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diff --git a/33040-8.txt b/33040-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..415d06e --- /dev/null +++ b/33040-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9693 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Bye-Ways, by Robert Smythe Hichens + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Bye-Ways + + +Author: Robert Smythe Hichens + + + +Release Date: July 1, 2010 [eBook #33040] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BYE-WAYS*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, S. D., and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +BYE-WAYS + +by + +ROBERT HICHENS + +Author of "The Garden of Allah," +"Bella Donna," etc. + + + + + + + +New York +Dodd, Mead and Company +1914 + +Copyright, 1897, +By Dodd, Mead and Company. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + THE CHARMER OF SNAKES 3 + + A TRIBUTE OF SOULS + + Prelude 89 + + I. The Stranger by the Burn 90 + + II. The Soul of Dr Wedderburn 111 + + III. The Soul of Kate Walters 131 + + IV. The Soul of Hugh Fraser 142 + + V. The Return of the Grey Traveller 159 + Written in conjunction with + Lord Frederick Hamilton. + + AN ECHO IN EGYPT 171 + + THE FACE OF THE MONK 211 + + THE MAN WHO INTERVENED 237 + + AFTER TO-MORROW 267 + + A SILENT GUARDIAN 287 + + A BOUDOIR BOY 319 + + THE TEE-TO-TUM 343 + + + + +BYE-WAYS + + + + +THE CHARMER OF SNAKES + + +I + +The petulant whining of the jackals prevented Renfrew from sleeping. At +first he lay still on his camp bed, staring at the orifice of the bell +tent, which was only partially covered by the canvas flap let down by +Mohammed, after he had bidden his master good-night. Behind the tent the +fettered mules stamped on the rough, dry ground, and now and then the +heavy rustling of a wild boar could be heard, as it shuffled through the +scrub towards the water that lay in the hollow beyond the camp. The +wayward songs of the Moorish attendants had died into silence. They +slept, huddled together and shrouded in their djelabes. But their +wailing rapture of those old triumphant days when on the heights above +Granada, beneath the eternal snows, their brethren walked as conquerors, +had been succeeded by the cries of the uneasy beasts that throng the +mountains between Tangier and Tetuan. And Renfrew said to himself that +the jackals kept him from sleeping. He lay still and wondered if Claire +were awake in her tent close by. If so, if her dark eyes were unclouded, +what journeys must her imagination be making! She was so sensitive to +sound of any kind. A cry moved her sometimes with a swift violence that +alarmed those around her. The message of a note of music shut one door +on her soul, opened another, and let her in to strange regions in which +she chose to be lonely. + +How amazing it was to think that Claire, with all her serpentine beauty, +all her celebrity, all the legends that clung to her fame, all the wild +caprices of which two worlds had talked for years,--that Claire was +hidden away three feet off, beneath the canvas shield that looked like a +moderate-sized mushroom from the Kasbar on the hill. How amazing to +think she was no longer Claire Duvigne, but Claire Renfrew. Her cheated +audiences sighed in London in which a week ago she was acting. And while +they sighed, she slept in this wild valley of Morocco, or lay awake and +heard the jackals whining among the dwarf palms. And she was his. She +belonged to him. He had the right to hold her--this thin, pale wonder of +night and of fame--in his arms, and to kiss the lips from which came at +will the coo of a dove or the snarl of a tigress. Although Renfrew could +not sleep, he fell into a dream. Indeed, ever since he had married +Claire, a week ago, his life had been a dream. When the goddess suddenly +bends down to the worshipper, and says: "Don't pray to me any more--sit +on my throne by my side!"--the worshipper exchanges one form of devotion +for another, so deep and so different that for a while his ordinary +faculties seem frozen, his life goes in shadowy places. Renfrew was not +a man of deep imagination, but he had enough of the dangerous and dear +quality to make him full of interest in Claire's bonfires of the mind. +He sunned himself in the sparks which flew from her, even as the +phlegmatic man in the pit bathes in the fury of some queen of the stage. +He adored partly because he scarcely understood. + +And then, at this moment, he was in the throes of a most unexpected +honeymoon. Claire, after refusing to have anything to do with him for +two years or more, had suddenly married him in such a hurry that, though +London gasped, Renfrew gasped still more. She had sent for him one +night, from her dressing-room, between the third act and the fourth of +an angry drama of passion. He came in and found her sitting in an +arm-chair by a table, on which lay a note containing his last proposal, +and a dagger with which she was about to commit a stage murder that had +carried her glory to the four quarters of the universe. Her face was +covered with powder, and in her long white dress she looked like a +phantom. As she spoke to him, she ran her thin fingers mechanically up +and down the blade of the dagger. When Renfrew was in the room, and the +door shut, she looked up at him and said:-- + +"Desmond, I'm going to frighten you more than I shall frighten the +audience out there." + +And she pointed towards the hidden stage. + +"How?" he said, looking at her hand and at the dagger. + +"I'm going to marry you." + +Renfrew turned paler than she was. + +"Ah!" she cried. "You go white?" + +"No, no," he murmured. "But--but I can't believe it." + +"I will marry you when you like, to-morrow, whenever you can get a +licence." + +"Oh, Claire!" + +Suddenly she got up. + +"Take me away from here," she said. "From this heat and noise. Take me +to some place where it is wild and desolate. I want to be in starlight, +with people who know nothing of me, and my trumpery talent. O God, +Desmond, you don't know how a woman can get to hate being famous! I +should like to act to-night to a circle of savages who had never heard +of me and of my glory." + +"Curtain's up!" sang a shrill voice outside. + +Claire picked up the dagger. + +"Well?" she said. "Shall it be--?" + +"Ah, yes--yes!" Renfrew answered in a choked voice. + +She smiled and glided out, like a white snake, he thought. + +And now--yes, those were really jackals whining, and Claire slept, +surrounded by a circle of Moors under the stars of Morocco. + +Renfrew trembled at the astounding surprises of life. Now the devil of +the night--thought--had filled his veins with fever. He got up softly, +drew on his clothes, unfastened the canvas flap, and emerged, like a +shadow, from the mouth of the tent. The night was dewy and cool. All the +heaven was full of eyes. The line of tethered mules looked like a black +hedge in whose shelter the group of tents was pitched. A low fire, held +in a cup of earth, was dying down in the distance, and as Renfrew came +out a lanky dog slunk off among the bushes that clothed the low hills on +every side. + +Renfrew stood quite still. He was bare-headed, and the breeze caught at +his thick brown hair, and seemed to tug it like a rough child at play +with a kindly elder. His eyes were turned towards the tiny peaked tent +which shrouded Claire. A small moon half way up the sky sent out a beam +which faintly illuminated this home of a wanderer, and Renfrew thought +the beam was like a silver finger pointing at this wonderful creature +whom glory had so long attended. Such beings must walk in light. Nature +herself protests against their endeavours to shroud themselves even for +a moment in darkness. He drew close to the tent, and listened for +Claire's low breathing. But he could not hear it. Perhaps she was awake +then. + +"Claire!" he called, in a low voice. + +There was no answer. Renfrew hesitated and glanced round the little +camp. It was just then that he noticed the absence of two figures which +had been standing like statues near his tent when he went to bed. These +were soldiers sent from the nearest village to guard the camp from +marauders during the night. Clad in earth-coloured rags, shrouded in +loose robes that looked like musty dressing-gowns, with fez on head, and +musket in hand, they had seemed devoutly intent on doing their duty +then. But now--where were they? Renfrew strolled among the tents, +expecting to find them squatting near the fire smoking cigarettes, or +playing some Spanish game of cards. But they had vanished. He returned, +and posted himself again by the door of Claire's rude bed-room, saying +to himself that he would be her guard. Those Moorish vagabonds had +deserted her. They cared nothing for the safety of this jewel, whom the +whole civilised world cherished. But in his heart glowed a passion of +protection for her. And then he gazed again at the impenetrable canvas +wall that divided him from her. Only two hours ago he had held her in +his arms and kissed her lips, yet already he felt as if a river of years +flowed between them. He began to torture himself deliberately, as lovers +will, by the imagination of non-existent evils. Suppose Claire +possessed the power of a fairy, and could evaporate at will into the +spaces of the air, leaving no trace behind. She might then have +departed, have faded into the scented silence and darkness of this land +so strange and desolate. Renfrew supposed the departure an actual fact. +What a loneliness would fill his night then; if that little tent stood +empty, if that slim sleeper were removed from the camp round which the +jackals sat on their tiny haunches, whining like peevish spirits. He +trembled beneath the weight of this absurd supposition, revelling in the +intolerable with the folly of worship. Gradually he forced himself on +step by step along the fanciful path till he had assured his imagination +that Claire was really gone, and that he was just such a travelling +Englishman as may come alone across the Straits, take out a camp, and +spend his days in stalking wild boar, or shooting duck, his nights in +the heavy slumber of complete weariness. And, at length, having gained a +ghastly summit of imaginative despair, he suddenly stretched forth his +hand, unhooked the canvas that shrouded Claire's tent door, and peeped +cautiously in, courting the delicious revulsion of feeling which he +would secure when he saw her half defined form in the shadow of the +leaning roof that hid her from the stars. + +He bent forward with greedy anxiety. But the pale and tragic face he +looked for, did not greet his eyes. The tent was empty. + +Renfrew stood for a moment holding back the canvas flap with one hand. +This denial calmly offered to his expectation bewildered him. He was +confused, and for a moment scarcely thought at all. Then his mind broke +away with the violence of a dog unleashed, and ran a wild course of +surmises. He thought first of rousing the camp and organising an +immediate search. Then he remembered the absence of the two soldiers who +ought to be guarding the tents and the mules. Claire gone, those +soldiers absent! He linked the two facts together, and turned white and +sick. But he did not rouse the camp. Indeed, he thanked God that all the +men were sleeping. He sprang softly back from the tent, turned on his +heel, and stole out of the camp so silently that he scarcely seemed a +living thing. The ground towards the water was boggy and spongy, and the +scent of the thickly growing myrtles was heavy in the air. Renfrew +brushed through them swiftly. He heard the harsh snuffling of a boar, +and the tread of its feet in the mud at the water-side. And these sounds +filled the night with a sense of unknown dangers. Darkness, a wild +country, wild men, wild beasts, and his beautiful Claire out somewhere +alone, near him, perhaps, yet hidden behind the impenetrable veil of +darkness. He saw her fainting, struggling, crying out for him. He saw +her silent and dead, and frenzy seized him. She was not here by the +water. And with a gesture of despair he turned back. Low and rounded +hills faced him on all sides, covered with a dense undergrowth of palms +and close-growing shrubs that looked almost like black velvet in the +night. On one, the highest, was perched the native village from which +the soldiers had come. Dogs were barking in it incessantly. It seemed to +Renfrew that Claire might have been conveyed there by these ruffians; +and he began hastily to ascend in the direction of the dogs' acute +voices. He stumbled among the palms at first; but, mounting higher, he +came into the eye of the moon, and was swallowed up in a shrouded silver +radiance. The camp faded away below him, and he felt the breeze with +greater force. Yet its breath was warm. Could Claire feel it? Did she +see the moon? Now the dogs were evidently close by. The village must be +behind that big clump of trees. Renfrew sprang upward, passed through +them, suddenly drew a great breath and stood still. + +Beyond the trees there was a small clearing that almost corresponded to +our English notion of a village green. On the near side of it was the +clump of trees in whose shadow Renfrew now stood. On the far side of it +was the Moorish village, a minute collection of low huts like hovels, +featureless and filthy. The moon streamed over the clearing and lit up +faintly a cluster of seated figures that formed a good-sized circle. The +figures looked broad and almost shapeless, for they were all smothered +in long, voluminous robes, and over all the heads great hoods were drawn +which hid the faces of the wearers. They were absolutely motionless, and +differed little from the more distant clumps of dwarf palms that grew +everywhere among the huts. Only they possessed the curiously sullen +aspect of things alive but entirely motionless. It was not this living +Stonehenge of Morocco, however, which caused Renfrew to catch his breath +and rooted him in the shadow. In the centre of the circle, lit up by the +moon, there stood something that might have been a phantom, it was so +thin, so tall, so white-faced, so strange in its movements. It was a +woman, and long black hair flowed down to its waist,--night standing +back from that moon, vague and spectral, the face. In this human night +and moon, great sombre eyes gleamed with a sort of fatigued beauty. This +spectre stretched out its long arms in weird gesticulations and +sometimes swayed its body as if it moved to music. And from its lips +came a soft and liquid stream of golden words that mingled with the acid +barking of the dogs, some of which crept furtively about on the +outskirts of the serene hooded circle of the listeners. This murmuring +spectre was Claire. She was girt about with silently staring Moors. And +she was in the act of delivering one of her most famous recitations, +which she had last given at a monster morning performance before +Royalties in London, on a sultry day of the season. As this fact broke +upon Renfrew's mind, he seemed for a moment to be back in the hot +dressing-room in which Claire had said: "I will marry you." He seemed to +hear her passionate exclamation: "I should like to act to-night to a +circle of savages!" The hill men of this part of Morocco may not be +savages, but they are fierce and wild and ruthless. And now they hung +upon the lips that had spoken to London, Paris, Vienna, New York--but +never before to such an audience as this. The recitation was a +description of the performance of a snake-charmer, his harangue to his +reptiles and to the crowd watching him, and his departure into the +solitude of the great desert, there to obtain, in communion with its +spirit, the power to work greater miracles, and to charm not alone the +serpents that dwell among the rocks and in the forests, but also men, +women, little children,--the power to thrust a human world into a kennel +of plaited straw, to take it out in sections at pleasure, and to make it +dance, pose, and posture, like a viper tamed into a species of +ballet-dancer. In this recitation the peculiar and almost serpentine +fascination of Claire had full liberty. She represented the +snake-charmer as a being who through long and intimate association with +snakes had become like them, lithe, fantastic, and unexpected, soft and +deadly, by turns sleepy and violent, a coil of glistening velvet and a +length of cast-iron, tipped with a poisoned fang and the music of a +hiss. His fanaticism, his greed for money, the passionate prayer to Sidi +Mahomet that flowed from his lips while his terrible eyes searched an +imaginary crowd in search of the richest man or the most excited woman +in it, his bursts of dancing humour, his deadly stillness, his playful +familiarity with his dangerous captives, his mesmeric anger when they +were sullen and recalcitrant, his relapse into the savage churchwarden +with the collecting box when his "show" was at an end,--every side, +every subtlety of such a creature Claire could give with the certainty +of genius. As you watched her, you beheld the snakes, you beheld their +master. Even at the end you almost saw the vast and trackless desert +open its haggard arms to receive its child, who passed from the crowd to +the silence in which alone he could learn to fascinate the crowd. At the +great morning performance in London, a prince who knew the East had said +to Claire, "Miss Duvigne, you must have lived with snake-charmers. You +must have studied them for months." + +"I never saw one in my life," she answered truthfully. + +And now she gave her performance to those who, in the dingy market +squares of their white-walled cities, had seen the snakes dance and had +heard the prayer to Sidi Mahomet. And they squatted in the moonbeams, +immobile as goblins carved in dusky oak. Yet they inspired Claire. From +his hiding place Renfrew could note this. She had let her genius loose +upon them, as she had let her cloud of hair loose upon her shoulders. +The frosty touch of smart conventionality bewilders and half paralyses +the utterly unconventional. Often Renfrew had heard Claire curse the +smiling and self-contented Londoners who thronged the stalls of her +theatre. She felt, with the swiftness of genius, the retarding hand they +laid upon her winged talents. She had no inclination to curse these +hooded figures gathered round her in the night, staring upon her with +the fixed concentration of children who behold, rather than hear, a +fairy tale, they paid her the fine compliment of an undivided attention. +It was a curious scene and one that stirred in Renfrew a deep +excitement. He watched it with a double sense, of living keenly and of +dreaming deeply. Claire gave to him the first sense, the moon and the +motionless Moors the second. But presently one of the hooded statues +stirred and swayed, and there mingled with the voice of Claire a twisted +melody, so thin and wandering that it was like a thread binding a bundle +of gold. It pierced the night, and enclosed the words of the reciter, +one sound prisoned by another lighter and less than itself. The dogs had +ceased to bark now, and only the voice that told of the snake-charmer's +journey into the desert, and this whispering Moorish tune, plucked by +dark fingers from the strings of a rough lute, moved in the night, till +Claire ceased. The lute continued for a few bars, like the symphony that +closes a song, and then it too ceased abruptly on a note that brought no +feeling of finale to modern ears. For an instant Claire stood motionless +in the centre of the human circle. Then her arms fell to her sides. She +moved swiftly towards the trees in whose shadow Renfrew was watching. +The Moors made a gap, and as she passed out all the shapeless figures +were suddenly elongated and crowded together upon her footsteps. As +Claire came into the blackness of the trees, Renfrew stretched out his +hand and clasped her arm. She stopped with no tremor, and faced him. + +"Claire!" + +"What, it is you, Desmond! I thought you were asleep." + +"When you were awake? You have given me a fright. I came to your tent; I +found it empty. The soldiers were gone." + +"They were guarding me up the hill. I could not sleep. I wandered out. +How hot your hand is!" + +Renfrew released her. All the Moors had gathered round them like +enormous shadows. + +"My audience has come to the stage door!" Claire said. + +Her eyes were gleaming with excitement. + +"They are a beautiful audience," she added; "and the orchestra, the +soft music--that was better than London fiddles." + +"Come back to the camp, Claire." + +"Very well." + +He drew her arm through his, and led her out into the moonlight and down +the hill. Two shadows detached themselves from the silent assembly and +followed them, barefooted, over the dewy grass. They were the soldiers. +Claire looked back and saw them. + +"I shall give those men a handful of pesetas, to-morrow," she said. + +They reached the camp and sat down on two folding chairs in the shadow +of Claire's tent. The soldiers stood near, gazing intently at them. +Claire sat in a curved attitude. She had drawn a dark veil over her +hair, and her enormous and tragic eyes were turned sombrely on Renfrew. +She looked fatigued, as she often did after acting a long and passionate +part. To Renfrew she seemed more wonderful than ever. He could scarcely +believe that he was her husband. + +"You have had your circle of savages," he said. + +"Yes." + +"And you liked them?" + +"Do you think they liked me? I wonder if there was a snake-charmer among +them. When I came to Sidi Mahomet I thought perhaps they would kill me. +That thought made me pray better than I can in London." + +"You could charm snakes more certainly than any Arab," Renfrew said. + +"I daresay. Perhaps I shall try at Tetuan. Good-night, Desmond." + +She vanished into the tent. It seemed that she evaporated as Sarah +Bernhardt evaporates in the fourth act of "La Tosca." + + +II + +On the following day they rode across the mountain to Tetuan. They +started in the dawn. Claire's eyes were heavy. She came languidly out +from the tent door to mount her horse, and when she touched Renfrew he +felt that her hand was cold like an icicle. He looked at her anxiously. + +"Are you ill?" he asked. + +"No, Desmond." + +He lifted her into the saddle. + +"You haven't slept," he said. + +She looked down at him as she slowly gathered up her reins. + +"Unfortunately, I have," she replied. + +Before Renfrew had time to express surprise at this unexpected +rejoinder, she had struck her horse with the whip, and trotted off over +the grass in the direction of the white Kasbar that gleamed on the hill +under the kiss of the rising sun. He leaped into the saddle, and +followed her. The path into which they came was narrow, winding through +wild fig-trees and olives, and constantly ascending. Claire did not turn +her head, and Renfrew could not ride by her side. He watched her thin +and sinuous figure swaying slightly in obedience to the motion of her +horse, which scrambled over the rough path with the activity of a wild +cat. In front of her their personal attendant, Mohammed, rode on a huge +grey mule, and sang to himself incessantly in a deep and murmuring +voice. Once or twice Renfrew spoke to Claire, but she did not seem to +hear him. He resolved to ask about her sleep when they gained some +plateau on which they could rest for a moment. At present it was +necessary to concentrate his attention on his horse and on the dangers +of the road. + +When the sun was high in the heavens, and they were high on the +mountain, above a gorge in which the scrub grew densely, and great +bushes starred with yellow and white flowers hid the rocks and made a +home for birds, Mohammed called a halt. Renfrew lifted Claire to the +ground. The men passed on towards Tetuan with their camp, and Claire +sank down on a gay rug beneath the shade of a huge white umbrella, which +was pitched on a square of level ground and circled with luxuriant +vegetation. Renfrew lay at her feet and lit his pipe, while Mohammed, +the dragoman, and one of the porters squatted at a little distance, and +began to play cards in a cloud of keef. Claire was fanning herself +slowly with an enormous Spanish fan in which all gay colours met. She +still looked very tired. The shuffle of the descending mules died away +down the mountain, and a silence, through which the butterflies flitted, +fell round them. + +"Is this journey too much for you, Claire?" Renfrew asked. + +"No. I can rehearse for six hours in London, surely I can ride for six +here." + +"But you look tired." + +"Because, as I told you, I slept too much last night." + +"What does that mean?" + +She stretched herself on the rug with the easy grace of a woman who has +trained her body to carry to the eyes of others, as a message, all the +moods of passion and of peace. Then she leaned her cheek on her hand. + +"In the darkness of the tent, Desmond, I slept and did not know it. I +believed that I lay awake. I thought I still could hear the jackals, and +the stamping of the mules. But, really, I slept." