The Necromancers

The Necromancers

By Robert Hugh Benson.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Acknowledgments
4. The Necromancers
   1. I
   2. II
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   3. III
   4. IV
      1. I
      2. II
   5. V
      1. I
      2. II
   6. VI
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
   7. VII
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   8. VIII
      1. I
      2. II
   9. IX
      1. I
      2. II
   10. X
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
   11. XI
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
   12. XII
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
   13. XIII
       1. I
       2. II
   14. XIV
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
   15. XV
       1. I
       2. II
   16. XVI
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
       4. IV
       5. V
   17. XVII
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
   18. XVIII
   19. Epilogue
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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This particular ebook is based on a transcription from Project Gutenberg and on digital scans from the Internet Archive.

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I must express my gratitude to the Rev. Father Augustine Howard, O.P., who has kindly read this book in manuscript and favored me with his criticisms.

The Necromancers

I

“I am very much distressed about it all,” murmured Mrs. Baxter.

She was a small, delicate-looking old lady, very true to type indeed, with the silvery hair of the devout widow crowned with an exquisite lace cap, in a filmy black dress, with a complexion of precious china, kind shortsighted blue eyes, and white blue-veined hands busy now upon needlework. She bore about with her always an atmosphere of piety, humble, tender, and sincere, but as persistent as the gentle sandalwood aroma which breathed from her dress. Her theory of the universe, as the girl who watched her now was beginning to find out, was impregnable and unapproachable. Events which conflicted with it were either not events, or they were so exceptional as to be negligible. If she were hard pressed she emitted a pathetic peevishness that rendered further argument impossible.

The room in which she sat reflected perfectly her personality. In spite of the early Victorian date of the furniture, there was in its arrangement and selection a taste so exquisite as to deprive it of even a suspicion of Philistinism. Somehow the rosewood table on which the September morning sun fell with serene beauty did not conflict as it ought to have done with the Tudor paneling of the room. A tapestry screen veiled the door into the hall, and soft curtains of velvety gold hung on either side of the tall, modern windows leading to the garden. For the rest, the furniture was charming and suitable⁠—low chairs, a tapestry couch, a multitude of little leather-covered books on every table, and two low carved bookshelves on either side of the door filled with poetry and devotion.

The girl who sat upright with her hands on her lap was of another type altogether⁠—of that type of which it is impossible to predicate anything except that it makes itself felt in every company. Any respectable astrologer would have had no difficulty in assigning her birth to the sign of the scorpion. In outward appearance she was not remarkable, though extremely pleasing, and it was a pleasingness that grew upon acquaintance. Her beauty, such as it was, was based upon a good foundation: upon regular features, a slightly cleft rounded chin, a quantity of dark coiled hair, and large, steady, serene brown eyes. Her hands were not small, but beautifully shaped; her figure slender, well made, and always at its ease in any attitude. In fact, she had an air of repose, strength, and all-round competence; and, contrasted with this other, she resembled a well-bred sheepdog eyeing an Angora cat.

They were talking now about Laurie Baxter.

“Dear Laurie is so impetuous and sensitive,” murmured his mother, drawing her needle softly through the silk, and then patting her material, “and it is all terribly sad.”

This was undeniable, and Maggie said nothing, though her lips opened as if for speech. Then she closed them again, and sat watching the twinkling fire of logs upon the hearth. Then once more Mrs. Baxter took up the tale.

“When I first heard of the poor girl’s death,” she said, “it seemed to me so providential. It would have been too dreadful if he had married her. He was away from home, you know, on Thursday, when it happened; but he was back here on Friday, and has been like⁠—like a madman ever since. I have done what I could, but⁠—”

“Was she quite impossible?” asked the girl in her slow voice. “I never saw her, you know.”

Mrs. Baxter laid down her embroidery.

“My dear, she was. Well, I have not a word against her character, of course. She was all that was good, I believe. But, you know, her