The closed window by A. C. Benson. The Tower of Naught stood
in a deep angle of the Downs. Formerly an old road led over the
hill, but it is now a green track covered with turf, the later
highway choosing rather to cross a low saddle of the ridge for the sake of
the beasts of burden. The tower, originally built to guard the great road,
was a plain, strong, thick walled fortress. To the tower had
been added a plain and seemly house, where the young Sir Mark de Nort
lived very easily and plentifully. To the south stretched the great Wood of Nought,
but the tower stood high on an elbow of the down, sheltered from
the north by the great green hills. The villagers had an odd, ugly
name for the tower, which they called the Tower of Fear, but the
name was falling into disuse and was only spoken, and that heedlessly by ancient
men, because Sir Mark was vexed to hear it. So called Sir Mark
was not yet thirty and had begun to say that he must marry a wife,
but he seemed in no great haste to do so, and loved his
easy, lonely life, with plenty of hunting and walking on the down.
With him lived his cousin and heir, Roland Elise, a heedless, good
tempered man a few years older than Sir Mark. He had come on a
visit to Sir Mark when he first took possession of the tower, and there
had seemed no reason why he should go away. The two suited each other.
Sir Mark was sparing of speech, fond of books and of rhymes.
Roland was different, loving ease and wine and talk, and finding in Mark
a good listener. Mark loved his cousin and thought it praiseworthy of him to
stay and help to cheer. So sequestered a house since there were few neighbors
within reach. And yet Mark was not wholly content with his easy life.
There were many days when he asked himself why he should go thus quietly on
day by day like a stalled ox. Still there appeared no reason why he
should do otherwise. There were but few folk on his land, and they
were content. Yet he sometimes envied them their bondage and their round of daily
duties. The only place where he could else have been was with the army,
or even with the court. But Samark was no soldier, and even
less of a courtier. He hated tedious gaiety, and it was a time
of peace. So because he loved solitude and quiet, he lived at home,
and sometimes thought himself but half a man. Yet he was happy after
a sort, but for a kind of little hunger of the heart. What
gave the tower so dark a name was the memory of old Sir James Denought,
Mark's grandfather, an evil and secret man who had dwelt at nought under
some strange shadow. He had driven his son from his doors, and lived
at the end of his life with his books and his own close thoughts,
spying upon the stars and tracing strange figures in books. Since his death,
the old room in a turret top, where he came by his end in
a dreadful way, had been closed. It was entered by a turret door,
with a flight of steps from the chamber below. It had four windows,
one to each of the winds, but the window which looked upon the
down was fastened up and secured with a great shutter of oak. One day
of heavy rain, Roland, being wearied of doing nothing and vexed because Mark
sat so still in a great chair reading in a book, said to his
cousin at last that he must go and visit the old room in which he
had never set foot. Mark closed his book, and, smiling indulgently at
Roland's restlessness, rose, stretching himself, and got the key, and together
they went up the turret stairs. The key groaned loudly in the lock,
and when the door was thrown back, there appeared a high, faded room,
with a timbered roof and with a close, dull smell. Round the
walls were presses, with the doors fast. A large oak table with a
chair beside it, stood in the middle. The walls were otherwise bare and
rough. The spiders had spun busily over the windows and in the angles.
Roland was full of questions, and Mark told him all he had heard of
old Sir James and his silent ways, but said that he knew nothing of
the disgrace that had seemed to envelope him, or of the reasons why he
had so evil a name. Roland said that he thought it a shame that
so fair a room should lie so nastily, and pulled one of the casements
open, when a sharp gust broke into the room, with so angry a
burst of rain that he closed it again in haste. Little by little,
as they talked, a shadow began to fall upon their spirits, till Roland
declared that there was still a blight upon the place, and Mark told him
of the death of old Sir James, who had been found after a day
of silence, when he had not set foot outside his chamber, lying on
the floor of the room strangely bedabbled with wet and mud, as though he
had come off a difficult journey, speechless and with a look of anguish on
his face, and that he had died soon after they had found him,
muttering words that no one understood. Then the two young men drew near to
the closed window. The shutters were tightly barred, and across the panels were
scrawled in red in an uncertain hand, the words clouded at namo apart,
which Mark explained was the Latin for the text he shutteth and none openeth.