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because of what I am going to tell you. The wind blew about the canvas +door, and when it bulged outwards I could see on each side of it a tiny +section of the night outside, a bit of a bush, blades of short grass +moving, a ray of the moon, the slinking shadow of one of the dogs from +the village." + +"Yes." + +"Presently there came, I thought, a stronger gust than usual. It tore +the canvas flap from the pegs, and the whole thing blew up, leaving the +entrance quite open. Then it blew down again. It was only up for a +minute. During that minute I had seen that a very tall man was standing +outside the tent." + +"One of the soldiers." + +"If I had been awake it might have been." + +"You mean that all this was a dream?" + +"I mean that I slept last night, and that I wish I hadn't." + +She turned her great eyes on Renfrew, holding the red, green, and yellow +fan so that it concealed the lower part of her face. And he looked at +her, staring at him like some tragic stranger above the rampart of an +unknown city, and wondered whether she was acting to him in the sun. On +the forefinger of the hand that held up the fan a huge black pearl +perched in a circle of gold. Renfrew had often noticed it on the stage, +when Claire lifted the silver dagger to kill the man who loved her in +the play. + +"The door of your tent was securely closed when I got up and came out +this morning," he said. + +"Oh, yes." + +She spoke with the utmost indifference. Then she added more sharply:-- + +"Desmond, has it ever occurred to you that I am serpentine?" + +He was startled and made no answer. + +"Well--has it?" + +"Yes," he said truthfully. + +"Why?" + +"Every one thinks so. You are so thin. You move so silently. Your body +is so elastic and controlled. You always look as if you could glide into +places where other women could never go, and be at home in attitudes +they could never assume." + +"But I'm an actress--my body is trained, you know, to lie, to fall, as I +choose." + +"Other actresses don't give one the same impression." + +"No," she said thoughtfully. "My peculiar physique has a great deal to +do with it." + +"Of course, and there's something more than that, something mental." + +Claire's heavy eyes grew more thoughtful. The white lids fluttered lower +over them till they looked like the eyes of one half asleep. She lay in +silence, plunged in a reverie that was deep and dark. In this reverie +she forgot to move her fan, which dropped from her hand and fell softly +upon the rug. Renfrew did not interrupt her. His worship had learned to +wait upon her moods. A huge dragon-fly passed on its journey towards the +far blue range of the Atlas Mountains. It whirred in its haste, and its +burnished body shone in the sunshine between its gleaming wings. Claire +snatched at it with her hand, but missed it. + +"I should like to wear it as a jewel," she said. + +Then she turned slowly again towards Renfrew, and continued her nocturne +as if it had never been broken off. + +"The canvas flap fell down again over the doorway, Desmond, and it +seemed that just then the breeze died away, expiring in that angry gust. +I could not see anything but the interior of the tent, and only that +very dimly. But this man outside. I wanted to see him." + +"Did you recognise that he was not one of the soldiers, then?" + +"Perfectly. He was not dressed as they are. They were entirely muffled +up with hoods drawn forward above their faces. And in their hands one +could see their guns. This man was bareheaded, and looked half naked. +And in his hands--" + +She stopped meditatively. + +"Was there anything in his hands?" + +"Well--yes, there was." + +"What?" + +"I wanted to know what it was. But at first I only lay quite still and +wished the wind would come again and blow the flap up so that I could +see out. But it had quite gone down. The canvas did not even quiver." + +"Was it near dawn?" + +"I haven't an idea. Does the breeze sink then?" + +"Very often." + +"Ah! Perhaps it was then. Oh, but you'll see in a minute what nonsense +it is to think about that. I lay still, as I said, for some time, +waiting for the breeze. And when it wouldn't come, I made up my mind +that I must arrive at a decision either to turn my face on the pillow +and go to sleep, or else to get up, go to the tent door, and look out." + +"To see this man?" + +"Exactly." + +"Which did you do?" + +"Turned my face on the pillow." + +"And went off to sleep?" + +"No, grew most intensely awake--as I supposed. The pillow was like fire +against my cheek. It burnt me. With the departure of the breeze the +night had become suddenly most intolerably hot. I turned over on my back +and lay like that. Then I felt as if there was sand on the sheets." + +"Sand! Impossible! We aren't in the desert." + +"No. But it seemed as if I lay in hot sand. I shifted my position, but +it made no difference. I sat up. The tent door was still closed. I +listened. All those dogs had ceased to bark. There wasn't a sound. Even +the jackals had left off whining. Then I slipped out of bed and threw +that rose-coloured Moorish cloak over me. It rustled just like a thing +rustles in grass, Desmond." + +She looked at him with a sort of peculiar significance, and as if she +expected him to gather something definite from the remark. + +"A thing in grass," he repeated, wondering. "What sort of thing?" + +But Claire avoided the question. She had taken up the fan again, and was +opening and shutting it with a quiet and careful sort of precision, as +she went on in a low and even voice:-- + +"I disliked this rustling, and held the cloak tightly together with my +hands. I felt as if the man outside the tent had been waiting to hear +that very little noise." + +"The rustling?" + +"Yes. And that when he heard it he smiled to himself. I didn't intend he +should hear it again though, and as I glided towards the tent door, I +held the cloak very tight and away from my body. And I don't think I can +have made any noise. You know how softly I can move when I choose?" + +"Yes." + +"When I got to the door, I waited. I couldn't hear the man; but I felt +that he was still there, just on the other side of the flap." + +Renfrew leaned forward on the rug. He felt deeply interested, perhaps +only because Claire was the narrator. She held him much as she could +hold an audience in a theatre, by her pose, her hands, her pale, almost +weary face, her heavy sombre eyes, even more than by any words she +chanced to be uttering. She could make anything seem vitally important +if she chose, simply by her manner. Renfrew's pipe had gone out; but he +did not know it, and still kept it between his lips. + +"I waited for some time by the flap," Claire continued calmly. "I was +going to lift it presently, I knew; but I could not do it at once. The +man and I were standing, I suppose, for full five minutes only divided +by that strip of canvas. I tried not to breathe audibly, and I could not +hear him breathe. At last I resolved to see him, and considered how I +should do so. If I remained standing and looked out, I should have to +push the flap quite away and my eyes would be nearly on a level with +his. He would certainly see me. I didn't wish that. I didn't intend at +all that he should see me. Therefore I resolved to lie down." + +"On the ground?" + +"Yes, quite flat, and to raise the bottom of the flap gently an inch or +two. This would enable me to see him without being seen, if I did it +without noise. I dropped down quite softly. Do you remember my death in +'Camille'?" + +Renfrew nodded. + +"Almost like that. But the rose-coloured stuff rustled again. I wished I +hadn't put it on. I raised the flap very slightly and peeped out. Do +you know what I felt like just then, Desmond?" + +"What?" + +"Just like a snake in ambush. When my cloak rustled, it was the grass +against my body. I lay in cover, and could see my enemy like a creature +in a forest, or a reptile in scrub." + +She glanced round at the bushes and the densely growing palms. + +"Yes, I lay there like a snake in the grass." + +She stretched herself out on the rug as she spoke, with her head towards +Renfrew and her eyes fastened on his. + +"I saw first the feet of the man close to my eyes. His feet were almost +black and bare. His legs were bare. My glance travelled up him, and I +saw that his chest and his arms were bare too. He was clothed in a sort +of loose rough garment, the colour of sacking, that fell into a kind of +hood behind; and he looked enormously powerful. That struck me very +much--his power." + +"Did you see his face?" + +"Quite well. It was the face of a man watching and listening with the +closest attention. He was smiling slightly, too, as if something that +had just happened had satisfied him. I knew he had heard the rustle of +my robe as I slipped to the ground." + +"But why should that please him?" + +"It told him that I was there, that I was attentive too." + +Renfrew's face slightly darkened. + +"As I looked, I saw what he was holding in his hands." + +"What was it--a dagger--a staff?" + +"A serpent." + +Renfrew could not repress an exclamation. + +"Very large and striped. Its skin was like shot silk in the moonlight. +It writhed softly between his hands, and turned its flat head from side +to side. It seemed to be trying to bend down towards where I lay. Its +tongue shot out like a length of riband out of one of those wooden +winders that you buy in cheap shops. I should think its body was quite +five feet long, and its colour seemed to change as it turned about. +Sometimes it was pink, then it looked dull green and almost black. Once +it wriggled down so near to the ground that I could see two fangs in its +open mouth like hooks, and the roof of its mouth was flesh colour." + +"How abominable!" said Renfrew, softly. + +"I didn't feel it so at all," Claire said. "I wanted it to come to +me,--back into the grass where such things are safe. But the man +wouldn't let it go. He thrust it into his breast. He wanted to have his +hands free." + +"Good God, Claire--what for? Did he--?" + +She smiled at his sudden violence, which showed his interest. + +"When the snake was safe, he drew out, still smiling and listening, a +little pipe that looked as if it were made of straw, very common and +dirty. He held it up to his black lips, and began to play very softly +and sleepily. Desmond, the tune he played was charmed. It was a tune +composed--for--for--" + +She broke off. + +"You know the Pied Piper had his tune," she said; "the rats had to +follow it. Well, this tune was for the serpents." + +"To charm them you mean?" + +"Wisely--dangerously--almost irresistibly, perhaps in time, Desmond, +quite, quite irresistibly. There is a music for all creatures, all +reptiles, birds,--everything that lives; this was for the snakes." + +"Well, but, Claire, how did you know that?" + +She looked at him with a sort of dull amusement and pity in her +half-shut eyes. + +"Shall I tell you?" + +"Yes." + +"I knew it, because the tune charmed me, Desmond." + +"Ah, you are acting! I half suspected it from the first," Renfrew +exclaimed almost roughly. + +He sat up as a man who has been lying under a spell stirs when the spell +is broken. Now he knew that his pipe was out, and he felt for his +match-box. But Claire still kept her eyes fixed on him, and laid her +hand on his arm gently. + +"No, I am not acting," she said. "The tune charmed me. You see I am a +woman; and there are many women who feel at moments that what attracts +some special creature, thing, of the so-called world without a soul, +attracts them too. Some men can whistle a woman as they would a dog, +can't they?" + +"Perhaps." + +"Yes, and some men can charm a woman as they could charm a serpent." + +"I don't understand you, Claire." + +"You don't choose to. The animal is in us all, hidden deftly by Nature, +the artful dodger of the scheme of creation, Desmond; and we know it +when the right tune is played to summon it from its slumber in the nest +of the human body. Only the right tune can waken it." + +"The animal! But--" + +"Or the reptile, perhaps. What does it matter? This was the right tune +for me. I lay there like a snake in the grass and it thrilled me! And +all the time the black man smiled and listened for the rustling at his +feet. You look black, Desmond! How absurd of you to be angry!" + +And she closed her fingers over his hand till the frown died out of his +face. + +"The tune seemed to draw me to the man. I understood just how he had +captured the serpent that lay hidden in his bosom. It had once lain in +ambush as I lay now, long ago perhaps, in the desert among the rocks, on +the sand, Desmond." + +"Ah, the sand!" he said, remembering suddenly the strange feeling +Claire had described as coming upon her when she was trying to sleep. + +"Yes. And he had drawn it from the sand to the oasis among the palms +where he stood playing, till he heard its rustling in the grass about +his feet, as it glided nearer to him, and nearer, and nearer, till at +last it reared up its body, and wound up him and round him, and laid its +flat head between his great hands. Yes, that was how it came." + +"You fancy." + +"I know. But I would not go. I determined that I would not, and I lay +perfectly still. But all the time I longed to go. I had an almost +irresistible passion for movement towards that tune. It seemed to me a +stream of music into which I yearned to plunge, and drown and die. And +it flowed up there at the man's lips! The longing increased as he piped +the tune, over and over and over again, almost under his breath. I was +sick with it, and it hurt me because I resisted it. And at last I knew +that resisting it would kill me. I must either go, or not go, and die. +There was no alternative. That music simply claimed me. It had the right +to. And if I denied that right I should cease. I did deny it." + +She shuddered in the sun, then added, almost harshly:-- + +"Like a fool." + +"And then, Claire, then--?" + +"It seemed to me that I died in most horrible pain. I lived once more +when you said, outside my tent, 'Claire, time to get up.' You see, I +slept too much last night." + +And again she shuddered. A look of relief shot into Renfrew's face. + +"All this came from your mad performance to those Moors," he said. "You +impersonate so vividly that even sleep cannot release your genius, and +bring it out from the world which you have deliberately forced it to +enter." + +"But, Desmond, I impersonated the charmer of the snake, not the snake +itself." + +"Oh, in a dream the mind always wanders a little from the event that has +caused the dream. It is like a faulty mimic who strives to reproduce +with exactitude and slightly fails. Time to go, Absalem?" + +The dragoman had come up. + +As they rode down the mountain a strange thing occurred, strange at +least in connection with Claire's narrative of the night. Mohammed, who +was riding just in front of them, pulled up his mule beside a thicket at +the wayside, and, turning his head, signed to them to be silent. Then, +pursing his lips, he whistled a shrill little tune. In a moment an +answer came from the thicket; Claire glanced at Renfrew with a slight +smile. Here was a sort of side light of reality thrown upon her dream +and upon their conversation. Mohammed whistled again. The echo followed. +And then suddenly a bird flew out, almost into his face, and, startled, +swerved and darted away across the gorge into the dense woods beyond. + +"A charm of birds," Claire murmured to Renfrew, as they rode on. "The +summoning tune--what can resist it?" + +"Claire," he said, almost reproachfully, "you speak like a fatalist." + +"And I believe I am one," she answered. "Destiny is not only a phantom +but also a fact. Mine is marked out for me and known--" + +"To whom? Not to yourself?" + +"Oh, no!" + +"To whom then?" + +"To the hidden force that directs all things." + +"I am your destiny." + +"Ah, Desmond--or Morocco. I feel to-day as if I shall never see England +again, or a civilised audience such as I have known." + +And then she seemed to fall into a waking dream. Even Renfrew felt +drowsy, the air was so intensely hot and the motion of the horses so +monotonous. And Mohammed's deep voice was never silent. It buzzed like a +bourdon in the glare of the noontide, till, far away on the hill-side, +they saw white Tetuan facing the plain, the river moving stagnantly +towards the sea, the great fields of corn in which strange flowers grew, +and the giant range of shaggy mountains, swimming in a mist of gold that +looked like spangled tissue. + + +III + +The camp was pitched beyond the city in the green plain that lies +between Tetuan and the sea. From the tents Renfrew and Claire saw the +trains of camels and donkeys passing slowly along the high road towards +the steep and stony hill that leads up to the lower city gate, the +white-washed summer palaces of the wealthy Moors, nestling in gardens, +among green fields and groves of acacias, olives and almond trees, the +far-off line of blue water on the one hand and the fairy-like and ivory +town upon the other. Clouds of brown dust flew up in the air, and the +hoarse cry of "Balak! Balak!" made a perpetual and distant music. Far +more strange and barbarous was this city than Tangier. All traces of +Europe had faded away. Thousands of years seemed now to stand like a +wall between the Continents, and the hordes of dark and fanatical +Moslems gazed upon the great actress and her husband as we gaze at wild +animals whose aspects and whose habits are strange to us. + +"I know now what it is to feel like an unclean dog," Claire said, as +they sat at dinner under the stars that night, after their halting +progress through the filthy alleys of the white fairyland on the +hill-side. "It is a grand sensation. I suppose children enjoy it, too. +That must be why they like making mud-pies." + +"To-morrow is market-day, Absalem tells me," Renfrew said. "We will +spend it in the town, and you can feel unclean to your heart's +content--you!" + +He looked at her and laughed low, with the pride of a lover in a +beautiful woman who is his own. + +"They ought to fall down and worship you," he said. + +"Moors worship a woman! Desmond, you are mad!" + +"No, they are--they are. See, Claire, the moon is coming up already. Can +it be shining on Piccadilly too, and on the façade of the theatre?" + +"The theatre! I can't believe I shall ever see it again." + +"Nonsense!" + +"Is it? This wild country seems to have swallowed me up, and I don't +feel as if it will ever disgorge me again. Desmond, perhaps there are +some lands that certain people ought never to visit. For those lands +love them, and, once they have seized their prey, they will never yield +it up again. Poor men must often feel that when they are dying in +foreign places. It is the land which has taken them to itself as an +octopus takes a drifting boat in a lonely sea. Africa!" + +She had risen from her seat and moved out into the vague plain. Renfrew +followed her. + +"I wonder in which direction the desert lies nearest," she said. "All +the strange people come in from the desert, as the strange things of +life come in from the future, only one so seldom hears the tinkling +bells of those deadly silent caravans in which they travel. If we could +hear and see them coming, what emotions we should have!" + +"There are premonitions, some men say," Renfrew answered. + +"The faint bells of the caravans ringing,--do you ever hear them?" + +"No, Claire--never. And you?" + +"I half thought I did once." + +"When was that?" + +"Last night. Hark! The men have finished supper and are beginning to +sing. That's a song about dancing." + +"To-morrow we are going to feast the soldiers, and have an African +fire." + +"Splendid! I think I will leap through the flames." + +Renfrew put his arm round her. + +"No, no. They might singe your beauty. And yet, you are a flame too. You +have burnt your name, yourself, like a brand upon my heart." + +The dancing song rang up in the moonlight like the wailing of dead +masqueraders. All Moorish songs are sad and thrilling, fateful and +pregnant with unrest and with forebodings. + +With the daylight the Jews came, in their long and morose garments and +black skull-caps, bearing bales of embroideries, slippers, and uncut +jewels. When they saw the wonderful black pearl upon Claire's finger +their huge eyes flamed with an avarice so fierce and open that Renfrew +instinctively moved between them and Claire, as if to guard her from +assault. + +But the wonderful pearl was not for them. + +The sun blazed furiously when they got upon their horses to ride to the +Soko. Each day the season was growing hotter, and Absalem told them that +there were no English in Tetuan. Nor did they set eyes on a European +woman until that day when Renfrew rode back, crouching along his horse, +to the villas of Tangier. + +Tetuan has more than one open mouth, and when it swallows you the +contemplation of a fairyland is immediately exchanged for a desperate +reality of populous filth, stentorian uproar, uneven boulders, beggars, +bazaars like rabbit hutches, men and children pitted with small-pox till +they appear scarcely human, lepers, Jews, pirates from the Riff +Mountains, fanatics from the Ape's Hill, water-carriers, veiled, +waddling women, dogs like sharp shadows, and monkeys that appear and +vanish in sinister doorways with the rapidity and gestures of demons. On +a market-day the city is so full that it seems as if the circling and +irregular white walls must burst and disgorge the clamouring and +gesticulating inhabitants into the tranquil plain below. Claire surveyed +this blanched hell with a still serenity, as she had often surveyed an +applauding audience at the close of her evening's task, ere she thanked +them with the curious gesture, that was almost a salaam, in which +humility and a remote pride mingled. Noise generally gave her calm; and +when passion broke from her she taught the world to be intensely silent. +These alleys became like a dream to her, and the tiny interiors of the +bazaars were little histories of visionary lives, some, but only a few, +mysteriously beautiful. One, in a very dark place where, for some +unknown cause, all voices died away till the hot air was full of a +whispering stillness, brought slow tears to Claire's eyes. In the Street +of the Slippers she passed a cupboard of wood raised high from the +pavement, with low roof, leaning walls, and, in front, a little bar like +that which fences an English baby in its chair before the fire. In this +cupboard squatted two tiny Moorish infants, sole occupants of the +cupboard, with solemn faces, bending to ply their trade of pricking +patterns upon rose-coloured Morocco leather. There was no beauty in the +cupboard, sweetness of light, or ease. And the faces of the little boys +were sad and elderly. But, placed carefully between them, was an ugly +three-legged stool, on which stood two dwarf earthen jars containing two +sprigs of orange flower, and, as Claire looked, one of the babes laid +down his leather, lifted his jar, sniffed, with a sort of gentle +resignation, at his flower, and then resumed his diligent labours, +refreshed perhaps, and strengthened. In the action Claire seemed to +catch sight of a little pallid soul striving to exist feebly among the +slippers. + +"Did you see?" she cried to Renfrew, when the baby shoemakers were lost +to sight. + +He nodded. + +"I