Father Banting then. Well, I didn't. I didn't care in the least. It seemed to me quite — quite external and useless. I just wanted to be let alone. Well, that went on. No, I can't describe it: it was like a steady slipping downhill, down into the dark. I remember just thinking that all religion was lies. It — it had nothing whatever to do with facts. This was the one fact — this dark. That was the end. Then things changed; and I began to dream — all sorts of things, one after another, connected with my father and mother, and going out riding, and bathing. There was some rot about water too; but I can't remember that." (Jack smiled.) " But it seemed awfully important then.

" Well; that doesn't matter. All that went again; and then after a time I came back again to nothing at all, except just knowing that I was I.

" I don't in the least know what time that was But first I found that all my senses were gone except hearing. That lasted a long time. I couldn't move, or speak, or feel anything; but I could hear, long after everything else. I heard — I heard Father Banting come in sometime. You know the way he breathes through his nose? And I heard what he said — the absolution, the anointing, and the prayers. I heard lots of things. What time was that? "

" That was about half-past five," said Mary breathlessly.

" Very well. Well, some time after that began a roaring noise; and that went on either louder and louder or softer and softer. I don't know which. There wasn't anything else at all, except that It seemed to go on for days and days. And then, I suppose that stopped. At any rate that was the last thing, until "

He stopped suddenly.

" Oh, Jack! don't go on."

" I must, my darling. I must tell you, while I remember. You'll see why directly. Besides, it's — it's not exactly frightening. Well, we'll put it like this. We'll say I dreamt something. This was the dream.

" I dreamt I was standing at the foot of my bed, looking at myself. I could see myself quite plainly. You were there, and Lady Sarah behind you." (He nodded to where she sat.) " Sir James was on this side, with his watch out; and he held my left hand. Old Basing was at the foot of my bed, close by where I stood. And the two nurses were by the door of the dressing-room. I looked at myself; and I could see that I was practically dead. You were — were kissing my right hand, and after a kiss or two you looked suddenly frightened. Then I looked at myself again; and I could see that I was dead. Sir James shut up his watch and stood up. Then he drew the sheet over my face, and came round the bed, and said something to you as Lady Sarah caught hold of you "

" Oh, Jack! don't — don't go on."

" My darling; I must go on. Well, I'll leave that part out.

" When Sir James and old Basing went downstairs, I went with them. I was just frightfully interested. And as I stood there on the steps, I saw Lady Sarah come out and say something to Sir James. Then they went to the piece of grass by the horse-block — you know — on the left. And then something happened."

He turned his eyes on her straight with an extraordinary look. For an instant she thought him mad. Then his look relaxed and he smiled.

" I've nearly done," he said; " but this is the point. I saw that it was time to go. I don't know where; but it was somewhere else; and then, all in a moment I saw that the whole thing was true — that — the Catholic religion was really true, not just in a pious sort of way, you know, but solid, solid as a rock — judgment, hell, heaven, and the rest of it. And that I had to go and hand in my account.... There were all sorts of people round me, looking at me. Real people, you know.... It — it was ghastly."

"Jack, I do ask you not to say another word. Why not wait a day or "

" I can't — I may forget. I must tell you before I forget. Besides, I'm all right now, you know. Oh! I'm not going to die again just yet.

" Well, there are no words to use at all. All I can say is that the thing was as real as — as tables and chairs, only very much more so. It was all real, the whole thing from beginning to end; and — and I knew I'd made a most frightful mess of things. I — I was frightened to death.

" Well, I made the most awful struggle. I don't know what with, but it was with something. But it was entirely useless. No, I didn't see anyone just then, or in fact, anything. It had all gone again. The last I had seen before those people, you know, was

Lady Sarah and the man by the horse-block — oh! and two carriages and a motor. And I think a horse or two, besides. Whose motor was that? It wasn't one of ours."

" Sir James came down from town in a motor."

" Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I made this struggle. It was — just hell. I haven't an idea how long it went on. All I knew was that I couldn't and wouldn't go to that — place, or whatever it was, where I had to go. And then suddenly something happened— I don't know what. All I know is that it wasn't anything I did. There was something that simply caught hold of me and swept me off. I thought it was the next stage. But the next thing I knew was that I was back in bed, and you were screaming. I couldn't see you; but I heard you and felt the bedclothes."

Mary made a huge effort to be serene.

" Dear boy, you've finished now, haven't you?... Really I think the half-hour "

" Not quite. No; I will finish. It's just a ques-. tion or two. Tell me. Was all that I said true? Wasn't it?... Of course it was."

" Well — er — certainly we were like that in the bedroom. But, you know, you saw us. My dear,

" And downstairs. The motor, and all that? " " Why, you heard the motor arrive, of course; and remembered it afterwards."

He nodded.

" Well, we'll let it go at that And Lady Sarah and Sir James "

" I — I think they did talk there for a minute or two."

" And they did tell you I was dead? "

" They — they thought so. But they were wrong, you see, Jack dear. It was just what they call ' suspended animation.' "

He made no answer to that; but she saw him smile contentedly to himself, and understood that his conviction was unshaken. She stood up, still holding his hand, turning her fingers gently in and out of his. Of course all this would pass in a day or two, she said to herself.

"Your beef-tea " she began.

He did not seem to hear; and she released her fingers quietly. He drew his hand in under the bedclothes, as if he did not notice.

" Of course you see the difference all this makes/* he said quietly.

" Difference! Why? "

" Why, yes; the whole difference. You must see that. I can't possibly go on with all this — this footling sort of life. I've got another chance, thank God — and by George "

A discreet tap came at the door.

" Wait," he said, with that same unruffled air. " I wanted just to tell you. It isn't fair not to. I want you to think it over. I think you'll see "

" Jack, I will not hear another word. You can tell me to-morrow."

He glanced at her with a faint deprecating smile.

" Very well; I'll be good," he said. " But remember I've told you. Oh! and don't forget about Father Banting. I must see him this afternoon."

" Mrs. Weston wishes to see you, sir, in her own room, as soon as you have finished with the master."

The doctor nodded and went upstairs. And when he came down again he was more perturbed than ever.

He had never seen such a case before in his life; and he had Sir James Martin's authority for it that it was unique in modern experience. Here was a man pronounced dead by two physicians — dead so certainly that they had left the room, entirely ready to sign the certificate instantly, had it been presented to them; in fact they had actually mounted into the motor together to go to the village for this very purpose. All up to that point had been entirely according to precedent; they had feared syncope, and syncope had come and done its work. No symptom was lacking.... This was yesterday; and to-day he had had his third interview with the dead man, weak indeed, but entirely convalescent; and he had received during this third interview an explicit and apparently sane corroboration of his own and Sir James's diagnosis, given so fully in detail, so wholly without excitement or delirium, so well connected and so simple, and yet so extravagantly impossible, that thoughts refused to formulate themselves. It was not catalepsy, it was not any known form of paralysis. Certain details that need not be discussed here had put all that beyond a doubt.... Well, " suspended animation " was a convenient phrase; it meant nothing particular; but, well, it sounded all right, and at any rate it covered the truth.

He was therefore a little grave as he came into the morning-room and the girl stood up to receive him. She looked rather white and constrained; but what wonder!

" What account now, Dr. Basing? "

He sat down in the chair indicated and clasped his hands.

" All perfectly satisfactory, Mrs. Weston. Temperature and pulse normal. A little weak, of course, still; it will take a few days, but I see no reason, unless there is a quite unexpected relapse "

He broke off.

" Ah! " said the girl. " And Sir James? "

" He told me that there was no need for him to come again, unless, as I say, any new complications show themselves. He wishes for news, of course. You see it is an unusual case."

" Unusual. Yes. Have you ever known a case like it?"

He shook his head.

" Never quite like it. Sir James assures me of that. Otherwise "

" I understand perfectly. You mean that you have never seen a case go so far and recover."

