Speaker 1: The closed window by A. C. Benson. The Tower of
Nort 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 Nort, 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 Rowland 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. Rowland 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 Sir Mark 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 de Nort, 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
Rolin'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 envelop him,
or of the reasons why he had so evil a name.
Roland said that he thought it a shame that so
fair of rooms 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 nemo aperit, 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. Rowland 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 quay 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 peats 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 shutter's 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 strain 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 hill side 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 the deadly fear which began to
invade his heart, came an uncontrollable desire to leap 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. 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 Rowland 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 Rowland 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, Rowland 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 Roland'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 center 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 were 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 over hand. 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 Rowland 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. There. 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 too. 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 return 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 huij 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 Rowland. His spirits seems shut up within
him in some close cell, and Mark prays for his release,
but till God call him. He treats him like a
dear brother, and with the reverence dw 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 Bull