wish I were a Moorish woman, Desmond." + +"Good Heaven! Why!" + +"So that I could kiss the infant who smelt the orange flower in his own +language. Little artist!" + +Her sudden blaze of enthusiasm was checked by the infernal Soko into +which they now entered. In this unpaved square, upon which the pitiless +sun beat, the earth seemed to have come alive, to have formed itself +into a thousand vague semblances of human figures, and to be shrieking, +moving, twisting, gesticulating, as if striving to impart a thousand +abominable secrets till now hidden from the world that walks upon its +surface. As snow-men resemble the snow, so did these bargainers, these +buyers, sellers, barterers, pedlars, resemble the baked earth on which +they squatted. Shrouded in earth-coloured garments, they shrieked, +strove, rang their bells, kicked their donkeys, elbowed their rivals, +pommelled their camels, recited the Koran, or testified with frenzy, the +terrific honesty of all their dealings. Here and there tents made of +mud-coloured rags cast a grotesque shadow, in which broad women, hidden +by veils like sacks, and dominated by straw hats a yard wide, sat +huddled together and pecked at by wandering fowls. Jew boys, with long +and expressive faces, their black hair plastered upon their foreheads in +fringes that touched their eyes, strolled through the mob in batches, +some of them reading in little books. Soudanese slave girls carried +bouquets of orange flowers. In a corner some Hawadji were leaping +monotonously to the thunder of a Moorish drum made of baked earth and of +parchment. A sheep, escaped from the slaughterer, tumbled with piteous +bleatings into a group of half breeds, Spanish Moors, who were playing +cards near a stall covered with raw meat and great lumps of some +substance that looked like lard. On a huge heap of rotten oranges and +decaying fish, over which millions of flies swarmed, a number of +children in close white caps were moving in some mysterious game in +which two prowling cats occasionally took an unintentional part. Some +Riff Arabs, fierce as tigers, tall and half-naked, stalked feverishly +towards a water-carrier whose lean form, tottering with age, was almost +eclipsed beneath the monstrous bladder he bore incessantly through the +multitude. The horses of Renfrew and of Claire could scarcely plant +their hoofs on anything that was not moving, crying, panting, or +cursing; and they pulled up, and prepared to descend into this human +ocean of which all the waves roared in their deafened ears. As Claire +leant to Renfrew, who stretched his arms to help her, she said to him:-- + +"Can you swim? If not, you will certainly be drowned." + +"You must not be. Cling to my arm." + +They sank together to their necks in the sea. In whatever direction they +looked, they saw a mass of heads, an infinite expanse of shouting +mouths. But suddenly the pressure became extraordinary, the uproar +ear-splitting. And with the voices there mingled a piercing music like a +continuous screech. People began to run, to trample in one direction. +The drum of the leaping Hawadji was drowned by a louder drumming that +came from the centre of the square. Children squeaked with excitement. +The Riffians forgot to drink, and slid forward with the cushioned feet +of animals in a jungle. A tempest arose, and in it a whirlpool formed. +It seemed that Renfrew and Claire must be torn in pieces. + +"What on earth is happening?" Renfrew exclaimed to Absalem, with the +English anger our countrymen always display when trodden by a foreign +element. + +Absalem smiled with airy dignity, and moved forward, beckoning them to +follow. + +"Miracle man, all want see him," he remarked. "Great miracle man." + +With consummate adroitness he drew them with him to the edge of the +whirlpool. As they reached it, Renfrew felt that Claire's hand suddenly +tightened upon his arm until his flesh puckered between her fingers as +the flesh of a rabbit puckers in a trap. He glanced at her in +astonishment. Her eyes were fixed on something, or some one, beyond +them, even beyond Absalem, who was forcing people out of their way with +his powerful arms and back. Renfrew followed her eyes, and saw the +centre of the whirlpool. + +This mass of humanity had now assumed the form of a rough circus, the +ring of which was kept clear. And in this ring a strange figure had just +appeared with upraised arms, and a manner of wild, even of frantic, +authority. This was a gigantic man, almost black, half-naked, with long +arms, furious eyes, and legs which, though muscular, tapered at the +ankles like the legs of a finely bred race-horse. His head was shaved in +front; but at the back the black hair grew in a long and waving lock, +and his features, magnificently cut, might have been those of a grand +European of some headstrong and high-couraged race. Upon this man +Claire's eyes were fixed, with an expression so strange and knowing that +Renfrew turned on her with a sharp exclamation. + +"Claire! Claire!" + +She slowly withdrew her eyes. + +"Yes, Desmond." + +A question stammered on his lips; but as she smiled at him, he felt the +mad absurdity of it, and was silent. + +"Well, Desmond, what is it?" + +"Nothing," he answered. + +Absalem now claimed their attention. He was determined that they should +be in the front of the crowd, and ruthlessly pushed away the Moors who +had obtained the best places, pointing at Claire and Renfrew, and wildly +vociferating their mighty rank and enormous wealth. The staring mob gave +way; and in a moment Claire and the miracle man stood face to face. His +frenzied eyes had no sooner seen her than he too fell upon the +surrounding natives, thrusting them violently to one side, and cursing +them for daring to draw near to the great English gentleman and lady. In +the whole mighty mob these two were the only Europeans, and they +attracted as universal an attention as two Aztecs would in a Bank +Holiday gathering at the Crystal Palace. Renfrew could now see that the +screeching music came from one side of the ring, where a couple of men, +clothed in filthy rags, were sitting on the ground, one playing a long +pipe of straw, the other beating an enormous drum. Immediately behind +them a very old man, evidently a maniac, swayed his body violently +backwards and forwards, and at regular intervals uttered a loud and +chuckling cry that might have been the ejaculation of a tipsy +school-boy, and came strangely from withered lips hanging loose with +weakness and with age. This dancing Methuselah caught Renfrew's +attention; and, for the moment, he forgot to look at the miracle man. A +general outcry from the multitude made him turn his head. He saw then +that the miracle man held in his huge hands a sort of kennel of straw, +the mouth of which was closed with a movable flap. Lifting this aloft, +he sprang wildly round the ring, vociferating some words at the top of +his voice; then, suddenly casting it down, he flung himself upon the +ground, which he beat with his forehead, while he shrieked out a prayer +to his patron saint for protection in the great miracle which he was +about to perform. + +"What is he doing?" Renfrew asked of Absalem. + +"Don't you know?" Claire said. + +Her eyes were gleaming with excitement as they stared at the salaaming +figure that grovelled at their feet. + +"No. How should I?" + +"He is praying to Sidi Mahomet," she said. + +And then she looked at Renfrew. He understood. At that moment, despite +the excessive heat engendered by the blazing sun and the pressure of the +crowd, he turned very cold, as if his body was plunged in glacier water. +He thought of the tall figure that had stood before Claire's tent door +in the moonbeams, the lips that had coaxed from the pipe the tune that +charmed all serpents,--that right tune that they must follow, which drew +them from the desert sands to the grass of the oasis, till they wound up +the body of this gaunt and tremendous savage, and hid themselves in his +hairy bosom. This miracle man, then, was a snake-charmer, and Claire had +divined it at once. How? Renfrew put the question quickly. + +"How did I know? He is the man who played outside my tent in the night, +Desmond." + +"The very man! Impossible." + +"The very man." + +"Then you were not asleep, not dreaming?" + +"How can one tell? Hush!" + +She spoke in the low voice of one whose attention is becoming +concentrated, and who cannot endure the interruption. The charmer had +now finished his petition to his god, and, standing up, thrust into his +mouth a handful of some green herb, which he chewed and swallowed. Then +his whole manner abruptly changed. The frenzy died out of his eyes. A +calm suffused his tall and muscular body till it became strangely +statuesque. His lips slowly smiled, and he raised his hands towards the +glaring sky with a sublime gesture of gratitude. + +"What an actor!" Renfrew heard Claire murmur softly. + +He, too, had become intensely engrossed by this man in whom he, from +this moment, began to see Claire: the exquisite woman whom the civilised +world worshipped in the mighty savage who came from the remote depths of +Morocco; the white being who played with the minds of the capitals of +Europe, in the black being who played with the reptiles of the desert +and of the jungle. For Claire, guided by the spirit that ever goes +before genius bearing the torch, had instinctively divined what she had +never known. In London it seemed that she had entered into the very soul +of this man who now stood before her. She had caught the wild graces of +his bearing. She had reproduced his smile, so full of secrets and of +power. She had moved as he did. She had been motionless as now he was +motionless. In the sun she stood at this moment and beheld the reality +of which she had been the magnificent reflection. And Renfrew felt his +heart oppressed, as if clouds were closing round him. + +Now the snake-charmer looked slowly all round the great circle of +watching faces until his eyes rested on Claire. He had taken the straw +kennel into his hands, and he softly lifted the flap, and turned it flat +upon the top of the kennel, leaving the mouth open. Then he thrust one +hand into this mouth, and withdrew it, holding a writhing snake whose +striped satin skin changed colour in the sunshine, turning from pink to +green, from green to black. + +"It is the snake I saw," Claire whispered to Renfrew. + +He did not reply. He seemed fascinated by the savage and the serpent. +Holding the snake at arm's length, the charmer walked softly round the +circle, collecting money from the crowd. He stopped in front of Claire. +The snake thrust out its flat head towards her. She did not shrink from +it; and the charmer cried aloud some words that seemed like praise of +her beauty and of her composure. She gave him a piece of gold. Renfrew +gave him nothing. + +Then, standing once more in the centre of the circle, he burst into a +frantic incantation, while the musicians redoubled their efforts, and +the old maniac in the corner gave forth his chuckling cry with greater +force, and swayed his trembling body more vehemently to and fro. The +snake, suddenly brought from the darkness of the kennel to the light of +day, was torpid and weary. It drooped between the charmer's hands. He +shook it, called on it, caught up a stick and struck it. Then, forcing +its mouth wide open, he barred its pink throat with the stick, on which +he made it fix its two fangs, which were like two sharp hooks. Holding +the end of the stick, he came again to Claire, to whom his whole +performance was now exclusively devoted; and, approaching the hanging +reptile close to her eyes, he jumped it up and down to the sound of the +drum and pipe. + +"You see," Claire said to Renfrew, "the roof of its mouth is +flesh-colour." + +He did not answer. Why did all this mean so much to him? Why did the +clouds grow darker? The music and the cries of the old maniac perturbed +him and bewildered his brain. And he wanted to be calm, and to watch +Claire and this savage with a cool and undivided attention. By this +time the snake was growing irritated. It agitated its long body +furiously; and when the charmer unhooked its fangs from the stick, it +turned its head towards him and made a sudden dart at his face. He +opened his mouth wide, thrust the snake into it, and let the creature +fasten on his tongue, from which blood began to flow. Still bleeding, +and with the snake fixed on his tongue, he danced and sprang into the +air. His eyes grew wild. Foam ran from his mouth, and his whole +appearance became demoniacal. Yet his eyes still fastened themselves +upon Claire. In his most frantic moments his attention was never +entirely distracted from the spot where she was standing. He tore the +snake from his tongue and buried its fangs in the flesh of his left +wrist. Cries broke from the crowd. The sight of the blood had excited +them, for these people love blood as the toper loves wine. They urged +the charmer on to fresh exertions with furious screams of encouragement. +The maniac bent his body like a dervish in the last exercises of his +religion, and the ragged musicians forced a more extreme uproar from +their instruments. The charmer caught the snake by the tail, and strove +to pull it backwards off his wrist. But the reptile's fangs were firmly +fastened. It held on with a terrible tenacity, and a struggle ensued +between it and its master. When at length it gave way, it was streaked +with blood, and now at last thoroughly aroused. The charmer scraped his +tongue with a straw; then, casting himself again upon the earth, he +prayed once more with fury to Sidi Mahomet. Claire watched him always, +with that pale and exquisite attention which one genius gives to the +performance of another. Her face was white and still. Her body never +moved. But her eyes blazed with life, and with the fires of a violent +soul completely awake. Having finished his prayer, which ended in a cry +so poignant that it might have burst from the lips of that world on +which the flood came, the charmer remained upon the ground in a sitting +posture, laid the snake in his lap, and drew from the inside of his +ragged robe a Moorish lute made of a bladder, bamboo, and two strings, +and coloured a pale yellowish-green. He plucked the strings gently, and +played the fragment of a wild tune. Then, suddenly catching up the +snake, and thrusting his tongue far out of his mouth, he poised the +snake upon it, rose to his feet and stood at his full height in front of +Claire, fixing his eyes upon her with a glance that seemed to claim from +her both wonder and worship. The snake reared itself up higher and +higher upon the quivering tongue; and the charmer, extending his long +arms, whirled slowly round as if poised upon a movable platform, while a +terrific clamour broke from the Moors, who seemed to be roused by this +feat to the highest pitch of excitement. Still turning and turning, the +charmer drew from his bosom a second snake that was black and larger +than the first, and coiled it round his sinewy neck like a gigantic +necklace, the darting head in front, resting, a sort of monstrous +pendant, upon his uncovered chest. To Renfrew he looked like some +hateful grotesque in a nightmare, inhuman, endowed with attributes of a +devil. The serpents were part of him, growths of his body, visible signs +of some terrible disease in which he gloried and of which he made a +show. The creature was intolerable. His exhibition had suddenly become +to Renfrew unfit for the eyes of any woman; and, without a word, he took +hold of Claire and pulled her almost violently away from the circle on +which the fascinated mob was beginning to encroach. She resisted him. + +"Desmond!" she exclaimed, "what are you doing?" + +"Claire--come. I insist upon it!" + +Already the Moors had thronged the place which they had left vacant. She +turned a white face on him. There was in her eyes the hideous expression +of a sleep-walker suddenly awakened, and she trembled in every limb. She +swung round from Renfrew, and, above the intercepting Moors, high in the +air, she saw the snake, which seemed climbing to heaven. While she +looked, a huge hand closed upon it and took it out of sight. The +charmer, observing the departure of his distinguished patrons, had +abruptly stopped his performance. Claire made no further resistance. +Without a word, she permitted Renfrew to lead her to the horses and +help her into the saddle. They rode down the hill to the camp without +exchanging a word. + +When Claire had dismounted, she stood for a moment twisting her whip in +her hands. Then she said:-- + +"Desmond, I must ask you never to startle me again as you did to-day, by +sudden action. You can't understand how such an interruption hurts a +nature like mine. I would rather you had struck me. That would only have +wounded my body." + +She turned and went into her tent, leaving Renfrew in an agony of +penitence and self-reproach. All the rest of the afternoon she was very +cold and silent, rather dreamy than sullen, but obviously disinclined +for conversation, and still more obviously unwilling to endure even the +slightest demonstration of affection on the part of Renfrew. When the +sheep which were to be slaughtered for the soldiers' feast were driven +bleating into the camp, she retired into her tent, and remained there, +resting, until the sun was low in the heavens, and the porters and +mule-drivers went gaily out to search for the materials of the African +fire with which the night was to be celebrated. They returned, singing +the Moorish conquest of Granada, with their strong arms full of canes, +dry and brittle branches of trees, logs that looked like whole trunks, +and huge shrubs, green and sweet-smelling. Hearing their song, Claire +came out of her tent. The sky was red, and, in the southwest, turrets of +vapour rose and streamed out, assuming mysterious and thin shapes in the +gathering dimness. A great flock of birds, flying very high, and forming +a definite and beautiful pattern, passed slowly on the wing towards the +kingdom of the storks, that lies near the sand banks of Ceuta. They +moved in silence, and faded away in the twilight stealthily, like things +full of quiet intention and governed by some furtive, but inexorable, +desire. Renfrew, who was wandering rather miserably near the camp, +watching descending pilgrims from the city melt into the vast bosom of +the plain, saw Claire's white figure in the tent door, half hidden in a +soft rosy mist which stole from the lips of evening as scent steals from +the lips of a flower. He felt afraid to go to her. He possessed her; and +yet it seemed to him now that he scarcely knew her. He was only an +ordinary man. She was a strange woman; not merely because of her +womanhood, as all women are to all men, but strange in that which lay +beyond and beneath her womanhood, in her genius, and in the dull or +ardent moods that stood round it, one, and yet not one, with it. In the +tent door she leaned like a spirit born of the evening, a child of +fading things, dying lights, fainting colours, retreating sounds,--a +spirit waiting for the coming of the stars, and the rising of the moon, +and the mysteries of the night, and the subtle odours that the winds of +Northern Africa bring with them over the mountains and down the lonely +valleys, when the sun descends. And as a spirit may listen to the songs +of men, with the melancholy of a thing apart, she listened to the songs +of the Moors, until at length they seemed to be in her own heart that +evening, as if they were songs of her own country. And these dark men +with wild eyes who sang them, while they flung upon the grass their +burdens from the thickets, and from the hedgeless and wide fields, were +no longer alien to her. She stood in the tent door, and, without any +conscious effort of the imagination, became their fancied mate,--a woman +sprung from the same soil, or come in--like the strange people--from the +deserts of their country. Only she was not as one of their women, +mindless, patient, and concealed; but as their women should be, strong, +hot-blooded, brave, serene, and looked upon by a world without reproach. + +Absalem came up to her to tell her some details of the night's +festivity. Before he spoke she said to him:-- + +"Where does the desert lie?" + +He told her. + +"Does the miracle man come from there?" + +Absalem answered that no one knew. He had been much in Wasan, the sacred +city of Morocco; but none knew his birthplace, his tribe, his name. +Often he disappeared, no man could tell whither. But, doubtless, he +made vast journeys. Some said that he had exhibited his snakes on the +banks of the Nile, that he had gone with the pilgrim trains to Mecca, +that he knew Khartoum as he knew Marakesh, and that he never ceased from +wandering. + +"What is his age?" Claire asked. + +Absalem answered that he must be old, but that Time had no power over +him. + +"He miracle man; he live long as he wish." + +Last she asked when he would leave Tetuan. + +"Perhaps this night. Perhaps to-morrow night, perhaps never. Perhaps he +go already." + +"Already!" + +Suddenly Claire moved out from the tent, and joined Renfrew, who was +still watching her, and weaving lover's fancies about her white figure. + +"Have you been here long, Desmond?" she asked. + +"Very long, dearest. Are you rested?" + +"Quite. From here you can see all the people travelling away from the +city towards the sea?" + +"Yes." + +"Have you been watching them?" + +"Yes, indeed; for half the afternoon." + +She turned her great eyes on him searchingly, and seemed as if she +checked a question which was almost on her lips. + +"They must have been a strange multitude," she said at length. "I wonder +where they are all going?" + +"Some to the villages in the plain, some to the coast. I saw the Riffs +who were in the Soko pass by. I suppose they were returning to the +caverns from which they plunder becalmed vessels, Spanish and +Portuguese." + +"The Riffs--yes?" + +Her intonation suggested that she was waiting for some further +information. Renfrew's curiosity was aroused. + +"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked. "What do you want to know?" + +"Nothing, Desmond. How dark it is getting! There is Mohammed ringing the +bell. And look, those must be the soldiers. They are just marching in +from the city." + +With the coming of night a wind arose, blowing towards the sea from the +mountains; and with it came up a troop of clouds which blotted out stars +and moon, and plunged the plain into a gulf of darkness. Tetuan does not +gleam with lamps at night like a European city, and all the distant +villas of the Moors were closely shuttered. So the wind, warm and +scented and strong, swept over a black land, deserted and vacant. Only +in the camp was there movement, music, and an illumination that strove +up in the night, as if it would climb to the clouds. Scarcely had Claire +and Renfrew finished dinner, when Absalem and Mohammed ceremoniously +appeared to conduct them out to the bare space before the tents on +which the African fire had been carefully built. Absalem carried a lamp +which swung in the wind, and, behind, there appeared from the kitchen +tent some of the porters, bearing burning brands, the flames of which +were at right angles to the wood from which they sprung. The guard of +soldiers, one dozen in all, armed with immense guns and wrapped in +hooded cloaks, were already crouched in a silent mass before the +lifeless and portentous erection which came out of the darkness, as +Absalem swung forward the lamp, like the skeleton of a monster. They +turned their shadowy faces on Claire, and stared with eyes intent and +unself-conscious as those of an animal. The porters flung their brands +on to the mountain of twigs, and instantaneously a huge sheet of livid +gold sprang up against the black background of the night, as if it had +been shaken out on the wind by invisible hands. This sheet expanded, +swayed, fluttered in ragged edges, and cast forth a cloud of sparks +which were carried away into the air and vanished in the sky. The shrubs +caught fire and crackled furiously, and finally the foundation of +gigantic logs began to glow steadily, and to fill the wind with