" Exactly, Mrs. Weston. Of course it was not death " (he smiled doubtfully), " it was not death; but it had all the symptoms — at least "

"Ah! it was not death. You are quite sure?" she said, with sudden eagerness.

He smiled more confidently this time.

" Why, yes; in the very nature of the case, it could not be death."

She sat silent an instant.

" Did — did he — my husband, I mean — did he talk much this afternoon? "

"A little, Mrs. Weston. I would not allow him-

" Was he quite clear and coherent? "

" Oh! perfectly; remarkably so. But for all that "

She interrupted him again.

" And no fever. I think you said? No delirium at all?"

He shook his head.

" He was perfectly reasonable," he said. • Mary stood up suddenly. Then she leaned back, half sitting, against her writing-table, and took up an ivory|paper-knife.

" Doctor Basing, I want to ask you a direct question. Please tell me the truth. Is his brain at all affected? I mean, even temporarily; as it is after typhoid, for instance? Is that possible? "

" Not the very faintest sign of that, Mrs. Weston. He seems completely normal in all respects."

" He didn't seem to talk wildly, even? "

" His brain is as sane as yours or mine."

"Ah!" (She paused.) "Did he— did he talk about religion? "

He glanced up at her.

" Indeed no; not a word. He just answered my questions."

" And there is no fear of even temporary brain trouble? "

"There is not the smallest reason for it, at any rate. May I ask why you mention that? "

Mary hesitated.

" Oh! it's nothing particular. He doesn't seem quite himself, that's all. I just wondered. Did he tell you he had actually died, and saw himself in bed, and all that? "

" He said something of the sort. Of course, that was simply a delusion — a kind of self-suggestion.

That kind of thing is quite common, comparatively speaking."

Mary mused an instant.

" I see," she said. " But, you know, he thinks he came downstairs, and saw things that — that really did happen."

The doctor smiled reassuringly.

" That would be all part of it," he said. " One mustn't pay any attention to that. That'll all go when he gets stronger."

She played silently with the paper-knife an instant or two, twisting it nervously between her fingers. Then she laid it down and stood upright.

" Well, thank you very much," she said abruptly. " Good afternoon, doctor. You have left all instructions with the nurses? "

" Everything, Mrs. Weston. I'll just look in again before dinner."

" And... and there's no harm in his seeing the priest? He wants to, very much."

" I think a quarter of an hour would do no harm. But he mustn't get excited."

"Oh! I don't think Father Banting will excite him," smiled the girl.

" Well — er — good afternoon, Mrs. Weston."

" Oh! by the way," said Mary, suddenly calling him back. " Have you any books you could lend me on — on this sort of thing? "

The little doctor blinked.

" I — I don't quite understand. As a rule, you know, we don't lend books on medicine. They are apt to do harm. Do you mean a book on diseases such as Mr. Weston's?"

" I meant rather on exceptional cases — like his."

" There is no such book, so far as I know. His case is quite exceptional, you know,"

" But — but you are sure it was not death? "

" Quite sure, Mrs. Weston."

" Well... thanks very much," said the girl.

As he passed out through the hall he was wondering how far he had been successful in concealing his own perplexity. It was a comfort to him, at any rate, that Sir James had been there, and had been as bewildered as himself.

Ill

But the doctor's bewilderment was nothing to that of the priest, as, an hour later, he came out from the patient's room, and meditated to himself all the way down the park to his own lodgings in the village. On the spiritual plane the resurrection was as unique as on the physical.