And then Mark said that the story went that it was ill for the man
that opened the window, and that shut it should remain for him. But
Roland girded at him for his want of curiosity, and had laid a hand
upon the bar as though to open it. But Mark forbade him urgently,
nay, said, he let it remain, so we must not meddle with
the will of the dead. And as he said the words, there came
so furious a gust upon the windows that it seemed as though some stormy thing
would beat them open. So they left the room together, and presently descending,
found the sun struggling through the rain. But both Mark and Roland were
sad and silent all that day, for though they spake not of it,
there was desire in their minds to open the closed window and to see what
would befall. In Roland's mind, it was like the desire of a child
to peep into what is forbidden. But in Mark's mind a sort of shame
to be so bound by an old and weak tale of superstition. Now it
seemed to Mark for many days that the visit to the turret room had brought
a kind of shadow down between them. Roland was peevish and ill at ease,
and ever the longing grew upon Mark so strongly that it seemed to him
that something drew him to the room, some beckoning of a hand or calling
of a voice. Now, one bright and sunshiny morning, it happened that
Mark was left alone within the house. Roland had ridden out early, not
saying where he was bound. And Mark sat more listlessly than was his wont
and played with the ears of his great dog that sat with his head upon
his master's knee, looking at him with liquid eyes, and doubtless wondering why
Mark went not abroad. Suddenly, Sir Mark's eye fell upon the key of
the upper room, which lay on the window ledge where he had thrown it,
and a desire to go up and pluck the heart from the little mystery
came upon him with a strength that he could not resist. He rose twice
and took up the key, and, fingering it doubtfully, laid it down
again. Then suddenly he took it up and went swiftly into the turret stair
and up, turning, turning till his head was dizzy with the bright peaks
of the world through the loophole windows. Now all was green where a window
gave on the down, and now it was all clear air and sun,
the warm breeze coming pleasantly into the cold stairway. Presently Mark heard the pattering
of feet on the stair below, and knew that the old hound had determined
to follow him, and he waited a moment at the door, half pleased
in his strange mood to have the company of a living thing. So when
the dog was at his side, he stayed no longer, but opened the
door and stepped within the room. The room, for all its faded look,
had a strange air about it, and though he could not say why,
Mark felt that he was surely expected. He did not hesitate, but
walked to the shutter and considered it for a moment. He heard a sound
behind him. It was the old hound, who sat with his head aloft,
sniffing the air uneasily. Mark called him and held out his hand,
but the hound would not move. He wagged his tail as though to acknowledge
that he was called, and then he returned to his uneasy quest. Mark
watched him for a moment and saw that the old dog had made up his
mind that all was not well in the room, for he lay down,
gathering his legs under him, on the threshold, and watched his master with
frightened eyes, quivering visibly, Mark no lighter of heart, and in a
kind of fearful haste, pulled the great staple off the shutter and set it
on the ground, and then wrenched the shutters back. The space revealed was
largely filled by old and dusty webs of spiders, which Mark lightly tore down,
using the staple of the shutters to do this. It was with a
strange shock of surprise that he saw that the window was dark, or nearly
so. It seemed as though there were some further obstacle outside, Yet Mark
knew that from below the leaded panes of the window were visible. He drew
back for a moment, but, unable to restrain his curiosity, wrenched the
rusted casement open, But still all was dark without, and there came in
a gust of icy wind from outside. It was as though something had passed
him swiftly, and he heard the old hound utter a strangled howl. Then
turning, he saw him spring to his feet, with his hair bristling and
his teeth bare, And next moment the dog turned and leapt out of the
room. Mark, left alone, tried to curb a tide of horror that
swept through his veins. He looked round at the room flooded with the southerly
sunlight, and then he turned again to the dark window, and, putting
a strong constraint upon himself, leaned out and saw a thing which bewildered him
so strangely that he thought for a moment his senses had deserted him. He
looked out on a lonely, dim hillside covered with rocks and stones. The
hill came up close to the window, so that he could have jumped down
upon it, the wall below seeming to be built into the rocks. It
was all dark and silent, like a clouded night, with a faint light
coming from whence he could not see. The hill sloped away very steeply from
the tower, and he seemed to see a plain beyond, where at the
same time he knew that the down ought to lie in the plain. There
was a light like the fire lit window of a house. A little below
him, some shape like a crouching man, seemed to run and slip among
the stones, as though suddenly surprised and seeking to escape. Side by side
with a deadly fear which began to invade his heart, came an uncontrollable desire
to leave down among the rocks, And then it seemed to him that the
figure below stood upright and began to beckon him. There came over him a
sense that he was in deadly peril, and like a man on the edge
of a precipice who has just enough will left to try to escape, he
drew himself by main force away from the window, closed it, put the
shutters back, replaced the staple, and his limbs all trembling, crept out
of the room, feeling along the walls like a palsied man. He locked
the door, and then, his terror overpowering him, he fled down the
turret stairs, hardly thinking what he did. He came out on the court
and going to the great well that stood in the center of the yard.