a +scorching heat. The camp was gradually defined, at first vaguely and in +sections,--the peak of a tent, the head of a mule, a startled pariah +dog, a Moor set in the eye of the flames; then clearly, as the buildings +one may see in a furnace, complete and glowing. The faces of the +soldiers were barred with flickering orange, and red lights played in +their huge and staring eyeballs. The horses and mules could be counted. +Before the kitchen tent the sacrifice of sheep was visible, stewing in +enormous pans upon red embers in a trench of earth. And the grave cook, +who was distinguished by a white turban, shone like a pantomime magician +at the mouth of an enchanted cave. Warmth, light, life poured upon the +night, and the voices of men began to mingle with the continuous voice +of this superb fire. The Moors, soldiers, servants, porters, kindled +into furious gaiety with the swiftness of the canes and olive boughs. +They sprang up from the ground, pulled the shrouding hoods from their +faces, tossed away their djelabes, and began, with shouts and +ejaculations, to dance up and down before the golden sheet, spreading +their hands to it with the glee of children. A sudden joy beamed in the +dusky and solemn faces, twinkled in the sombre eyes. One man flung away +his fez, another dashed his turban to the ground. Round, shaven heads, +bare arms, brown legs, half concealed by fluttering linen +knickerbockers, lithe bodies emerged with eager haste into the light. +Shadows became abruptly men, formless humps athletes. Mutes sent out +great voices to startle the sweeping bats. Mourners turned into maniacs. +It was a fantasia that exploded into life like a rocket, shedding a +stream of vivid human fire. Mohammed drew away from the flames, taking +a dozen swift footsteps to the rear. Then, with a shout, he dashed +forward, bounded into the golden sheet, and disappeared as a clown +disappears through a paper hoop. Only the paper closed up behind him. He +leaped through light to darkness, pursued by a thousand eager sparks. +One soldier followed him, then another, and another. The porters, +linking hands, leaped in twos and threes. Even the cook, old, and +serious with a weight of savoury knowledge, tottered to the edge of the +fire, which was now becoming a furnace, and took it as an Irish horse +takes a stone wall, striking the topmost branches with his bare feet +amid a chorus of yells. + +Claire watched the darting figures with a silent gravity. She did not +seem to be stirred by the fantasia of the firelight, or to catch any +gaiety or life from the boisterous activity of those about her. The +flames lit up the whiteness of her face, and showed Renfrew that she was +looking gloomy and even despairing. + +"Is anything the matter, Claire?" he asked anxiously. + +"No. How could there be?" + +The wind, which was increasing in violence, blew her thin dress forward, +and she shivered. Absalem noticed it. + +"Wear djelabe, lady," he said. + +And in a moment he had taken his off, and was carefully wrapping Claire +in it. She seemed glad of it, thanked him, and, with a quick gesture +that hurt Renfrew, pulled the big brown hood up over her head, so that +her face was entirely concealed from view. She now looked exactly like a +Moor, and might have been mistaken for one of the soldiers before the +fire was lit and all impeding garments were thrown aside. + +Renfrew, uneasy, and wondering what conduct on his part would best suit +her mysterious mood, after one or two remarks to which she barely +replied, drew away a little, and gave his attention to the antics of the +soldiers. Some of them were already resuming their djelabes, in +preparation for the feast, which they sniffed even through the odour of +burning wood and leaves. The cook, after his emotional and acrobatic +outburst, had returned to his pans, which he was stirring tenderly with +a stick. When Renfrew again looked towards Claire, he found it +impossible to tell which cloak shrouded her from his sight. Four or five +hooded figures stood near the fire. She must be one of them. He +approached the group, but found, to his surprise, that all the members +of it were soldiers. Claire had moved away. Renfrew stood for a few +minutes with the men, till they were summoned to their feast, which, +strangely enough, was to take place away from the fire in the dense +darkness behind the tents. Then he was left alone by the huge mass of +flame, which roared hoarsely in the wind. Where could Claire be? On any +ordinary occasion Renfrew would certainly have sought for her, but +to-night something held him back. He knew very well that she wished to +be alone, that something was closely occupying her mind. Whether she was +still brooding over the event of the afternoon, when he had forcibly led +her away in the very crisis of the snake-charmer's performance, he could +not tell. To an ordinary woman such a matter would have been a trifle; +but Renfrew understood that Claire felt it more deeply. Her mind +appeared to be mysteriously moved and awakened by this savage from the +depths of Morocco. Various circumstances combined to render him more +interesting to her than he could possibly be to any ordinary traveller. +Renfrew recognised that fully and quietly. The genius of Claire had +enabled her to realise in London all the wildly picturesque +idiosyncrasies of a man whom she had never seen or heard of. Suddenly +fate had led her to him, and she had beheld her own performance, the +original of her imitation. As Renfrew stood by the fire, he began to +feel the folly of his proceeding of the afternoon, and to imagine more +clearly than before the condition into which it had thrown Claire. It is +a sin to disturb the contemplations of genius. It is sacrilege. And then +Renfrew had been moved to his act by a preposterous access of jealousy. +He acknowledged this to himself. He had been jealous of Claire's +interest in this man's performance, jealous perhaps even of her dream +among the hills in the midnight camp, where the man stood before her +sleeping eyes, and played with his visionary serpent. How mad can a +lover be? He resolved to go to Claire, and ask her pardon. This resolve +thrilled him. To carry it out, he would have to draw very near to +Claire, to unpack his heart to her. After all, she had given herself to +him. But he had appreciated the wonder of his rôle as possessor so +keenly, that he had waited upon her moods with an almost trembling awe. +Now, in asking pardon, he would show that in his passion he could be +strong. Women want to see the man in the lover, as well as the devotee. +Renfrew, in acknowledging his jealousy of a black savage, meant to clasp +Claire with the arms of a whirlwind. + +Meanwhile she was hidden from him. The wind blew strongly. The sparks +leaped away in clouds toward the sea. From the dense darkness behind him +came a sound of music. The soldiers were feasting. The porters were +striking the lute, and singing songs of the dance and of love and of +victory. It was a night of comradeship and of rejoicing. Yet he stood +alone; and the turmoil of his heart was unheeded. He tried to explore +the blackness of the night which stood round the golden fire with his +eyes. Claire must be in that blackness close to him. Doubtless she saw +him, a red and yellow creature, painted into fictitious brilliance by +the illumination which was shed upon him. She saw him and kept from +him. Renfrew resolved to be patient. When her mood of reserve died she +would come to him, in her dress of a Moor, and he would kiss the white +face beneath the hood, and put his arms round the thin figure that was +lost in the djelabe of brawny Absalem, and tell her the true story of +his heart, never fully told to her yet. He squatted down before the +fire, lit his pipe, shrugged his shoulders against the tempest from the +mountains, and waited, listening to the weird music that swept by him +like a hidden bird on the wind. + +And Claire--where was she? When Absalem wrapped her in the huge djelabe +it seemed to Claire that he had divined her secret longing to be in +hiding. She disappeared into the mighty hood of the garment as into a +cave. Its shadow concealed her from the watching eyes of Renfrew. There +was warmth in it and a beautiful darkness. She desired both. She saw +Renfrew turn to watch the leaping soldiers, and stole away out of the +illuminated circle formed by the glow from the fire, into the night +beyond. She did not go far, only into the nearest shadow. And there she +sat down on the short dry grass, and forgot Renfrew, the roaring flames, +the wind that felt incessantly at her robe, the shouting guard, the +radiant and dancing attendants. She forgot them all as completely as if +they had never been in her life; for the strangeness of certain +incidents preoccupied her, to the exclusion of everything else. In the +double existence of a really great actress there are many moments in +which the truths of the imagination seem more important than the truths +of physical phenomena of things seen by the eye, of sounds received and +appreciated by the ear. In these moments, genius usurps the throne of +reason, and the mind beholds fancies as sunlit gods, facts as timid and +scarcely defined shadows. So it was with Claire now. Even the +snake-charmer, as he gave his performance in the Soko, was a shadow in +comparison with that man who summoned her to the tent door in the +solitary encampment. And behind and beyond both these figures of truth +and dreaming stood a third, created for herself by Claire in London, +that figure into whom she had poured her soul as into a mould, when she +charmed imaginary serpents, and prayed to the god in whom, for a moment, +she believed with the passion of the perfect mime. This trio Claire +placed in line, and reviewed: charmer of her imagination, of her dream, +of the Soko. + +They were the same, and yet not the same. For the first was dominated, +even was created by her. The second stood above her, like some magician, +and summoned her as one possessing a right. The third--what of him? He +was a wild creature of blood and foam, crafty, a player like herself, a +maker of money, a savage in sacking, and almost nothing to her now. Out +of the desert he came. Into the desert he was, perhaps, even now, +returning, with his snakes sleeping in his bosom, and the money of the +Tetuan Moors jingling in his pouch. + +Yes, she saw him, travelling like a shadow in the night, one of those +grotesques which leap on bedroom walls when a lamp flares in the wind +that sighs through an open casement. He was going; but the man of the +dream remained. The dream man had come up out of the world that is +vaguer to us than the desert when we wake, and clearer to us than the +desert when we sleep. Claire saw him still, and, while the wonderful +mountebank of the Soko passed, he stood in the tent door like a statue +of ebony, a rooted reality. And the snake was in his bosom; and the pipe +was at his lips; and the power was in his heart. And as he played, +Claire thought beneath the djelabe of Absalem, there came to him, with +the faltering steps of a thing irresistibly charmed, that third man +whose soul she had seen in London, like approaching like, with the +manner of a slave and the glance of the conquered. And her soul was +still within that charmed figure. She could not rescue it now from the +place where she had put it. And the statue at the tent door played the +irresistible melody until his wild and cringing double stole to his very +feet, and nearer and nearer, till they melted together, and where two +men had been, there was only one. He smiled with a subtle triumph, laid +down his pipe, stretched out his arms and vanished. But within him now +was the soul of Claire, borne wherever he should go, his captive, his +possession for all eternity. + +Behind her, in the cloudy darkness, Claire heard a movement, and the +gliding of soft feet on grass. She did not turn her head, supposing that +one of the soldiers was keeping his guard. The movement ceased. But the +little noise had broken the thread on which her fancies were strung. +They were scattered like beads. She found herself feeling quite +ordinary, and listening with an urging attention for a renewal of the +trifling noise behind her. In the distance she could see Renfrew, now +crouching before the fire, which poured colour and a piercing vitality +upon him. She heard also, and for the first time, the sound of the +porters' music, which had been audible in the night all through her +reverie, though she was entirely unaware of the fact. She realised that +the soldiers were devouring the stew of mutton, and that she was in a +gay camp, full of human beings in a state of unusual satisfaction. One +of these human beings must be close to her. She turned her head. But she +was sitting in the darkness beyond the illumination of the fire, and +beyond her the night was like a black wall. Whatever had moved there was +invisible to her. She had not heard the gliding step go away, and she +felt that she was not alone. This feeling began to render her uneasy. +She got up, with the intention of returning to the firelight and to +Renfrew. Indeed she had taken a step or two in his direction, when she +was checked by an unreasonable desire to see who had come so close to +her, who had broken her reverie. Acting upon the sudden impulse, she +turned swiftly and came on into the darkness. Almost instantly she stood +before the dim outline of a man, and paused. Here in the night it was +very lonely, even though the illuminated camp was so near. Claire +hesitated to approach this man who seemed to be on watch and who was +perfectly motionless. She waited a moment, wishing that he would come to +her in order that she might see what he was like, whether he carried a +gun and was a soldier. But it was soon evident that he did not mean to +move. Then Claire went up so close to him that his coarse garment rubbed +against her djelabe and his eyes stared right down into hers. And she +saw that it was the snake-charmer from the Soko, who was looking into +her face with the very smile of the man in her dream. Round his bare +throat one of his snakes was twined, and he held its neck between the +fingers of his left hand. The wind tossed his short and ragged cloak +wildly to and fro, and whirled the long lock of hair at the back of his +shaven head about, and made it dance like a living thing. When Claire +came up to him, he never said a word, or moved at all. It seemed to her +that his face was that of some dark and triumphant being, waiting +immovably for something that was certain to come to him, and to come so +close that he need not even stretch out his hand to take it as his +possession. What was the thing he waited for? She looked at his black +face and at the snake which moved slowly, trying to thrust its way +downward into the warmth of his bosom, out of the reach of the wind and +of the night. And, when the man's fingers unclosed to release it, and it +slid away and softly disappeared beneath his garment, Claire shuddered +under the influence of a sensation that was surely mad. For she felt +that she envied the snake, and that the charmer was waiting there in the +darkness for her. As the snake vanished, Claire recoiled towards the +fire. The charmer did not attempt to follow her, and his huge and +watchful figure quickly faded from Claire's eyes till his blackness had +become one with the blackness of the night. + + +IV + +Renfrew, as he crouched before the fire, felt a light touch on his +shoulder. He looked up, saw Claire's white face peering down on him, and +sprang to his feet. + +"I thought you were never coming, that you had deserted me altogether, +and left me lonely in the midst of the fantasia," he cried, seizing her +hands. + +"I am cold," she said; "horribly cold. Let me sit beside you, close to +the fire." + +She sat down on the ground, almost touching the roaring flames. + +"Where have you been?" + +"Sitting in the dark. The soldiers are feasting?" + +"Yes, and the camp fellows are all singing and playing. Don't you hear +them? We are quite alone. That's all I want, all I care for. Claire, +when you go away like this, and leave me, even for a few minutes, +Morocco is the most desolate place in all the world, and I'm the most +desolate vagabond in it." + +He put his arm round her. The terrific glow from the fire played over +her face, danced in the deep folds of her djelabe, shone in her eyes, +showered a cloud of gold and red about her hair. For she had let her +hood fall down on her shoulders. She attained to that fine and almost +demoniacal picturesqueness which glorifies even the most commonplace +smith when you see him in his forge by night. Her cheeks were suffused +with scarlet, as if she had suddenly painted them to go on the stage. +Yet she shivered again as Renfrew spoke. + +"You should not have left the fire," he said. "And yet the wind is +warm." + +"It can't be. But it's not the wind, it's the darkness that has chilled +me." + +"Or is it the loneliness?" he asked, tenderly. "For you have been alone +as well as I, and nothing on earth makes one so cold as solitude." + +"I scarcely ever feel alone, Desmond," she said. + +And, as she spoke, she cast a glance behind her into the darkness from +which she had just come. Renfrew noticed it. + +"You have been alone?" he asked hastily. Then he checked himself with an +ashamed laugh. + +"What a fool I am," he exclaimed. + +He clasped her more closely. + +"A fool, because I'm so desperately in love with you, Claire," he said, +rushing on his confession with the swiftness of alarmed bravery. "Look +here, I want to tell you something. You must put everything I do, +everything I am, down to the account of my love,--shyness, anger, +abruptness, violence,--everything, Claire. My love's responsible. It +does play the devil with an ordinary man when he's given his very soul +to--to a woman like you, to a great woman. It keeps him back when he +ought to go on, and sends him on when he ought to stay quiet, and makes +him jealous of stones and--and savages." + +"Savages, Desmond?" + +Renfrew's face was scarlet. He put up his hand before it and muttered:-- + +"This fire's scorching. Yes, Claire, of savages. Didn't you find that +out this afternoon, when we were in Tetuan? But of course you couldn't. +You couldn't know you'd married such an infernal lunatic." + +He broke off. She was watching him with a close attention, and her body +had ceased to tremble under his arm. + +"Go on, Desmond." + +"You want me to tell you the sort of man you've married?" + +"I want you to tell me what you mean." + +"Then I will. Claire, this afternoon I took you away from that +snake-charming chap because--well, because you watched him as if he +fascinated you." + +"Oh!" + +"Of course I knew why. His performance was clever, and he was +picturesque in his way, although, to be sure, it was all put on, as far +as that goes." + +"Like my stage performances, Desmond." + +"Claire," he said hotly. "How can you?" + +"That man acts far better than I do--if he acts at all." + +"Was that why he interested you so much?" + +"In what other way could he interest me?" + +Renfrew kicked at one of the blazing logs and sent up a shower of +red-hot flakes. + +"Well, there was your dream, Claire." + +"Yes, there was that." + +"It was curious, coming just before we saw the fellow. And you say the +two men were alike." + +"I did not say alike. I said the same." + +"How could that be?" + +"How can a thousand things be? Yet we cannot deny them when they are, +any more than we can deny that we feel an earthly immortality within us +and yet crumble into dust. In sleep I saw that man. I saw his snake. I +heard him play." + +"Yes, Claire, I know. It's damned strange." + +Renfrew's forehead was wrinkled in a meditative frown. + +"But, after all, what's a dream?" he exclaimed. "A vagary of a sleeping +brain. And in your dream you wouldn't go to that beggar, Claire." + +"No. I wouldn't go, and so I died." + +"It all means nothing--nothing at all." + +She looked at him gravely. + +"I wonder whether there are things in life that we are compelled to do, +Desmond," she said. "I sometimes think there must be. How otherwise can +a thousand strange events be accounted for, especially things that women +do?" + +"I don't know," he muttered, staring at her anxiously in the firelight. + +"Every one acknowledges the irresistible power of physical force over +physical weakness. Some day, perhaps, when the world has grown a little +older, we shall all understand that the power of mental force is +precisely similar, and can as little be resisted. What's that?" + +Renfrew felt that she was suddenly alert. Her thin form grew hard and +quivering, like the body of a greyhound about to be let loose on a +hare. He heard nothing except a sound of music from the darkness, and +the gentle rustle of the wind. + +"I hear nothing," he said. "What was it--a cry?" + +"No, no!" + +"What then?" + +"Oh, Desmond--hush!" + +He was obedient, and strained his ears, wondering what Claire had heard. +The fire was at last beginning to die down, for the flames had devoured +the masses of dry twigs, and had now nothing to feed upon except the +heavy logs. So the darkness drew a little closer round the camp, as if +the night expanded noiselessly. One of the porters, or, perhaps, one of +the soldiers, was playing a queer little air upon a pipe over and over +again. It was plaintive and very soft. But the tone of the instrument +was strangely penetrating, and the wind carried it along over the plain, +as if anxious to bear it to the sea, that the cave men might hear it, +and the sailors bearing up for the Spanish coast. Was Claire listening +to this odd little tune? Renfrew wondered. There seemed no other sound. +She was moving uneasily now, as if an intense restlessness had taken +hold of her. And she turned her head away from him and gazed into the +night. + +Presently she put her hand on Renfrew's arm, which was still round her +waist, and tried to remove it. But he would not yield to her desire. He +only held her closer, and again--he could not tell why--the smouldering +jealousy began to flare up in his heart. + +"No, Claire," he said, in answer to her movement, "you are mine. You +have given yourself to me. I alone have the right to keep you, to hold +you close--close to my heart." + +"Can you keep me always, Desmond?" she said, suddenly turning on him +with a sort of fierce excitement. + +She looked into his eyes as if she would search the very depths of his +soul for strength, for power. + +"You have the right. Yes; but that is nothing--nothing." + +"Nothing, Claire?" + +"You must have the strength, Desmond. That is everything." + +There was a look almost of despair in her face. She threw herself +against him as if moved by a sudden yearning for protection, and put her +arms round his shoulders. + +The hidden Moor was still playing the same monotonous little tune, an +African aria, as wild as a bird that flies over the desert, or a cloud +that is driven across the sky above a dangerous sea. It was imaginative, +and, as all tunes seem to have a shape, this melody was misshapen and +yet delicious, like a twisted tangled creature that has the smile of a +sweet woman, or the eyes of an alluring child. In its plaintiveness +there was the atmosphere of solitary places. And there was a sound of +love in it, too, but of a love so uncivilised as to be almost monstrous. +Some earth man of a dead age might have sung it to his mate in a land +where the sun looked down on things primeval. It might have caught the +heart of maidens very long ago, before they learned to think of passion +as the twin of law, and to regard a kiss as the seal set upon the tape +of matrimony. The queer sorrow of it could hardly have moved any eyes to +tears. Yet few women could have heard it without a sense of desolation. +It ran through the darkness as cold water runs in the black shadow of a +forest, a trickle of sound as thin and persistent as the cry of a wild +creature in the night. + +Renfrew thrilled under the touch of Claire's hand. + +"You can give me the strength every woman seeks in the man she yields +herself up to," he said. + +"How?" + +"By loving me." + +"Ah, yes. But the strength must not come, however subtly, from the +woman. No--no." + +Again she leaned away from him, with her face turned towards the +darkness. Tremors ran through her, and her hands dropped almost feebly +from Renfrew's shoulders, as the hands of an invalid fall away, and +down, after an embrace. + +"Oh, no," she reiterated, and her voice was almost a wail. "It must be +there, in the man, part of him, whether he is with the woman in the +night, or alone--far off--in the jungle, or in the--the desert. He must +have the strange strength that comes from solitude. Where can the men of +our country find that now?" + +"They find strength in the clash of wills, Claire, and in the battles of +love." + +"Most of them never find it at all," she said, with a sort of sullen +resignation. "And most of the women do not want it, or ask for it, or +know what it is. The danger is when some accident or some fate teaches +them what it is. Then--then--" + +She stopped, and glanced at Renfrew suspiciously, as if she had so +nearly betrayed a secret that he might, nay, must have guessed it. + +"What do you mean? Then they seek it away from--?" + +"Where they know they will find it," she said, almost defiantly. + +Renfrew's face grew cold and rigid. + +"What are you saying to me, Claire?" + +"What is true of some women, Desmond." + +He was silent. Pain and fear invaded his heart; and, by degrees, the +little tune played by the Moor seemed to approach him, very quietly, and +to become one with this slow agony. Music, among its many and terrible +powers, numbers one that is scarcely possessed as forcibly by any other +art. It can glide into a man and direct his emotions as irresistibly as +science can direct the flow of a stream. It can penetrate as a thing +seen cannot penetrate. For that which is invisible is that which is +invincible. And this tune of the Moor, while it added to Renfrew's +distress, touched his distress with confusion and bewilderment. At first +he did not realise that the music had anything to do with his state of +mind, or with the growing turmoil of his heart and brain; but he felt +that something was becoming intolerable to him, and pushing him on in a +dangerous path. He thought it was the statement of Claire; and, for the +first time in his life, he was stirred by an anger against her that was +horrible to him. He released her from his arm. + +"How dare you say that to me?" he asked. "Do you understand what your +words imply, that--Good God!