Father Banting had had a rather hard time of it during his two years in the place. It was not that the squire and his wife were exactly irreligious. They performed their duties with tolerable care: they were at Mass on Sundays; they permitted the use of their chapel; and about four times in the year they asked their priest to dine with them. And that was about all. The atmosphere, therefore, was not ideal. Five-sixths of the people on the estate were Protestants; and the Catholics were not eminent for zeal. The result was a kind of respectable deadness, that had not in it even the stimulating sting of a grievance. Only, every single proposal made by the priest that was in the least unusual was met at the Hall by an attitude of mind that rendered enterprise impossible. Father Banting had recollections of certain public rites and processions suggested by himself, blocked, not by opposition, but by entire indifference. It was not that these great folk were at all wicked. On the contrary, Jack was an excellent young man, who played cricket really brilliantly, and looked after his tenants suitably; and Mary was an excellent young woman, who allowed her flower-garden to supply the altar, who rode very well, was extremely kind and courteous always, and gave a certain moderate financial assistance to the mission. They were always quite polite to the priest; allowed him to use short cuts through the park; sent him a dozen pheasants each season and a tolerable supply of grapes; and never pretended for a single instant to be anything but Catholics. And that was all that could be said.

Well, matters seemed changed now: and Father

Banting meditated them all the way down to his. lodgings.

He reviewed the points.

First, the squire had made his confession. Well, that was a thing apart; not even to be thought of, except as regards the fact that he had made it. For two years past that ceremony had only been performed three times in the year — last year, indeed, only twice; and the month of July had not been one of them.

The second point was the cheque.

He had been instructed, when the religious part was over, to go to the writing-table and bring thence a fountain-pen, a cheque-book, and a magazine to write upon; and there and then, before his amazed eyes, Mr. Weston had drawn out a cheque for one thousand pounds, made payable to the Rev. James Banting, to be applied at his sole discretion for the benefit of the mission. And that, Jack had remarked, was to be regarded as an act of restitution to begin with. (This had all been done, by the way, in a perfectly brisk and straightforward manner, unemotionally and naturally.)

The third point was the astounding series of questions put to him by this curious young man.

First, was it possible, under any circumstances, for a married man to enter a Religious Order: and,, if so, under what conditions?

Secondly, would Father Banting kindly state, fn as few words as possible, what were the usual signs of a Religious Vocation?

Thirdly, was it always a duty for a man living in an important and responsible position to keep up that position at all costs, so long as he was not unduly extravagant; and, if not, under what circumstances should he make a complete sweep of the whole of his life, having regard to the claims of his friends and relations upon him?

Fourthly, what would Father Banting think of coming to live at the Hall? The three rooms in the chapel-wing, once occupied by the priest of the mission, should be put at his disposal entirely. Would Father Banting kindly think it over and let him know by and by his views on the point?

And these questions, too, had been put quietly and sanely, without any appearance of undue excitement, and the answers listened to with attention. No explanation whatever had been given as to the cause of the enquiries.

Finally, would Father Banting kindly bring him Holy Communion to-morrow morning; and would he cause it to be announced publicly at Mass next morning that John Weston desired to express his gratitude to Almighty God for signal mercies showed to him in his recovery from the grave danger of an unprepared death?

" You can put it as you like, father," said Jack serenely, "but that's the substance. 'Unprepared' death, remember. I particularly want that; it's only decent."

Well, there was the situation. And the only conclusion to be drawn from it was that Jack had suddenly gone mad in a most unexpected but very edifying direction. The cheque, of course, must not be presented; at any rate for a week or two; it must be locked up carefully. As for the announcement in church to-morrow, well — he supposed he must make it, as he had given his word; but he must tone it down somehow; it would not do for the squire to make this confession of unpreparedness. What an example!

It was a very curious position, thought the priest, as he climbed the staircase of his rather dingy lodging in the village street. Of course there was, too, that extraordinary recovery to be remembered; but extraordinary recoveries did not generally end in the patient's madness, especially in what seemed to the priest such a very sane kind of madness as this. He must think it all over and have a good talk with Mrs. Weston.

But it was a pleasant thought, on the whole, that he might not have to remain in those rather dreary rooms, so far from his church. He looked round them, smiling unknown to himself. The window commanded a view of the back premises of a tanyard. Certainly the chapel-wing, with the fountain and the park, would be an improvement. But then, what about domestic arrangements? These might be difficult, if Mr. Weston were really mad; and if he were not

The priest made a little movement with his head and sat down to say his office.