He went to it and flung the key down, hearing it clink on the
sides as it fell. Even then he dared not re enter the house,
but glanced up and down, gazing about him, while the cloud of fear
and horror, by insensible degrees dispersed, leaving him weak and melancholy. Presently,
Roland returned full of talk, but broke off to ask if Mark were
ill. Mark, with a kind of surliness, an unusual mood for him,
denied it somewhat sharply. Roland raised his eyebrows and said no more,
but prattled on presently. After a silence, he said to Mark, what
did you do all the morning? And it seemed to Mark as though this
were accompanied by a spying look. An unreasonable anger seized him. What does
it matter to you what I did? He said? May not I do
what I like in my own house? Doubtless, said Roland, and sate
silent with uplifted brows. Then he hummed a tune and presently went out.
They sate at dinner that evening with long silences, contrary to their wont though
Mark bestirred himself to ask questions. When they were left alone, Mark stretched
out his hand to Roland, saying, Roland, forgive me. I spoke
to you this morning in a way of which I am ashamed. We have
lived so long together, and yet we came nearer to quarreling to day than
we have ever done before, And it was my fault. Roland smiled and
held Mark's hand for a moment. Oh, I had not given it another
thought, he said. The wonder is that you can bear with an idle
fellow as you do. Then they talked for a while with the pleasant glow
of friendliness. That two good comrades feel when they have been reconciled. But
late in the evening, Roland said, was there any story Mark about your
grandfather's leaving any treasure of money behind him? The question grated somewhat unpleasantly upon
Mark's mood, but he controlled himself and said, no, none that I
know of, except that he found the estate rich and left it poor.
And what he did with his revenues, no one knows. You had better
ask the old men of the village. They know more about the house than
I do. But Roland, forgive me once more if I say that I
do not desire Sir James's name to be mentioned between us. I wish we
had not entered his room. I do not know how to express it,
but it seems to me as though he had sate there, waiting quietly to
be summoned, and as though we had troubled him, and as though he
had joined us. I think he was an evil man, close and evil.
And there hangs in my mind a verse of Scripture where Samuel said to
the witch, why hast thou disquieted me to bring me up? Oh?
He went on, I do not know why I talk wildly thus, for
he saw that Roland was looking at him with astonishment with parted lips. But
a shadow has fallen upon me, and there seems evil abroad. From that
day forward a heaviness lay on the spirit of Mark that could not be scattered.
He felt, he said to himself, as though he had meddled lightheartedly
with something far deeper and more dangerous than he had supposed, like a child
that has aroused some evil beast that slept. He had dark dreams too.
The figure that he had seen among the rocks seemed to peep and beckon him
with a mocking smile over perilous places where he followed unwilling. But the heavier
he grew, the lighter hearted Roland became. He seemed to walk in some
bright vision of his own, intent upon a large and gracious design. One
day he came into the hall in the morning, looking so radiant that Mark
cast him half enviously. What he had to make him so glad? Glad?
Said Roland, Oh, I know it. Merry dreams? Perhaps,
what do you think of a good grave fellow who beckons me on with a
brisk smile and shows me places wonderful places under banks? And in woodland pits
where riches lie piled together. I am sure that some good fortune is preparing
for me, Mark, but you shall share it. Then, Mark,
seeing in his words a certain likeness with a difference to his own dark visions,
pressed his lips together and sate, looking stonily before him. At last,
one still evening of spring, when the air was intolerably languid and heavy
for mankind, but full of sweet promises for trees and hidden peeping things.
Though a lurid redness of secret thunder had lain all day among the heavy clouds
in the plain, the two dined together. Mark had walked alone that day
and had lain upon the turf of the down, fighting against a weariness that
seemed to be poisoning the very springs of life within him. But Roland had
been brisk and alert, coming and going upon some secret and busy errand with
a fragment of a song upon his lips, like a man preparing to set
off for a far country, who is glad to be gone. In the
evening, after they had dined, Roland had let his fancy rove in talk.
If we were rich, He said, how we would transform this old
place. It is fair enough for me, said Mark heavily, and Roland
had chidden him lightly for his somber ways, and sketched new plans of life.
Mark, wearied and yet excited, with an intolerable heaviness of spirit,
went early to bed, leaving Roland in the hall. After a short and
broken sleep, he awoke and, lighting a candle, read idly and gloomily
to pass the heavy hours. The house seemed full of strange noises that night.
Once or twice came a scraping and a faint hammering in the wall.
Light footsteps seemed to pass in the turret, but the tower was always full
of noises, and Mark heeded them. Not. At last, he fell
asleep again, to be suddenly awakened by a strange and desolate crying that came.