--that women are like animals, creatures +without souls, running to the feet of the master who has the whip with +the longest, the most stinging lash? Why, such a creed as yours would +keep men savages, and kill all gentleness out of the world. Curse that +chap! That hideous music of his--" + +He had suddenly become aware that the Moor's melody added something to +his torment. At his last exclamation, the sullen look in Claire's pale +face gave way to an expression of fear and of startling solicitude. + +"Desmond, you are putting a wrong interpretation on what I said," she +began hastily. + +But he was excited, and could not endure any interruption. + +"And you imply a degrading immorality as a prevailing characteristic of +women too," he went on, "that they should leave their homes, deny their +obligations, because they find elsewhere--away, out in some dark place +with a blackguard--a powerful will to curb them and keep them down, +like--why, like these wretched women all round us here in this +country,--the women we saw in Tetuan only to-day, veiled, hidden, loaded +with burdens, worse off than animals, because their masters doubt them, +and would not dream of trusting them. Claire, there's something +barbarous about you." + +He spoke the words with the intonation of one who thinks he is uttering +an insult. But she smiled. + +"It's the something barbarous about me that has placed me where I am," +she said, with a cold pride. "It is that which civilisation worships in +me, that which has set me above the other women of my time. It is even +that which has made you love me, Desmond, whether you know it or not." + +He looked at her like a man half dazed. + +"I frighten the dove-cotes. I can make men tremble by my outbursts of +passion, and women faint because I am sad; and even the stony-hearted +sob when I die. And I can make you love me, Desmond. Yes, perhaps I am +more barbarous than other women. But do you think I am sorry for it? +No." + +"Some day you may be, Claire." + +He spoke more gently. The wonder and worship he had for this woman +stirred in him again. While she had been speaking, she had instinctively +risen to her feet, and she stood in the dull red glow of the waning +fire, looking down at him as if he were a creature in a lower world than +the one in which she could walk at will. + +"I shall never choose to be sorry," she said, "whatever my fate may be. +To be sorry is to be feeble, and to be feeble is to be unfit to live, +and unfit to die. Never, never think of me as being sorry for anything I +have done, or may do. Never deceive yourself about me." + +A great log, eaten through by a flame at its heart, broke gently asunder +on the summit of the heaped wood. One half of it, red-hot, and alive +with multitudes of flickering fires, gold, primrose, steel-blue, and +deep purple, dropped and fell at Claire's feet. She glanced down at it, +and at Renfrew. + +"My deeds may burn me up," she said, "as those coloured fires burn up +that wood, until it is no longer wood but fire itself. They shall never +drench me with wretched, contemptible tears." + +He got up; and, when he was on his feet, he seemed to hear the incessant +music more clearly, blending with the words of Claire. The notes were +like hot sparks falling on him. He winced under them, and looked round +almost wildly. Then, without speaking, he hurried away in the darkness +to the place where the soldiers were feasting, and the men of the camp +were holding their fantasia. Claire divined why he went. She started a +step forward as if to try and stop him; but his movement had been so +abrupt that she was too late. She had to let him go. Her hands fell at +her sides, and she waited by the dying fire in the attitude of one who +listens intently. The soft melody of that hidden and persistent musician +wailed in her ears, on and on. It came again and again, never ceasing, +never altering in time. And its influence upon Claire was terrible as +the influence of the dream music in the valley beneath the Kasbar. She +longed to go to it. She seemed to belong to it,--to be its possession, +and to have erred when she separated herself from it. In the darkness it +was awaiting her, and it sent out its crying voice in the night as a +message, as a summons soft, clear, and quietly determined. She clenched +her hands as she stood by the fire. She strove to root her feet in the +ground. If there had been anything to cling to just then, she would have +stretched forth her arms and clung to it, resisting what she loved from +fear of the future. But there was nothing. And she thought of the +children and of the Pied Piper. But they were legendary beings of a +fable long ago. And she thought of Renfrew and of his love. But that +seemed nothing. That could not keep her. He was a pale phantom, and her +career was a handful of dust, and her name was as the name graven upon a +tomb, and her life was but as a gift to be offered to an unknown +destiny,--while that melody called to her. Had any one seen her then in +the glow of the firelight, she would have seemed to him terrible. For +suddenly she let the djelabe of Absalem slip from her shoulders to the +ground. And, in the fiercely flickering light, that makes all things and +people assume unearthly aspects, her thin figure in its white robe +looked like the white body of a serpent, erect and trembling, under the +influence of the charmer. But the melody grew softer and softer, more +faint, more dreamy in the darkness. Presently it ceased. As it did so, +Claire drew a deep breath, lifted her head like one released from a +thraldom, and turned her face towards the camp. + +Almost directly she saw Renfrew returning towards her. He looked +puzzled. + +"It wasn't any of the men playing," he said to her. + +"No?" + +Claire bent, caught up the djelabe and drew it over her. + +"I went to them, and found them listening to some story Absalem was +telling. They were all gathered close round him, huddled up together in +the dark. And the piping came from quite another direction--not from the +soldiers either. It must have been some vagabond out of Tetuan. I was +just going to make a search for him, when the noise stopped. He must +have heard me coming." + +He still looked disturbed and angry, and this break in their +conversation was final. It seemed impossible to take up the thread of it +again. They stood together watching the fire fade away till it was a +faint glow almost level with the ground. Then at last Renfrew spoke, in +a voice that was almost timid. + +"Claire," he said. + +"Yes," she answered out of the dull twilight that would soon be +darkness. + +"If I have said anything to-night to hurt you, don't think of it, don't +remember it. I don't know--I don't seem to have been like myself +to-night. I believe that cursed music irritated me, so ugly, and so +monotonous; it got right on my nerves, I think." + +"Did it?" + +"Without my knowing it." + +He felt for one of her hands and clasped it. + +"Yes, dear. We both said more than we meant. Didn't we?" + +Claire did not assent; but she let her hand lie in his. That satisfied +him then, although afterwards he remembered her silence. Soon the fire +was dead; and they said good-night in the wind, which seemed colder +because there was no more light. + + * * * * * + +Renfrew went to his tent, undressed, and got into bed. The wind roared +against the canvas. But the pegs had been driven stoutly into the ground +by the porters, and held the cords fast. He felt very tired and +depressed, and thought he would not fall asleep quickly. But he soon +began to be drowsy, and to have a sense of dropping into the very arms +of the tempest, lulled by its noise. He slept for a time. Presently, +however, and while it was still quite dark, he woke up. He heard the +wind as before, but was troubled by an idea that some other sound was +mingling with it, some murmur so indistinct that he could not decide +what it was, although he was aware of it. He sat up and strained his +ears, and wished the wind would lull, if only for a moment, or that this +other sound--which had surely been the cause of his waking--would +increase, and stand out distinctly in the night. And, at last, by dint +of listening with all his force, Renfrew seemed to himself to compel the +sound to greater clearness. Then he knew that somewhere, far off perhaps +in the wind, the player on the pipe reiterated his soft and stealthy +music. It was swept on the tempest like a drowning thing caught in a +whirlpool. It was so faint as to be almost inaudible. But in all its +weakness it retained most completely its character, and made the same +impression upon Renfrew as when it was near and distinct. It irritated +and it repelled him. And, with an angry exclamation, he flung himself +down and buried his head in the pillow, stopping his ears with his +hands. + + * * * * * + +With daylight the camp was in a turmoil. Claire was gone. Her bed had +not been slept in. She had not undressed. She had not even taken off +Absalem's djelabe. At least it could not be found. Renfrew, frantic, +almost mad with anxiety, explored the plain, rode at a gallop to the +gate of the city, called upon the Governor of Tetuan to help him in his +search, and summoned the Consul to his aid in his despair. Every effort +was made to find the missing woman; but no success crowned the quest, +either at that time, or afterwards, when weeks became months, and months +grew into years. A great actress was lost to the world. His world was +lost to Renfrew. He rode back at last one day to the villas of Tangier, +bent down upon his horse, broken, alone. In his despair he cursed +himself. He accused himself of cruelty to Claire that night beside the +African fire, when he had been roused to a momentary anger against her. +He even told himself that he had driven her away from him. But other +men, who had known Claire and the strangeness of her caprices, said to +each other that she had got tired of Renfrew and given him the slip, +wandering away disguised in the djelabe of a Moor, and that some fine +day she would turn up again, and re-appear upon the stage that had seen +her glory. + +Later on, when Renfrew at last, after long searching, came hopelessly +back to England, so changed that his friends scarcely recognised him, he +was sometimes seized with strange and terrible thoughts as he sat +brooding over the wreck of his love. He seemed to see, as in a pale +vision of flame and darkness, a little dusky Moorish boy bending to +smell at a withered sprig of orange flower, and to remember that +once--how long ago it seemed--Claire had wished to kiss that boy as a +Moorish woman might have kissed him. And then he saw a veiled figure, +that he seemed to know even in its deceitful robe, bend down to the boy. +And the vision faded. At another time he would hear the little tune that +had persecuted him in the night. And then he recalled the music of +Claire's dream, and the melody that charmed the snakes; and he +shuddered. For the miracle man had never been seen in Tetuan since the +day when Claire had watched him in the Soko. Nor could Renfrew ever find +out whither he had wandered. + + * * * * * + +Very long afterwards, however,--although this fact was never known to +Renfrew,--two Russian travellers in the Great Sahara desert witnessed +one evening, as they sat in their tent door, the performance of a savage +charmer of snakes who carried upon his body three serpents,--one +striped, one black, one white. And the younger of them noticed, and +remarked to the other, that the charmer wore half-way up the little +finger of his left hand a thin gold circle in which there was set a +magnificent black pearl. + + + + +A TRIBUTE OF SOULS + + +PRELUDE + +The matter of Carlounie, the village of Perthshire in Scotland, is +become notorious in the world. The name of its late owner, his +remarkable transformation, his fortunate career, his married life, the +brooding darkness that fell latterly upon his mind, the flaming deed +that he consummated, its appalling outcome, and the finding of him by Mr +Mackenzie, the minister of the parish of Carlounie, sunk in a pool of +the burn that runs through a "den" close to his house--all these things +are fresh in the minds of many men. It has been supposed that he had +discovered a common intrigue between his wife, Kate, formerly an +hospital nurse, and his tenant, Hugh Fraser of Piccadilly, London. It +has been universally thought that this discovery led to the last action +of his life. The following pages, found among his papers, seem to put a +very different complexion on the affair, although they suggest a +mediæval legend rather than a history of modern days. It may be added +that careful enquiries have been made among the inhabitants of +Carlounie, and that no man, woman, or child has been discovered who ever +saw, or heard of, the grey traveller mentioned in Alistair Ralston's +narrative. + + +I + +THE STRANGER BY THE BURN + +Can a fever change a man's whole nature, giving him powers that he never +had before? Can he go into it impotent, starved, naked, emerge from it +potent, satisfied, clothed with possibilities that are wonders, that are +miracles to him? It must be so; it is so. And yet--I must go back to +that sad autumn day when I walked beside the burn. Can I write down my +moods, my feelings of that day and of the following days? And if I can, +does that power of pinning the butterfly of my soul down upon the +board--does that power, too, bud, blossom from a soil mysteriously +fertilised by illness? Formerly, I could as easily have flown in the air +to the summit of cloud-capped Schiehallion as have set on paper even the +smallest fragment of my mind. Now--well, let me see, let me still +further know my new, my marvellous self. + +Yes, that first day! It was Autumn, but only early Autumn. The leaves +were changing colour upon the birch trees, upon the rowans. At dawn, +mists stood round to shield the toilet of the rising sun. At evening, +they thronged together like a pale troop of shadowy mutes to assist at +his departure to the under world. It was a misty season, through which +the bracken upon the hillsides of my Carlounie glowed furtively in +tints of brown and of orange; and my mind, my whole being, seemed to +move in mists. I was just twenty-two, an orphan, master of my estate of +Carlounie, a Scotch laird, and my own governor. And some idiots envied +me then, as many begin to envy me now. I even remember one ghastly old +man who clapped me on the shoulder, and, with the addition of an +unnecessary oath, swore that I was "a lucky youngster." I, with my thin, +chétif body, my burning, weakly, starved, and yet ambitious soul--lucky! +I remember that I broke into a harsh laugh, and longed to kill the +babbling beast. + +And it was the next day, in the afternoon, that I took that book--my +Bible--and went forth alone to the long den in which the burn hides and +cries its presence. Yes, I took Goethe's "Faust," and my own complaining +spirit, and went out into the mist with my misty, clouded mind. My +cousin Gavin wanted me to go out shooting. He laughed and rallied me +upon my ill-luck on the previous day, when I had gone out and been the +joke of my own keepers because I had missed every bird; and I turned and +railed at him, and told him to leave me to myself. And, as I went, I +heard him muttering, "That wretched little fellow! To think that he +should be owner of Carlounie!" Now, he sings another tune. + +With "Faust" in my hand, and hatred in my heart, I went out into the +delicately chilly air, down the winding ways of the garden, through the +creaking iron gateway. I emerged on to the wilder land, irregular, +grass-covered ground, strewn with grey granite boulders, among which +coarse, wiry ferns grew sturdily. The blackfaced sheep whisked their +broad tails at me as I passed, then stooped their ever-greedy mouths to +their damp and eternal meal again. I heard the thin and distant cry of a +hawk, poised somewhere up in the mist. The hills, clothed in the +death-like glory of the bracken, loomed around me, like some phantom, +tricked-out procession passing through desolate places. And then I heard +the voice of the burn--that voice which is even now for ever in my ears. +To me that day it was the voice of one alive; and it is the voice of one +alive to me now. I descended the sloping hill with my lounging, +weak-kneed gait, at which the creatures who called me master had so +often looked contemptuously askance. (I was often tired at that time.) I +descended, I say, until I reached the edge of the tree-fringed den, and +the burn was noisy in my ears. I could see it now, leaping here and +there out of its hiding-place--ivory foam among the dripping larches, +and the birches with their silver stems; ivory foam among the deep brown +and flaming orange of the bracken, and in that foam a voice +calling--calling me to come down into its hiding-place, presided over by +the mists--to come down into its hiding-place, away from men: away from +the living creatures whom I hated because I envied them, because they +were stronger than I, because they could do what I could not do, say +what I could not say. Gavin, Dr Wedderburn, my tenants, the smallest +farm boy, the grooms, the little leaping peasants--I hated, I hated them +all. And then I obeyed the voice of the ivory foam, and I went down into +the hiding-place of the burn. + +It ran through strange and secret places where the soft mists hung in +wet wreaths. I seemed to be in another world when I was in its lair. On +the sharply rising banks stood the sentinel trees like shadows, some of +them with tortured and tormented shapes. As I turned and looked straight +up the hill of the burn's descending course, the mountain from which it +came closed in the prospect inexorably. A soft gloom hemmed us in--me +and the burn which talked to me. We two were out of the world which I +hated and longed to have at my feet. Yes, we were in another world, full +of murmuring and of restful unrest; and now that I was right down at the +water-side, the ivory face of my friend, the ivory lips that spoke to +me, the ivory heart that beat against my heart--so sick and so +weary--were varied and were changed. As thoughts streak a mind, the +clear amber of the pools among the rocks streaked the continuous foam +that marked the incessant leaps taken by the water towards the valley. +The silence of those pools was brilliant, like the pauses for +contemplation in a great career of action; and their silence spoke to +me, mingling mysteriously with the voice of the foam. The course of the +burn is broken up, and attended by rocks that have been modelled by the +action of the running water into a hundred shapes. Some are dressed in +mosses, yellow and green, like velvet to the touch, and all covered with +drops of moisture; some are gaunt and naked and deplorable, with sharp +edges and dry faces. The burn avoids some with a cunning and almost +coquettish grace, dashes brutally against others, as if impelled by an +internal violence of emotion. Others, again, it caresses quite gently, +and would be glad to linger by, if Nature would allow the dalliance. And +this army of rocks helps to give to the burn its charm of infinite +variety, and to fill its voice with a whole gamut of expression; for the +differing shape of each boulder, against which it rushes in its long +career, gives it a different note. It flickers across the small and +round stone with the purling cry of a child. From the stone curved +inwards, and with a hollow bosom it gains a crooning, liquid melody. The +pointed and narrow colony of rocks which break it into an intricate +network of small water threads, toss it, chattering frivolously, towards +the dark pool under the birches, where the trout play like sinister +shadows and the insects dance in the sombre pomp of Autumn; and when it +gains a great slab that serves it for a spring-board, from which it +takes a mighty leap, its voice is loud and defiant, and shrieks with a +banshee of triumph--in which, too, there is surely an undercurrent of +wailing woe. Oh, the burn has many voices among the rocks, under the +ferns and the birch trees, in the brooding darkness of the mists and +shadows, between the steep walls of the green banks that hem it in! Many +voices which can sing, when they choose, one song, again and again +and--monotonously--again! + +So--now on this sad Autumn day--I was with the burn in its hiding-place, +cool, damp, fretful. Carlounie sank from my sight. My garden, the wilder +land beyond, the moors on which yesterday my incompetence as a shot had +roused the contempt of my cousin and of my hirelings--all were lost to +view. I was away from all men in this narrow, tree-shrouded cleft of a +world. I sat down on a rock, and, stretching out my legs, rested my +heels on another rock. Beneath my legs the clear brown water glided +swiftly. I sat and listened to its murmur. And, just then, it did not +occur to me that water can utter words like men. The murmur was +suggestive but definitely inarticulate. I had come down here to be away +and to think. The murmur of my mind spoke to the murmur of the burn; +and, as ever, in those days, it lamented and cursed and bitterly +complained. + +Why, why was I pursued by a malady of incompetence that clung to both +mind and body? (So ran my thoughts.) Why was I bruised and beaten by +Providence? Why had I been given a soul that could not express itself in +the frame of a coward, a weakling, a thin, nervous, dwarfish, almost a +deformed, creature? If my soul had corresponded exactly to my body, then +all might have been well enough. I should have been more complete, +although less, in some way, than I now was. For such a soul would have +accepted cowardice, weakness, inferiority to others as suitable to it, +as a right fate. Such a soul would never have known the meaning of the +word rebellion, would never have been able to understand its own cancer +of disease, to diagnose the symptoms of its villainous and creeping +malady. It would never have aspired like a flame, and longed in vain to +burn clearly and grandly or to flicker out for ever. Rather would such a +soul have guttered on like some cheap and ill-smelling candle, shedding +shadows rather than any light, ignorant of its own obscurity, regardless +of the possibilities that teem like waking children in the wondrous womb +of life, oblivious of the contempt of the souls around it, heedless of +ambition, of the trumpet call of success, of the lust to be something, +to do something, of the magic, of the stinging magic of achievement. +With such a soul in my hateful, pinched, meagre, pallid body--I thought, +sitting thus by the burn--I might have been content, an utterly low, and +perhaps an utterly satisfied product of the fiend creation. + +But my soul was not of this kind, and so I was the most bitterly +miserable of men. God--or the Devil--had made me ill-shaped, physically +despicable, with the malign sort of countenance that so often +accompanies and illustrates a bad poor body. My limbs, without being +actually twisted, were shrunken and incompetent--they would not obey my +desires as do the limbs of other men. My legs would not grip a horse. +When I rode I was a laughing-stock. My arms had no swiftness, no +agility, no delicate and subtle certainty. When I tried to box, to +fence, I was one whirling, jigging incapacity. I had feeble sight, and +objects presented themselves to my vision so strangely that I could not +shoot straight. I, Alistair Ralston the young Laird of Carlounie! When I +walked my limbs moved heavily and awkwardly. I had no grace, no +lightness, no ordinary, quite usual competence of bodily power. And this +was bitter, yet as nothing to the Marah that lay beyond. For my body was +in a way complete. It was a wretch. But when you came to the mind you +had the real tragedy. In many decrepit flesh temples there dwells a +commanding spirit, as a great God might dwell--of mysterious choice--in +a ruinous and decaying lodge in a wilderness. And such a spirit rules, +disposes, presides, develops, has its own full and superb existence, +triumphing not merely over, but actually through the contemptible body +in which it resides, so that men even are led to worship the very +ugliness and poverty of this body, to adore it for its power to retain +such a mighty spirit within it. Such a spirit was not mine. Had it been, +I might have been happy by the burn that Autumn day. Had it been, I +might never--But I am anticipating, and I must not anticipate. I must +sit with the brown water rushing beneath the arch of my limbs, and +recall the horror of my musing. + +In a manner, then, my soul matched my body. It was feeble and +incompetent too. My brain was dull and clouded. My intellect was +sluggish and inert. But--and this was the terror for me!