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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 237 pages of information about The Necromancers.

THE NECROMANCERS

Other books by Robert Hugh Benson

The Light Invisible By What Authority? The King’s Achievement The History of Richard Reynall, Solitary The Queen’s Tragedy The Religion of the Plain Man The Sanctity of the Church The Sentimentalists Lord of the World A Mirror of Shalott, composed of tales told at a symposium Papers of a Pariah The Conventionalists The Holy Blissful Martyr Saint Thomas of Canterbury The Dissolution of the Religious Houses The Necromancers Non-Catholic Denominations None Other Gods A Winnowing Christ in the Church:  a volume of religious essays The Dawn of All Come Rack!  Come Rope! The Coward The Friendship of Christ An Average Man Confessions of a Convert Optimism Paradoxes of Catholicism Poems Initiation Oddsfish! Spiritual Letters of Monsignor R. Hugh Benson to one of his converts Loneliness Sermon Notes

THE NECROMANCERS

Robert Hugh Benson

First published in 1909.

Wildside Press Doylestown, Pennsylvania

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.

—­Robert Hugh Benson.

Chapter I

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.

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