He knew not whence, but seemed to wail upon the air. The
old dog who slept in Mark's room heard it too, he was sitting up
in a fearful expectancy. Mark rose in haste, and taking the candle,
went into the passage that led to Rowland's room. It was empty, but
a light burned there and showed that the room had not been slept in full
of a horrible fear. Mark returned and went in hot haste up the turret
steps, fear and anxiety struggling together in his mind. When he reached the
top, he found the little door broken forcibly open and a light within.
He cast a haggard look round the room, and then the crying came again,
this time very faint and desolate. Mark cast a shuddering glance at the
window. It was wide open and showed a horrible liquid blackness round the bar.
In the scenter that divided the casements, there was something knotted. He
hastened to the window and saw that it was a rope which hung heavily.
Leaning out, he saw that something dangled from the rope below him, and
then came the crying again. Out of the darkness, like the crying of
a lost spirit. He could see, as in a bitter dream, the
outline of the hateful hillside, but there seemed to his disordered fancy to be
a tumult of some kind. Below. Pale lights moved about, and he
saw a group of forms which scattered like a shoal of fish. When he
leaned out, he knew that he was looking upon a scene that no mortal
eye ought to behold, and it seemed to him at the moment as though
he was staring straight into hell. The rope went down among the rocks and
disappeared, but Mark clenched it firmly, and, using all his strength,
which was great, drew it up hand overhand. As he drew it up,
he secured it in loops round the great oak table. He began to
be afraid that his strength would not hold out, and once, when he
returned to the window after securing a loop, a great hooded thing like a
bird flew noiselessly at the window and beat its wings. Presently he saw that
the form which dangled on the rope was clear of the rocks below. It
had come up through them as though they were but smoke. And then his
task seemed to him more sore than ever. Inch by painful inch, he
drew it up, working fiercely and silently. His muscles were tense, and
drops stood on his brow, and the veins hammered in his ears. His
breath came and went in sharp sobs. At last the form was near enough
for him to seize it. He grasped it by the middle and drew roland,
for it was roland over the window sill. His head dangled and drooped
from side to side. His face was dark with strangled blood, and his
limbs hung helpless. Mark drew his knife and cut the rope that was tied
under his arms. The helpless limbs sank huddling on the floor. Then Mark
looked up at the window. A few feet from him was a face more
horrible than he had supposed, a human face, if it was human,
indeed could be. It was deadly, white and hatred, baffled, rage
and a sort of devilish malignity glared from the white set eyes and the drawn
mouth. There was a rush from behind him. The old hound, who
had crept up unawares into the room with a fierce outcry of rage, sprang
on to the window sill. Mark heard the scraping of his claws upon the
stone. Then the hound leaped through the window, and in a moment there
was the sound of a heavy fall outside. At the same instant, the
darkness seemed to lift and draw up like a cloud. A bank of blackness
rose past the window and left the dark outline of the down with a sky
sown with tranquil stars. The cloud of fear and horror that hung over Mark
lifted two. He felt in some dim way that his adversary was vanquished.
He carried Roland down the stairs and laid him on his bed. He roused
the household, who looked fearfully at him, and then his own strength failed.
He sank upon the floor of his room, and a dark tide of
unconsciousness closed over him. Mark's returned to health was slow. One who has
looked into the unknown finds it hard to believe again in the outward shows of
life. His first conscious speech was to ask for his hound. They told
him that the body of the dog had been found horribly mangled, as though
by the teeth of some fierce animal, at the foot of the tower.
The dog was buried in the garden, with a slab above him, on
which other words luig serve bone et fidelis. A silly priest once said to
Mark that it was not meet to write scripture over the grave of a beast.
But Mark said warily that an inscription was for those who read it to
make them humble, and not to increase the pride of what lay below.
When Mark could leave his bed, his first care was to send for builders
and the old tower of Nought was taken down stone by stone to the ground,
and a fair chapel built upon the site. In the wall there was
a secret stairway which led from the top chamber and came out among the elder
bushes that grew below the tower. And here was found a coffer of gold,
which paid for the church, because until it was found, it was
Mark's design to leave the place desolate. Mark is wedded since and has his
children about his knee. Those who come to the house see a strange and
wan man who sits at Mark's board, and whom he uses very tenderly.
Sometimes this man is merry and tells a long tale of his being beckoned and
led by a tall and handsome person smiling down a hillside to fetch gold.
Though he can never remember the end of the matter, but about the springtime
he is silent, or mutters to himself, and this is Roland. His
spirit seems shut up within him in some close cell, and Mark praise for
his release, but till God call him. He treats him like a dear
brother, and with the reverence due to one who has looked out on the
other side of death, and who may not say what his eyes beheld.
End of the closed Window recording by raf Ball