--within the +rank nest of my soul--my spirit--lay coiled two vipers that never ceased +from biting me with their poisoned fangs--Self-consciousness and +Ambition. I knew myself, and I longed to be other than I was. I watched +my own incompetence as one who watches from a tower. I divined how +others regarded me--precisely. The blatant and comfortable egoism of a +dwarf mind in a dwarf body was never for one moment mine. I was that +terrible anomaly, an utterly incomplete and incompetent thing that +adored, with a curious wildness of passion, completeness, competence. +Nor had I a soul that could ever be satisfied with a one-sided +perfection. My desires were Gargantuan. When I was with my cousin Gavin, +a fine all-round sportsman, I longed with fury to be a good shot, to +throw a fly as he did, to have a perfect seat on a horse. I felt that I +would give up years of life to beat him once in any of his pursuits. +When I was with Dr Wedderburn, my desires, equally intense, were utterly +different. He represented in my neighbourhood Intellect--with a capital +I. A man of about fifty, minister of the parish of Carlounie, he was +astonishingly adroit as a controversialist, astonishingly eloquent as a +divine. His voice was full of music. His eyes were full of light and of +the most superb self-confidence. He rested upon his intellect as a man +may rest upon a rock. The power of his personality was calm and immense. +I felt it vehemently. I shook and trembled under it. I hated and loathed +the man for it, because I wanted and could never possess it. So, too, I +hated my cousin Gavin for his possessions, his long and sure-sighted +eyes, great and strong arms, broad chest, lithe legs, bright agility. My +body could do nothing. My soul could do nothing--except one great thing. +It could fully observe and comprehend its own impotence. It could fully +and desperately envy and pine to be what it could never be. Could never +be, do I say? Wait! Remember that is only what I thought then as I sat +upon the rock, and, with haggard young eyes, watched the clear brown +water slipping furtively past between my knees. + +My disease seemed to culminate that day, I remember. I was a sick +invalid alone in the mist. Something--it might have been vitriol--was +eating into me, eating, eating its way to my very heart, to the core of +me. Oh, to be stunted and desire to be straight and tall, to be dwarf +and wish to be giant, to be stupid and long to be a genius, to be ugly +and yearn to be in face as one of the shining gods, to have no power +over men, and to pine to fascinate, hold, dominate a world of men--this +indeed is to be in hell! I was in hell that Autumn day. I clenched my +thin, weak hands together. I clenched my teeth from which the pale lips +were drawn back in a grin; and I realised all the spectral crowd of my +shortcomings. They stood before me like demons of the Brocken--yes, yes, +of the Brocken!--and I cursed God with the sound of the burn ringing and +chattering in my ears. And I devoted Gavin, Doctor Wedderburn, every man +highly placed, every lowest peasant, who could do even one of all the +things I could not do, to damnation. The paroxysm that took hold of me +was like a fit, a convulsion. I came out of it white and feeble. And, +suddenly, the voice of the burn seemed to come from a long way off. I +put out my hand, and took up from the rock on which I had laid it, +"Faust." And, scarcely knowing what I did, I began mechanically to +read--to the dim rapture of the burn-- + +"_Scene III.--The Study. Faust (entering, with the poodle)._" I began to +read, do I say, mechanically? Yes, it is true, but soon, very soon, the +spell of Goethe was laid upon me. I was in the lofty-arched, narrow +Gothic chamber, with that living symbol of the weariness, broken +ambition, learned despair of all the ages. I was engrossed. I heard the +poodle snarling by the stove. I heard the spirits whispering in the +corridor. Vapour rose--or was it indeed the mist from the mountains +among the birch trees?--and out of the vapour came Mephistopheles in the +garb of a travelling scholar. And then--and then the great bargain was +struck. I heard--yes, I did, I actually, and most distinctly, heard a +voice--Faust's--say, "_Let us the sensual deeps explore.... Plunge we in +Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of circumstance._" A +pause; then the Student's grave and astonished tones came to me: _Eritis +sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum._ The cloak was spread, and on the +burning air Faust was wafted to his new life--nay, not to his new life +merely, but to life itself. He vanished with his guide in a coloured, +flower-like mist. I dropped my hand holding the book down upon the cold +rock by which the cold water splashed. It felt burning hot to my touch. +My head fell upon my breast, and I had my dreams--dreams of the life of +Faust and of its glories, gained by this bargain that he made. And +then--yes, then it was!--the voice of the burn, as from leagues away in +the bosom of this very mist, began to sing like a fairy voice, or a +voice in dreams, and in visions of the night, "_If it was so then, it +might be so now._" At first I scarcely heeded it, for I was enwrapt. +But the song grew louder, more insistent. It was travelling to me from a +far country. I heard it coming: "_If it was so then, it might be so +now_"--"_If it was so then, it might be so now._" How near it was at +last, how loud in my ears! And yet always there was something vague, +visionary about it, something of the mist, I think. At length I heard it +with the attention that is of earth. I came to myself, out of the narrow +Gothic chamber in which the genius of Goethe had prisoned me, and I +stared into the mist, which was gathering thicker as the night began to +fall. It seemed flower-like, and full of strange and mysterious colour. +I trembled. I got up. Still I heard the voice of the burn singing that +monotonous legend, on, and on, and on. Slowly I turned. I climbed the +bank of the den. The sheep scattered lethargically at my approach. I +passed through the creaking iron gate into the garden. Carlounie was +before me. There was something altered, something triumphant about its +aspect. The voice of the burn faded in a long diminuendo. Yet, even as I +gained the door of my house, and, before entering it, paused in an +attentive attitude, I heard the water chanting faintly from the +den--"_If it was so then, it might be so now._" ... As I came into the +hall, in which Gavin and Dr Wedderburn stood together talking earnestly, +I remember that I shivered. Yet my cheeks were glowing. + + * * * * * + +From that moment not a day passed without my visiting the burn. It +summoned me. Always it sang those words persistently. The sound of the +water can be very faintly heard from the windows of Carlounie. Each day, +at dawn, I pushed open the lattice of my bedroom and hearkened to hear +if the song had changed. Each night, at moon-rise, or in the darkness +through which the soft and small rain fell quietly, I leaned over the +sill and listened. Sometimes the wind was loud among the mountains. +Sometimes the silence was intense and awful. But in storm or in +stillness the burn sang on, ever and ever the same words. At moments I +fancied that the voice was as the voice of a man demented, repeating +with mirthless frenzy through all his years one hollow sentence. At +moments I deemed it the cry of a fair woman, a siren, a Lorelei among my +rocks in my valley. Then again I said, "It is a spirit voice, a voice +from the inner chamber of my own heart." And--why I know not--at that +last fantasy I shuddered. Even in the midnight from my window ledge I +leaned while the world slept and I heard the mystic message of the burn. +My visits to its bed were not unobserved. One morning my cousin Gavin +said to me roughly, "Why the devil are you always stealing off to that +ditch"--so he called the den that was the home of my voice--"when you +ought to be practising to conquer your infernal deficiencies? Why, the +children of your own keepers laugh at you. Try to shoot straight, man, +and be a real man instead of dreaming and idling." I stared at him and +answered, "You don't understand everything." Once Dr Wedderburn, who had +been my tutor, said to me more kindly, "Alistair, action is better for +you than thought. Leave the burn alone. You go there to brood. Try to +work, for work is the best man-maker after all." + +And to him I said, "Yes, I know!" and flew with a strong wing in the +face of his advice. For the voice of the burn was more to me than the +voice of Gavin, or of Wedderburn; and the mind of the burn meant more to +me than the mind of any man. And so the Autumn died slowly, with a +lingering decadence, and shrouded perpetually in mist. I often felt ill, +even then. My body was dressed in weakness. Perhaps already the fever +was upon me. I wish I could know. Was it crawling in my veins? Was it +nestling about my heart and in my brain? Could it be that?... + +Certainly during this period life seemed alien to me, and I moved as one +apart in a remote world, full of the music of the burn, and full, too, +of vague clouds. That is so. Looking back, I know it. Still, I cannot be +sure what is the truth. In the late Autumn I paid my last visit to the +burn before my illness seized me. The cold of early Winter was in the +air and a great stillness. It was afternoon when I left the house +walking slowly with my awkward gait. My face, I know, was white and +drawn, and I felt that my lips were twitching. I did not carry my volume +of Goethe in my hand; but, in its place, held an old book on +transcendental magic. The voice of the burn--yes, that alone--had led me +to study this book. So now I took it down to the burn. Why? Had I the +foolish fancy of introducing my live thing of the den to this strange +writing on the black art? Who knows? Perhaps the fever in my veins put +the book into my hand. I shivered in the damp cold as I descended the +steep ground that lay about the water, which that day seemed to roar in +my ears the sentence I had heard so many days and nights. And this time, +as I hearkened, my heart and my brain echoed the last words--"_It might +be so now._" Gaining the edge of the burn, then in heavy spate, I +watched for a while the passage of the foam from rock to rock. I peered +into the pools, clouded with flood water from the hills, and with +whirling or sinking dead leaves. And all my meagre body seemed pulsing +with those everlasting words: "Why not now?" I murmured to myself, with +a sort of silent sneer, too, at my own absurdity. I remember I glanced +furtively around as I spoke. Grey emptiness, grey loneliness, dripping +bare trees through whose branches the mist curled silently, cold rocks, +the cold flood of the swollen burn--such was the blank prospect that met +my eyes. + +There was no man near me. There was no one to look at me. I was remote, +hidden in a secret place, and the early twilight was already beginning +to fall. No one could see me. I opened my old and ragged book, or, +rather, let it fall open at a certain page. Upon it I looked for the +hundredth time, and read that he who would evoke the Devil must choose a +solitary and condemned spot. The burn was solitary. The burn was +condemned surely by the despair and by the endless incapacities of the +wretched being who owned it. I had taken off my shoes and placed them +upon a rock. My feet were bare. My head was covered. I now furtively +proceeded to gather together a small heap of sticks and leaves, and to +these I set fire, after several attempts. As the flames at last crept +up, the mist gathered more closely round me and my fire, as if striving +to warm itself at the blaze. The voice of the burn mingled with the +uneasy crackle of the twigs, and a murmur of its words seemed to emanate +also from the flames, two elements uniting to imitate the utterance of +man to my brain, already surely tormented with fever. And now, with my +eyes upon my book, I proceeded to trace with the sharp point of a stick +in some sandy soil between two rocks a rough Goetic Circle of Black +evocations and pacts. From time to time I paused in my work and glanced +uneasily about me, but I saw only the mists and the waters. + +At length my task was finished, and the time had arrived for the +supreme effort of my insane and childish folly. Standing at Amasarac in +the Circle, I said aloud the formula of Evocation of the Grand Grimoire, +ending with the words "Jehosua, Evam, Zariat, natmik, Come, come, come." + +My voice died away in the twilight, and I stood among the grey rocks +waiting, mad creature that I surely was! But only the rippling voice of +the burn answered my adjuration. Then I repeated the words in a louder +tone, adding menaces and imprecations to my formula. And all the time +the fire I had kindled sprang up into the mist; and the twilight of the +heavy Autumn fell slowly round me. Again I paused, and again my madness +received no satisfaction, no response. But it seemed to me that I heard +the browsing sheep on the summit of the right bank of the gully scatter +as if at the approach of some one. Yet there was no stir of footsteps. +It must have been my fancy, or the animals were merely changing their +feeding ground in a troop, as they sometimes will, for no assignable +cause. And now I made one last effort, urged by the voice of the burn, +which sang so loudly the words which had mingled with my dream of Faust. +I cried aloud the supreme appellation, making an effort that brought out +the sweat on my forehead, and set the pulses leaping in my thin and +shivering body. "_Chavajoth! chavajoth! chavajoth! I command thee by the +Key of Solomon and the great name Semhamphoras._" + + * * * * * + +A little way up the course of the burn the dead wood cracked and +shuffled under the pressure of descending feet. Again I heard a +scattering of the sheep upon the hillside. My hair stirred on my head +under my cap, and the noise of the falling water was intolerably loud to +me. I wanted to hear plainly, to hear what was coming down to me in the +mist. The brush-wood sang nearer. In the heavy and damp air there was +the small, sharp report of a branch snapped from a tree. I heard it drop +among the ferns close to me. And then in the mist and in the twilight I +saw a slim figure standing motionless. It was vague, but less vague than +a shadow. It seemed to be a man, or a youth, clad in a grey suit that +could scarcely be differentiated from the mist. The flames of my fire, +bent by a light breeze that had sprung up, stretched themselves towards +it, as if to salute it. And now I could not hear any movement of the +sheep; evidently they had gone to a distance. At first, seized with a +strange feeling of extreme, almost unutterable fear, I neither moved nor +spoke. Then, making a strong effort to regain control of my ordinary +faculties, I cried out in the twilight-- + +"What is that? What is it?" + +"Only a stranger who has missed his way on the mountain, and wants to go +on to Wester Denoon." + +The voice that came to me from the figure beyond the fire sounded, I +remember, quite young, like the voice of a boy. It was clear and level, +and perhaps a little formal. So that was all. A tourist--that was all! + +"Can you direct me on the way?" the voice said. + +I gave the required direction slowly, for I was still confused, nervous, +exhausted with my insane practices in the den. But the youth--as I +supposed he was--did not move away at once. + +"What are you doing by this fire?" he said. "I heard your voice calling +by the torrent among the trees when I was a very long way off." + +Strangely, I did not resent the question. Still more strangely, I was +impelled to give him the true answer to it. + +"Raising the Devil!" he said. "And did he come to you?" + +"No; of course not. You must think me mad." + +"And why do you call him?" + +Suddenly a desire to confide in this stranger, whose face I could not +see now, whose shadowy form I should, in all probability, never see +again, came upon me. My usual nervousness deserted me. I let loose my +heart in a turbulent crowd of words. I explained my impotence of body +and of mind to this grey traveller in the twilight. I dwelt upon my +misery. I repeated the cry of the burn and related my insane dream of +imitating Faust, of making my poor pact with Lucifer, with the Sphinx of +mediæval terrors. When I ceased, the boy's voice answered:-- + +"They say that in these modern days Satan has grown exigent. It is not +enough to dedicate to him your own soul; but you must also pay a tribute +of souls to the Cæsar of hell." + +"A tribute of souls?" + +"Yes. You must bring, they say, the mystic number, three souls to +Satan." + +Suddenly I laughed. + +"I could never do that," I said. "I have no power to seduce man or +woman. I cannot win souls to heaven or to hell." + +"But if you received new powers, such as you desire, would you use them +to win souls, three souls, to Lucifer?" + +"Yes," I said with passionate earnestness. "I swear to you that I +would." + +Suddenly the boy's voice laughed. + +"_Quomodo cecidisti_, Lucifer!" he said. "When thou canst not contrive +to capture souls for thyself! But," he added, as if addressing himself +once more to me, after this strange ejaculation, "your words have, +perhaps, sealed the bond. Who knows? Words that come from the very heart +are often deeds. For, as we can never go back from things that we have +done, it may be that, sometimes, we can never go back from things that +we have said." + +On the words he moved, and passed so swiftly by me into the twilight +down the glen that I never saw his face. I turned instinctively to look +after him; and, this was strange, it seemed that the wind at that very +moment must have turned with me, blowing from, instead of towards, the +mountain. This certainly was so; for the tongues of flame from my fire +bent backward on a sudden and leaned after the grey traveller, whose +steps died swiftly away among the rocks, and on the shuffling dead wood +and leaves of the birches and the oaks. + +And then there came a singing in my ears, a beating of many drums in my +brain. I drooped and sank down by the fire in the mist. My fever came +upon me like a giant, and presently Gavin and Doctor Wedderburn, +searching in the night, found me in a delirium, and bore me back to +Carlounie. + + +II + +THE SOUL OF DR WEDDERBURN + +To emerge from a great illness is sometimes dreadful, sometimes divine. +To one man the return from the gates of death is a progress of despair. +He feels that he cannot face the wild contrasts of the surprising world +again, that his courage has been broken upon the wheel, that energy is +desolation, and sleep true beauty. To another this return is a +marvellous and superb experience. It is like the vivid re-awakening of +youth in one who is old, a rapture of the past committing an act of +brigandage upon the weariness of the present, a glorious substitution of +Eden for the outer courts where is weeping and gnashing of teeth. It +will be supposed that I found myself in the first category, a +terror-stricken and rebellious mortal when the fever gave me up to the +world again. For the world had always been cruel to me, because I was +afraid of it, and was a puny thing in it. Yet this was not so. My +convalescence was like a beautiful dream of rest underneath which riot +stirred. A simile will explain best exactly what I mean. Let me liken +the calm of my convalescence to the calm of earth on the edge of Spring. +What a riot of form, of scent, of colour, of movement, is preparing +beneath that enigmatic, and apparently profound, repose. In the simile +you have my exact state. And I alone felt that, within this womb of +inaction, the child, action, lay hid, developing silently, but +inexorably, day by day. This knowledge was my strange secret. It came +upon me one night when I lay awake in the faint twilight, shed by a +carefully shaded lamp over my bed. Rain drummed gently against the +windows. There was no other sound. By the fire, in a great armchair, the +trained nurse, Kate Walters, was sitting with a book--"Jane Eyre" it +was--upon her knees. I had been sleeping and now awoke thirsty. I put +out my hand to get at a tumbler of lemonade that stood on a table by my +pillow. And suddenly a thought, a curious thought, was with me. My hand +had grasped the tumbler and lifted it from the table; but, instead of +bringing my hand to my mouth I kept my arm rigidly extended, the tumbler +poised on my palm as upon the palm of a juggler. + +"How long my arm is!" that was my thought, "and how strong!" Formerly it +had been short, weak, awkward. Now, surely, after my illness, my arms +would naturally be nerveless, useless things. The odd fact was that now, +for the first time in my life, I felt joy in a physical act. An absurd +and puny act, you will say, I daresay. What of that? With it came a +sudden stirring of triumph. I lay there on my back and kept my arm +extended for full five minutes by the watch that ticked by my bed-head. +And with each second that passed joy blossomed more fully within my +heart. I drank the lemonade as one who drinks a glad toast. Yet I was +puzzled. "Is this--can this be a remnant of delirium?" I asked myself. +And beneath the clothes drawn up to my chin I fingered my arm above the +elbow. It was the limb of a big, strong man. Surprise, supreme +astonishment forced an exclamation from my lips. Kate got up softly and +came towards me; but I feigned to be asleep, and she returned to the +fire. Yet, peering under my lowered eyelids, I noticed an expression of +amazement upon her young and pretty face. I knew afterwards that it was +the sound of my voice--my new voice--that drew it there. After that +night my convalescence was more than a joy to me, it was a rapture, +touched by, and mingled with something that was almost awe. Is not the +earth awe-struck when she considers that Spring and Summer nestle +silently in her bosom? With each day the secret which I kept grew more +mysterious, more profound. Soon I knew it could be a secret no longer. +The fever--it must be that!--had wrought magic within my body, driving +out weakness, impotence, lassitude, developing my physical powers to an +extent that was nothing less than astounding. Lying there in my bed, I +felt the dwarf expand into the giant. Think of it! Did ever living man +know such an experience before? A bodily spring came about within me. +And I was already twenty-two years old before the fever took me. My +limbs grew large and strong; the muscles of my chest and back were +tensely strung and knit as firmly as the muscles of an athlete. I lay +still, it is true, and felt much of the peculiar vagueness that follows +fever; but I was conscious of a supine, latent energy never known +before. I was conscious that when I rose, and went out into the world +again, it would be as a man, capable of holding his own against other +strong, straight men. That was a wonder. But it was succeeded by a +greater marvel yet. + +One afternoon, while I was still in bed, Doctor Wedderburn came to see +me and to sit with me. He had been away on a holiday, and, +consequently, had not visited me before, except once when I had been +delirious. The doctor was a short, spare man, with a sharply cut +brick-red face, lively and daring dark eyes, and straight hair already +on the road to grey. His self-possession bordered on self-satisfaction; +and, despite his good heart and the real and anxious sanctity of his +life, he could seldom entirely banish from his manner the contempt he +felt for those less intellectual, less swift-minded than himself. Often +had I experienced the stinging lash of his sarcasm. Often had I withered +beneath one of his keen glances that dismissed me from an argument as a +profound sage might kick an urchin from the study into the street. Often +had I hated him with a sick hatred and ground my teeth because my mind +was so clouded and so helpless, while his was so lucent and so adroit. +So now, when I heard his tap on the door, his deep voice asking to come +in, a rage of self-contempt seized me, as in the days before my illness. +The doctor entered with an elaborate softness, and walked, flat-footed, +to my bed, pursing his large lips gently as men do when filled with +cautious thoughts. I could see he desired to moderate his habitual voice +and manner; but, arrived close to me, he suddenly cried aloud, with a +singularly full-throated amazement. + +"Boy--boy, what's come to you?" he called. Then, abruptly putting his +finger to his lips, he sank down in a chair, his bright eyes fixed upon +me. + +"It's a miracle," he said slowly. + +"What is?" I asked with an invalid's pettishness. + +"The voice, too--the voice!" + +I grew angry easily, as men do when they are sick. + +"Why do you say that? Of course I've been bad--of course I'm changed." + +"Changed! Look at yourself--and praise God, Alistair." + +He had caught up a hand-mirror that lay on the dressing-table and now +put it into my hand. For the first time since the fever I saw my face. +It was as it had been and yet it was utterly different, for now it was +beautiful. The pinched features seemed to have been smoothed out. The +mouth had become firm and masterful. The haggard eyes were alight as if +torches burned behind them. My expression, too, was powerful, collected, +alert. I scarcely recognised myself. But I pretended to see no change. + +"Well--what is it?" I asked, dropping the glass. + +The doctor was confused by my calm. + +"Your look of health startled me," he answered, sitting down by the bed +and examining me keenly. + +All at once I was seized by a strange desire to get up an argument with +this man, by whom I had so often been crushed in conversation. I leaned +on my elbow in the bed, and fixing my eyes on him, I said:-- + +"And why should I praise God?" + +The doctor seemed in amazement at my tone. + +"Because you are a Christian and have been brought back from death," he +replied, but with none of his usual half-sarcastic self-confidence. + +"You think God did that?" + +"Alistair, do you dare to blaspheme the Almighty?" + +I felt at that moment like a cat playing with a mouse. My lips, I know, +curved in a smile of mockery, and yet I will swear--yes, even to my own +heart--that all I said that day I said in pure mischief, with no evil +intent. It seemed that I, Alistair Ralston, the dolt, the ignoramus, +longed to try mental conclusions with this brilliant and opinionated +divine. He bade me praise God. In reply I praised--the Devil, and I +forced him to hear me. Absolutely I broke into a flood of words, and he +sat silent. I compared the good and evil in the scheme of the world, +balancing them in the scales, the one against the other. I took up the +stock weapon of atheism, the deadly nature, the deadly outcome of free +will. I used it with skill. The names of Strauss, Comte, Schopenhauer, +Renan, a dozen others, sprang from my lips. The dreary doctrine of the +illimitable triumph of sin, of the appalling mistake of the permission +granted it to step into the scheme of creation, in order that its +presence might create a _raison d'être_ for the power of personal action +one way or the other in mankind--such matters as these I treated with a +vehement eloquence and command of words that laid a spell upon the +doctor. Going very far, I dared to exclaim that since God had allowed +his own scheme to get out of gear, the only hope of man lay in the +direction of the opposing force, in frank and ardent Satanism. + +When at length I ceased from speaking, I expected Dr Wedderburn to rise +up in his wrath and to annihilate me, but he sat still in his chair with +a queer, and, as I thought, puzzled expression upon his face. At last he +said, as if to himself: + +"The miracle of Balaam; verily, the miracle of Balaam." + +The ass had indeed spoken as never ass spoke before. I waited a moment, +then I said:-- + +"Well, why don't you rebuke me, or why don't you try to controvert me?" + +Again he looked upon me, very uneasily I thought, and with something +that was almost fear in his keen eyes. + +"Ah!" he said, "I have praised the Lord many a morning and evening for +his gift of words to me. It seems others bestow that gift too. +Alistair"--and here his voice became deeply solemn--"where have you been +visiting when you lay there, mad to all seeming? In what dark place have +you been to gather destruction for men? With whom have you been +talking?" + +Suddenly, I know not why, I thought of the grey stranger, and, with a +laugh, I cried:-- + +"The grey traveller taught me all I have said to you." + +"The grey traveller! Who may he be?" + +But I lay back upon the pillows and refused to answer, and very soon the +doctor went, still bending uneasy, nervous eyes upon me. + +In those eyes I read the change that had stolen over my intellect, as in +the hand-mirror I had read the change that had stolen over my face. This +strange fever had caused both soul and body to blossom. I trembled with +an exquisite joy. Had Fate relented to me at last? Was it possible that +I was to know the joys of the heroes? I longed for, yet feared my full +recovery. In it alone should I discover how sincere was my +transformation. Doctor Wedderburn did not come to me again. The days +passed, my convalescence strengthened, watched over by the pretty nurse, +Kate Walters, a fresh, pure, pious, innocent, beautiful soul, tender, +temperate, and pitiful for all sorrow and evil. At length I was well. At +length I knew, to some extent, my new, my marvellous self. For I had, +indeed, been folded up in my fever like a vesture, and, like a vesture, +changed. I had grown taller, expanded, put forth mighty muscles as a +tree puts forth leaves. My cheeks and my eyes glowed with the radiance +of strong health. I went out with my cousin Gavin, whose estate marched +with mine, and I shot so well that he was filled with admiration, and +forthwith conceived a sort of foolish worship for me--having a +sportsman's soul but no real mind. For the first time in my life I felt +absolutely at home on a horse, an unwonted skill came to my hands, and I +actually schooled Gavin's horses over some fences he had had set up in a +grass park at the Mains of Cossens. The keepers who had once secretly +jeered at me were now at my very feet. Their children looked upon me as +a young god. I rejoiced in my strength as a giant. But I asked myself +then, as I ask myself now--what does it mean? The days of miracles are +over. Yet, is this not a miracle? And in a miracle is there not a gleam +of terror, as there is a gleam of stormy yellow in the fated opal? But +here I leave my condition of body alone, and pass on to the episode of +Doctor Wedderburn, partially related in the newspapers of the day and +marvelled at, I believe, by all who ever knew, or even set eyes upon +him. + +The doctor, as I have said, did not come again to see me, but I felt an +over-mastering desire to set forth and visit him. This was surprising, +as hitherto I had rather avoided and hated him. Now something drew me to +the Manse. At first I resisted my inclination, but a chance word led me +to yield to it impulsively. Since my illness I had not once attended +church. Moved by a violent distaste for the religious service, that was +novel in me, I had frankly avowed my intention of keeping away. But, as +I did not go to the kirk, I missed seeing Dr Wedderburn; and I wanted to +see him. One day, leaning by chance against a stone dyke in the Glen of +Ogilvy, smoking a pipe and enjoying the soft air of Spring as it blew +over the rolling moorland, I heard two ploughmen exchange a fragment of +gossip that made excitement start up quick within me. + +One said:-- + +"The doctor's failin'. Man, he was fairly haverin' last Sabbath, on and +on, wi'out logic or argeyment or sense." + +The other answered:-- + +"Ay; he's greatly changed. He's no the man he was. It fairly beats me; I +canna mak' it out. Ye've heard that--" And here he lowered his voice and +I could not catch his words. + +I turned away from the wall, and walking swiftly, set out for the Manse +with a busy mind. The afternoon was already late, and when I gained a +view of the Manse, a cold grey house standing a little apart in a grove +of weary-looking sycamores, one or two lights smiled on me from the +small windows that stared upon the narrow and muddy road. The minister's +study was on the right of the hall door; and, as I pulled the bell, I +observed the shadow of his head to dance upon the drawn white blind, a +thought fantastically, or with a palsied motion, I fancied. The +yellow-headed maidservant admitted me with a shrunken grin, that +suggested wild humour stifled by achieved respect, and I was soon in the +minister's study. Then I saw that Doctor Wedderburn was moving up and +down the room, and that his head was going this way and that, as he +communed in a loud voice with himself. My entrance checked him as soon +as he observed me, which was not instantly, as, at first, his back was +set towards me and the mood-swept maid. When he turned about, his +discomposure was evident. His gaze was troubled, and his manner, as he +shook hands with me, had in it something of the tremulous, and was +backward in geniality. We sat down on either side of the fire, the tea +service and the hot cakes, loved of the doctor, between us. At first we +talked warily of such things as my recovery, the weather, the condition +of affairs in the parish and so forth. I noticed that though the +doctor's eyes often rested with an almost glaring expression of scrutiny +or of surprise upon me, he made no remark on the change of my +appearance. Nor did I on the change of his, which was startling, and +suggested I know not what of sorrow and of the attempt to kill it with +evil weapons. The healthy brick-red of his complexion was now become +scarlet and full of heat; his mouth worked loosely while he talked; the +flesh of his cheeks was puffed and wrinkled; his eyes had the clouded +and yet fierce aspect of the drunkard. But, absurdly enough, what most +struck me in him was his abstinence from an accustomed act. He drank +his tea, but he ate no hot cakes. This was a departure from an +established, if trifling custom of many years' standing, and worked on +my imaginative conception of what the doctor now was more than would, at +the first blush, appear likely, or even possible. Instead of, as of old, +feeling myself on the worm level in his presence, I was filled with a +sense of pity, as I looked upon him and wondered what subtle process of +mental or physical development or retrogression had wrought this dreary +change. Presently, while I wondered, he put his cup down with an awkward +and errant hand that set it swaying and clattering in the tray, and said +abruptly:-- + +"And what have you come for, Alistair, eh? what have you come for? To go +on with what you've begun? Well, well, lad, I'm ready for you; I'm ready +now." + +His voice was full of timorous irritation, his manner of pitiable +distress. + +"I've thought it out, I've thought it all out," he continued; "and I can +combat you, I can combat you, Alistair, wherever you've got your +fever-mind from and your fever-tongue." + +I knew what he meant, and suddenly I knew, too, why I had wanted so +eagerly to come to the Manse. My instinct of pity and of sympathy died +softly away. My new instinct of cruel rapture in the ruthless exercise +of my--shall I call them fever-powers then?--woke, dawned to sunrise. +And Doctor Wedderburn and I fell forthwith into an animated theological +discussion. He was desperately nervous, desperately ill at ease. His +argumentative struggles were those of a drowning man positively +convinced--note this,--that he would drown, that no human or divine aid +could save him. There was, too, a strong hint of personal anger in his +manner, which was strictly undignified. He fought a losing battle with +bludgeons, and had an obvious contempt for the bludgeons while in the +act of using them in defence or in attack. And at last, with a sort of +sharp cry, he threw up his hands, and exclaimed in a voice I hardly knew +as his:-- + +"God forgive you, Alistair, for what you're doing! God forgive +you--murderer, murderer!" + +This dolorous exclamation ran through me like cold water and chilled all +the warmth of my intellectual excitement. + +"Murderer!" I repeated inexpressively. + +Doctor Wedderburn sat in his chair trembling, and looking upon me with +despairing and menacing eyes, the eyes of a man who curses but cannot +fight his enemy. + +"Of a soul, of a soul," he said. "The poisoned dagger?--doubt, the +poisoned dagger--you've plunged it into me, boy." + +Then raising his voice harshly, he exclaimed: + +"Curse you, curse you!" + +I was thunderstruck. I declare it here, for it is true. I had +defamed--and deliberately--the doctor's dearest idols. I had driven my +lance into his convictions. I had blasphemed what he worshipped, and had +denied all he affirmed. But that I had made so terrific an impression +upon his mind, his soul--this astounded me. Yet what else could his +passionate denunciation mean? Had I, a boy, unused to controversy, +unskilled in dialectics, overthrown with my hasty words the faith of +this strong and fervent man? The thought thrilled one side of my dual +nature with triumph, pierced the other with grim horror. My emotions +were divided and complex. As I sat silent, my face dogged yet ashamed, +the doctor got up from his chair trembling like one with the palsy. + +"Away from me--away," he cried in a hoarse voice, and pointing at the +door. "I'll have no more talk with the Devil, no more--no more!" + +I had not a word. I got up and went, bending a steady, fascinated look +upon this old mentor of mine, who now proclaimed himself my victim. +Arrived in the garden I found a thin moon riding above the sycamores, +and soft airs of Spring playing round the doctor's habitation. +Strangely, I had no mind to begone from it immediately. I crossed the +garden bit and paced up and down the country lane that skirted it, +keeping an eye upon the lighted window of the study. So I went back and +forth for full an hour, I suppose. Then I heard a sound in the Spring +night. The doctor's hall door banged, and, peering through the privet +hedge that protected his meagre domain, I perceived him come out into +the air bareheaded. He took his way to the small path that ran by the +hedge parallel to the lane, coming close to the place by which I +crouched, spying upon his privacy. And there he paced, bemoaning aloud +the ill fate that had come upon him. I heard all the awful complaining +of this soul in distress, besieged by doubts, deserted by the faith and +hope of a lifetime. It was villainous to be his audience. Yet, I could +not go. Sometimes the poor man prayed with a desolate voice, calling +upon God for a sign, imploring against temptation. Sometimes--and this +was terrible--he blasphemed, he imprecated. And then again he prayed--to +the Devil, as do the Satanists. I heard him weeping in his garden in the +night, alone under the sycamores. It was a new agony of the garden and +it wrung my heart. Yet I watched it till the spectral moon waned, and +the trees were black as sins against the faded sky. + +About this time, as I have said, his parishioners began to mark the +outward change of Dr Wedderburn that signified the inward change in him. +The talking ploughmen had their fellows. All who sat under the doctor +were conscious of a difference, at first vague, in his eloquent +discourses, of a diminuendo in the full fervour of his delivery and +manner. Gossip flowed about him, and presently there were whisperings +of change in his bodily habits. He had been seen by night wandering +about his garden in very unholy condition, he who had so often rebuked +excess. Children, passing his gate in the dark of evening, had endured +with terror his tipsy shoutings. A maidservant left him, and spread +doleful reports of his conduct through the village. By degrees, rumours +of our minister's shortcomings stole, like snakes, into the local +papers, carefully shrouded by the wrappings that protect scandal-mongers +against libel actions. The congregation beneath the doctor's pulpit +dwindled. Women looked at him askance. Men were surly to him, or--and +that was less kind--jocular. I, alone, followed with fascination the +paling to dusk of a bright and useful career. I, alone, partially +understood the hell this poor creature carried within him. For I often +heard his dreary night-thoughts, and assisted, unperceived of him, at +the vigils that he kept. The lamp within his study burned till dawn +while he wrestled, but in vain, with the disease of his soul, the malady +of his tortured heart. + +One night in Summer time, towards midnight, I bent my steps furtively to +the Manse. It was very dark and the weather was dumb and agitating. No +leaf danced, no grass quivered. Breathless, dead, seemed the woods and +fields, the ocean of moorland, the assemblage of the mountains. I heard +no step upon the lonely road but my own, and life seemed to have left +the world until I came upon the Manse. Then I saw the light in the +doctor's window, and, drawing near, observed that the blind was up and +the lattice thrust open among the climbing dog-roses. Craftily I stole +up the narrow garden path, and, keeping to the side of the window, +looked into the room. + +Doctor Wedderburn lounged within at the table facing me. A pen was in +his shaking hand. A shuffle of manuscript paper was before him, and a +Bible, in which he thrust his fingers as if to keep texts already looked +out. Beyond the Bible was a bottle, three-quarters full of whiskey, and +a glass. His muttering lips and dull yet shining eyes betokened his +condition. I saw before me a drunkard writing a sermon. The vision was +sufficiently bizarre. A tragedy of infinite pathos mingled with a comedy +of hideous yet undeniable humour in the live picture. I neither wept nor +did I laugh. I only watched, shrouded by the inarticulate night. The +doctor took a pull at the bottle, then swept the leaves of the Bible.... + +"Let me die the death of the righteous," he murmured thickly. "That's +it--that's--that's--" He wrote on the paper before him with a wandering +pen, then pushed the sheet from him. It fell on the floor by the window. + +"And let my last end be like his--Ah--ah!" + +He drank again, and again wrote with fury. How old and how wicked he +looked, yet how sad! He crouched down over the table and the pen broke +in his hand. A dull exclamation burst from him. Taking up the bottle, he +poured by accident some of the whiskey over the open Bible. + +"A baptism! A baptism!" he ejaculated, bursting into laughter. +"Now--now--let's see--let's see." + +Again he violently turned the sodden leaves and shook his head. He could +not read the words, and that angered him. He drank again and again till +the bottle was empty, then staggered out of the room. I heard his +frantic footsteps echoing in the uncarpeted passage. Quickly I leaned in +at the window and caught up the sheet of paper that had fallen to the +floor. I held it up to the light. Only one sentence writhed up and down +over it, repeated a dozen times; "There is no God!" While I read I heard +the doctor returning, and I shrank back into the night. He came +stumbling in, another whiskey bottle full in his hand. Falling down in +the chair he applied his lips to it and drank--on and on. He was killing +himself there and then. I knew it. I wanted to leap into the room, to +stop him, yet I only watched him. Why?--I want to know why-- + +At last he fell forward across the Bible with a choking noise. His limbs +struggled. His arms shot out wildly, the table broke under him--there +was a crash of glass. The lamp was extinguished. Darkness crowded the +little room--and silence. + + * * * * * + +The papers recorded the shocking death of a minister. They did not +record this. + +As I stole home that night, alone in my knowledge of the doctor's +appalling end, I heard going before me light and tripping footsteps, +those, apparently, of some youth, not above three yards or so from me. +What wanderer thus preceded me, I asked myself, with a certain tingling +of the nerves, shaken, perhaps, by what I had just seen? I paused. The +steps also paused. The person was stopping too. I resumed my way. Again +I heard the tripping footfalls. Their sound greatly disquieted me, yet I +hurried, intending to catch up the wayfarer. Still the steps hastened +along the highway, and always just before me. I ran, yet did not come up +with any person. I called "Stop! Stop!" There was no reply. Again I +waited. This man--or boy--(the steps seemed young) waited also. I +started forward once more. So did he. Then a fury of fear ran over me, +urging me at all hazards to see in whose train I travelled. We were now +close to Carlounie. We entered the policies. Yes, this person turned +from the public road through my gates into the drive, and the footfalls +reached the very house. I stopped. I dared not approach quite close to +the door. With trembling fingers I fumbled in my pocket, drew out my +match-box, and, in the airless night, struck a match. The tiny flame +burned steadily. I stretched my hand out, approaching it, as I supposed, +to the face of the stranger. + +But I saw nothing. Only, on a sudden, I heard some one hasten from me +across the sweep of gravel in the direction of the burn. And then, after +an interval, I heard the rush of startled sheep through the night. + +Just so had they scattered on the day I spoke with the grey traveller by +the waterside. + + +III + +THE SOUL OF KATE WALTERS + +It is more than two years since I wrote down any incident of my life. +Two years ago I seemed to myself a stranger. To-day an intimacy has +sprung up between myself and that observant, detached something within +me--that little extra spirit which looks on at me, and yet is, somehow, +me. I am at home with my own power. I am accustomed to my strength of +personality. From my fever I rose like some giant. Long ago my world +recognised the obedience it owed me. Long ago, by many signs, in many +ways, it taught me the paramount quality of the emanation from my soul +that is called my influence. Yet sometimes, even now, I seem to stare at +myself aghast, to turn cold when I am alone with myself. I am seized +with terrible fancies. I think of the voice of the burn. I think of that +childish Autumn ceremony upon its bank among the mists and the flying +leaves. I think of the grey youth who spoke with me in the twilight, and +my soul is full of questions. I muse upon the Wandering Jew, upon Faust, +upon Van Der Decken, upon the monstrous figures that are legends, yet +sometimes realities to men. And then--and this is ghastly--I say to +myself, can it be that I, too, shall become a legend? Can it be that my +name will be whispered by the pale lips of good men long after I am +dead? For, is there not a whirl of white faces attending my progress as +the whirl of dead leaves attends the Autumn? Do I not hear a faint +symphony of despairing cries like a dreadful music about my life? Is not +my power upon men malign? Boys with their hopes shattered, men with +their faiths broken, women with their love turned to gall--do they not +crowd about my chariot wheels? Or is it my vain fancy that they do? Here +and there from the sea of these beings one rises like a drowned creature +whom the ocean will not hide, stark, stiff, corpse-like. Doctor +Wedderburn was the first. Kate Walters is the second--Kate Walters. + + * * * * * + +When my convalescence was well advanced she left Carlounie and went back +to Edinburgh. Some months afterwards I heard casually that she was +working in an hospital there. But a year and a half went by before I saw +this girl again. Her fresh, pure, ministering face had nearly faded +from my memory. Yet, she had attended intimately upon my marvellous +transformation from my death of weakness to the life of strength. She +had lifted me in her girl's arms when I was nothing. Yes, I had been in +her arms then. How strange, how close are the commonest relations +between the invalid and his nurse! When I chanced to meet Kate again I +had no thought of this. I had forgotten. I came to Edinburgh on some +business connected with a mine discovered on my estate, which seemed +likely to make a great fortune for me, and is already on the way to +accomplishing this first duty of a mine. My business done, I stayed on +at my hotel in Princes Street amusing myself, for I had a multitude of +friends in Edinburgh. One of these friends was a medical student +attached to the hospital there, and he chanced to invite me to go with +him through the wards one day. In one of the wards I encountered Kate +Walters, fresh, clear, calm as in the old Carlounie days of my illness. +She did not know me till I recalled myself to her recollection; then she +looked into my face with the frankest astonishment. My superb physique +amazed her, although she had attended upon its beginnings. I asked after +her life in the interval since our last meeting; and she told me, with a +delightful blush, that her period of nursing was nearly concluded, as +she was engaged to be married to one Hugh Fraser, a handsome, rich, +and--strange thing this!--most steadfast youth, who lived in England in +the south, and who loved her tenderly. I congratulated her, and was on +the point of moving away down the ward with my friend when my eyes were +caught again by Kate's blushing cheeks and eyes alight with the fiery +shames and joys of love. How beautiful is the human face when the +torches of the heart are kindled thus. How beautiful! I paused, and, +before I went, invited Kate to tea one afternoon at my hotel. She +accepted the invitation. Why not? In our meeting the old chain of +sympathy between patient and nurse seemed forged anew. We felt that we +were indeed friends. As we left the ward, my student chum chaffed me--I +let his words go by heedlessly. I was not in love with Kate, but I was +half in love with her love for Hugh Fraser. It had such pretty features. +She came to tea and told me all about him; and when she talked of him +she was so fascinating that I was loath to let her go. It was a sweet +evening, and, as Kate had not to be back at the hospital early, I +suggested that we should go for a stroll on Carlton Hill, and talk a +little more about Hugh Fraser. The bribe tempted her. I saw that. And +she agreed after a moment's hesitation. + +There is certainly an influence that lives only out of doors and can +never enter a house, or exercise itself within four walls. There is a +wandering spirit in the air of evening, a soul that walks with +gathering shadows, speaks in the distant hum of a city, and gazes +through its twinkling lights. _There is a grey traveller who journeys in +the twilight._ (What am I saying? To-day, as I write, I am full of +fancies.) I felt that, so soon as Kate and I were away from the hotel, +out under the sky and amid the mysteries of Edinburgh, we were changed. +In a flash our intimacy advanced, the sympathy already existing between +us deepened. Leaving the streets, we mounted the flight of steps that +leads to the hill, and joined the few couples who were walking, almost +like gods on some Olympus, above the world. They were all obviously +lovers. I pointed this fact out to Kate, saying, "Hugh Fraser should be +here, not I." + +She smiled, but scarcely, I thought, with much regret. For the moment it +seemed that a confidant satisfied her; and this pleased me. I drew her +arm within mine. + +"We must not alarm the lovers," I said. "We must appear to be as they +are, or we shall carry a fiery sword into their Eden." + +"You seem to understand us very well," she answered with a smile. And +she left her arm in mine. + +The mention of "us" chilled me. It seemed to set me outside a magic +circle within which she, Hugh Fraser, these people sauntering near us, +like amorous ghosts in the dimness, moved. I pressed her arm ever so +gently. + +"Tell me how lovers feel at such a time as this," I whispered, looking +into her eyes. + + * * * * * + +From Carlton Hill at night one sees a heaving ocean of yellow lights, +gleaming like phosphorescence on ebon waves. Towards Arthur's Seat, +towards the Castle, they rise; by Holyrood, by the old town, they fall. +That night I could fancy that this sea of light spoke to me, murmured in +my ear, urging me to prosecute my will, ruthlessly stirring a strange +and, perhaps, evanescent romance in my heart. I know that when I parted +from Kate that night I bent and kissed her. I know that she looked up at +me startled, even terrified, yet found no voice to rebuke me. I know +that I did not leave Edinburgh, as I had originally intended, upon the +morrow. And I know this best of all--that I had no ill-intent in +staying. I was caught in a net of impulse despite my own desire. I was +held fast. There are--I believe it unalterably now--influences in life +that are the very Tsars of the empires of men's souls. They must be +obeyed. Possibly--is it so I wonder?--they only mount upon their thrones +when they are urgently invoked by men who, as it were, say, "Come and +rule over us!" But once that invocation has been made, once it has been +responded to, there is never again free will for him who has rashly +called upon the power he does not understand, and bowed before the +tyrant whose face he has not seen. I tremble now, as I write; I tremble +as does the bond slave. Yet I neither speak with, nor hear, nor have +sight of, my master. Unless, indeed--but I will not give way to any +madness of the brain. No, no; I do not hear, I do not see, although I am +conscious of, my Tsar, whose unemancipated serf I am. + +I need not tell all the story of my soul's impression that was stamped +upon the soul of Kate Walters. Perhaps it is old. Certainly it is sad. I +stamped deceit upon the nature which had not known it, knowledge of evil +where only purity had been, satiety upon temperance. And, worst of all, +I expelled from this girl's heart love for a good man who loved her, and +planted, in its stead, passion for a--must I say a bad, or may I not +cry, a driven man? And all this time Hugh Fraser knew nothing of his +sorrow, growing up swiftly to meet him like a giant. Even now, while I +write these words, he knows nothing of it. As I had carelessly taken +possession of the mind, the very nature of Dr Wedderburn, so now I took +possession of the very nature of Kate Walters. My immense strength, my +abounding physical glory drew her--who had known me a puny +invalid--irresistibly. I won the doctor by my mind; this girl, in the +main, I think, by my body. And when at length I tired of her slightly, +the woman, the gentle woman, sprang up a tigress. I had said one night +that, since I was obliged to go to London, we must part for a while. I +had added that it was well Hugh Fraser lived in complete ignorance of +his betrayal. + +"Why?" Kate suddenly cried out. + +"Because--because it is best so. He and you--some day." + +I paused. She understood my meaning. Instantly the tigress had sprung +upon me. The scene that followed was eloquent. I learned what lives and +moves in the very depths of a nature, stirred by the inexhaustible greed +of passion, twisted by passion's fulfilment, the ardent touched by the +inert. But upon that hurricane has followed an immense and very strange +calm. Kate is almost cold to me, though very sweet. She has acquiesced +in my departure for town. She has come to one mind with me on the +subject of Hugh Fraser. More, she has even written a letter to him +asking him to come to her, pressing forward their marriage, and I am to +be the bearer of it to him. This is only a woman's whim. She insists +that I must see once the man who is to be her husband. + +So, after all, the tragedy of Dr Wedderburn is not to be repeated. I--I +shall not hear, stealing along the steep and windy streets of Edinburgh, +any--any strange footsteps. + + * * * * * + +What is the awful fate that pursues me? A year ago I left Edinburgh +carrying with me the letter which I understood to contain the request +of Kate Walters to her lover, Hugh Fraser, to hasten on their marriage. +As the train roared southwards, I congratulated myself on my clever +management of a woman. I had, it is true, stepped in between Kate and +the calm happiness she had been anticipating when I first met her in the +hospital ward. But now I had withdrawn. And, I told myself, in time. All +would be well. This girl would marry the boy who loved her. She would +deceive him. He would never know that the girl he married was not the +girl he originally loved. He would never perceive that a human being had +intervened between her and purity, truth, honour. In this letter--I +touched it with my fingers, congratulating myself--Hugh Fraser would +read the summons to the future he desired, the future with Kate Walters. +His soul would rush to meet hers, and surely, after a little while, hers +would cease to hold back. She would really once more be as she had been. +I forgot that no human soul can ever retreat from knowledge to +ignorance. + +Hugh Fraser's rooms in London were in Piccadilly. Directly I arrived in +town I wrote him a note, saying that I was from Edinburgh with a message +from Kate Walters for him. I explained that she had nursed me through a +severe illness, and hoped I might have the pleasure of making his +acquaintance. In reply, I received a most friendly note, begging me to +call at an hour on the evening of the following day. + +That evening I drove in a hansom from the Grand Hotel to Piccadilly, +taking Kate's note with me. I was conscious of a certain excitement, and +also of a certain moral exultation. Ridiculously enough, I felt as if I +were about to perform a sort of fine, almost paternal act, blessing +these children with genuine, as opposed to stage, emotion. Yes; I glowed +with a consciousness of personal merit. How incredible human beings are! +Arrived at Hugh Fraser's rooms, I was at once shown in. How vividly I +remember that first interview of ours, the exact condition of the room, +Hugh's attitude of lively anticipation, the precise way in which he held +his cigarette, the grim, short bark of the fox-terrier that sprang up +from a sofa when I came in. Hugh was almost twenty-four years old, +rather tall, slim, with intense, large, dark eyes--full of shining +cheerfulness just then--very short, curling black hair, and fine, +straight features. His expression was boyish; so were his movements. As +soon as he saw me, he sprang forward and gave me an enthusiastic +welcome--for the sake of Kate, I knew. He led me to the fire and made me +sit down. I at once handed him my credentials, Kate's letter. His face +flushed with pleasure, and his fingers twitched with the desire to tear +it open, but he refrained politely, and began to talk--about her, I +confess. I understood in three minutes how deeply he was in love with +her. I told him all about her that might please him, and hinted at the +contents of the letter. + +"What!" he exclaimed joyously. "She wants to hasten on our marriage at +last. And she's kept me off--but you know what girls are! She couldn't +leave the hospital immediately. She swore it. There were a thousand +reasons for delay. But now--by Jove!" + +His eyes were suddenly radiant, and he clutched hold of my hand like a +schoolboy. + +"You are a good chap to bring me such a letter," he cried. + +"Read it," I said, again filled with moral self-satisfaction, vain, +paltry egoist that I was. + +"No, no--presently." + +But I insisted; and at length he complied, enchanted to yield to my +importunity. He opened the letter, and, as he broke the seal, his face +was like morning. Never shall I forget the change that grew in it as he +read. When he had finished his face was like starless night. He looked +old, haggard, black, shrunken. I watched him with a sensation that +something had gone wrong with my sight. Surely radiance was fully before +me and my tricked vision saw it as despair. Raising his blank, bleak +eyes from the letter, Hugh stared towards me and opened his lips. But no +sound came from them. He frowned, as if in fury at his own dumbness. +Then at last, with a sharp shake of his head sideways, he said in a low +and dry voice: + +"You know what is in this letter, you say?" + +"I--I thought so," I answered, growing cold and filled with anxiety. + +"Well, read it, will you?" + +I took the paper from his hand and read:-- + + "DEAR HUGH,--Make the man who brings you this letter marry me. + If you don't, I will kill myself; for I am ruined. KATE." + +I looked up at Hugh Fraser over the letter which my hand still +mechanically held near my eyes. I wonder how long the silence through +which we stared lasted. + + * * * * * + +A month later I was married to Kate Walters! + + +IV + +THE SOUL OF HUGH FRASER + +It may seem strange that my influence upon the soul of Hugh Fraser +should follow upon such a situation as I have just described; but +everything connected with my life, since the day when I met the grey boy +by the burn, has been utterly strange, utterly abnormal. My treachery, +one would have thought, must have led Fraser to hate me. I had wrecked +his happiness. I had done him the deepest injury one man can do to +another, and at first he hated me. When he had wrung from me a promise +to marry Kate, he left me, and I did not see him again until after the +wedding. But then, it seemed, he could not keep away from her. For he +forgave us the wrong we had done him; and, after a while, wrote a +friendly letter in which he suggested that we should all forget the +past. + +"Why should I not see you sometimes?" he concluded. "I only wish you +both good, there is no longer any evil in my heart." + +Poor boy! It was to be, I suppose. The Tsar of the empire of my soul set +forth his edict, and one winter day carriage wheels ground harshly upon +the gravel sweep, and Hugh Fraser was my guest at Carlounie. I welcomed +him upon the very spot where those light footsteps paused that black +night of Doctor Wedderburn's dreary end. And the faint sound of the burn +mingled with our voices in greeting and reply. + +The boy was changed. He had aged, grown grave, heavier in movement, +fiercer in observation, less ready in speech. But his manner was +friendly even to me, and it was plain to see that Kate still had his +heart. They met quietly enough, but a flush ran from his cheek to hers +as they touched hands. Their voices quivered when they spoke a +commonplace of pleasure at the encounter. So the wheels of Fate began +slowly to turn on this winter's day. + +I must tell you that my fortunes had greatly changed before Hugh Fraser +came to Carlounie. I was grown rich. My investments, my speculations had +prospered almost miraculously. The mine I have spoken of was proving a +gold mine to me. All worldly things went well with me--all worldly +things, yes. + +Now, I believe that all mighty circumstances are born tiny, like +children, at some given moment. As a rule, they usually seem so +insignificant, so puny at the birth, that we take no heed of the fact +that they have come into being, and that, in process of time, they will +grow to might, perhaps to horrible majesty. Only, when we trace events +backwards do we know the exact moment when their first faint wail broke +upon our mental hearing. Generally this is so. But I affirm that I felt, +at the very time of its first coming, the presence of the shadow, the +tiny shadow of the events which I am about to describe. I even said to +myself, "This is a birthday." + +Among many improvements on my estate I had built a new Manse, in which, +of course, our new minister lived. The old habitation of Doctor +Wedderburn stood empty and deserted among its sycamores. One winter's +day Hugh Fraser, Kate, and I, in our walk, passed along the lane by the +now ragged privet hedge through which I had so often observed the +doctor's agonies. It was a black and white day of frost, which crawled +along the dark trees and outlined twig and branch. The air was misty, +and distant objects assumed a mysterious importance. Slight sounds, too, +suggested infinite activities to the mind. As we neared the Manse, Hugh +Fraser said to me:-- + +"Who lives in that old house?" + +"Nobody," I replied. + +Hugh glanced at me very doubtfully. + +"Nobody," I reiterated. + +"Really," he rejoined. "But the garden?" + +"Is deserted." + +"Hardly," he exclaimed, pointing with his hand. "Look!" + +"Yes," said Kate, as if in agreement. + +And she grew duskily pale. + +I looked over the privet hedge, seeing only the rank and frost-bitten +grass, the wild bushes and narrow mossy paths. Then I stared at my two +companions in silence. Their eyes appeared to follow the onward movement +of some object invisible to me. + +"The old man makes himself at home," Hugh said. "He has gone into the +summer-house now." + +"Yes," Kate said again. + +There was fear in her eyes. + +I felt suddenly that the air was very chill. + +"That house is unoccupied," I repeated shortly. + +We all walked on in silence. But, through our silence, it certainly +seemed to me that there came a sound of some one lamenting in the +garden. + +A day or two later Fraser said to me:-- + +"Why is that old house shut up?" + +"Who would occupy it?" I said. "Of course, if I could get a tenant--" + +"I'll take it," he rejoined quickly. "You can let me some shooting with +it, can't you?" + +"But," I began; and then I stopped. I had an instinct to keep the old +Manse empty, but I fought it, merely because it struck me as +unreasonable. How seldom are our instincts unreasonable! God--how +seldom! + +"I've been looking out for a shooting-box," Hugh said. "That house would +suit me admirably." + +"All right," I answered. "I shall be very glad to have you for a +tenant." + +So it was arranged. When Kate heard of the arrangement, I observed her +to go very pale; but she made no objection. Hugh Fraser rented the +house, furnished it, engaged servants, a gardener, enlarged the stables, +and took up his abode there. Doctor Wedderburn's old study was now his +den. When I looked in at the window through which I had seen the doctor +die, I saw Fraser smoking, or playing with his setters. I don't know +why, but the sight turned me sick. + +My relations with Kate, of which I have said nothing, were rather cold +and distant. My passion, such as it was, had died before marriage. Hers +seemed to languish afterwards. I believe that she had really loved me, +but that the shame of being with me, after I had wedded her actually +against my will, struck this sentiment to the dust. When one feeling +that has been very strong dies, its place is generally filled by +another. Sometimes I fancied that this was so with Kate, that the +bitterness of shattered self-respect gradually transformed her nature, +that a cruel frost bound the tendernesses, the warm vagaries of what had +been a sweet woman's heart. But, to tell the truth, I did not trouble +much about the matter. My affairs were prospering so greatly, my health +was so abounding, I had so much beside the mere egotism of brilliant +physical strength to occupy me, that I was heedless, reckless--at first. +Yet, I had moments of a dull alarm connected with the dweller at the +Manse. + +If Hugh Fraser changed as he read that fateful letter in London, he +changed far more after he came to live at the Manse. And it seemed to me +that there were times when--how shall I put it?--when he bore a curious, +and, to me, almost intolerable likeness to--some one who was dead. A +certain old man's manner came upon him at moments. His body, in sitting +or standing, assumed, to my eyes, elderly and damnable attitudes. Once, +when I glanced in at the study window before entering the Manse, I +perceived him lounging over a table facing me, a pen in his hand and +paper before him, and the spectacle threw all my senses into a violent +and most distressing disorder. Instead of going into the house, as I had +intended, I struck sharply upon the glass at the window. Fraser looked +up quickly. + +"What--what are you writing?" I cried out. + +He got up, came to the window, and opened it. + +"Eh? What's the row, man?" he said. "Why don't you come in?" + +I repeated my question, with an anxiety I strove to mask. + +"Writing? Only a letter to town," he said, looking at me in wonder. + +"Not a sermon?" I blurted forth. + +"A sermon? Good heavens, no. Why should I write a sermon?" + +"Oh," I replied, forcing an uneasy laugh. "You--you live in a Manse. +Doctor Wedderburn used to write his sermons in that room." + +That evening I remember that I said to Kate: + +"Don't you think Fraser is getting to look very old at times?" + +"I haven't observed it," she replied coldly. + +Another curious thing. Very soon after he took up his abode in the +Manse, Fraser, who had been a godly youth, became markedly averse to +religion. He informed us, with some excitement, that he had changed his +views, and seemed much inclined to carry on an atheistical propaganda +among the devout people of the neighbourhood. He declared that much evil +had been wrought by faith in Carlounie, and appeared to deem it as his +special duty to preach some sort of a crusade against the accepted +Christianity of the parish. I began to combat his views, and once sought +the reason of his ardour and self-election to the post of teacher. His +answer struck me exceedingly. He said:-- + +"Why should I be the one to clear away these senseless beliefs in +phantasms, you say? Why, because I suppose they were woven by my +predecessor in the Manse. Didn't the minister live and die there? Do you +know, Ralston, sometimes, as I sit in that study at night, I have a +feeling that instead of turning to what is called repentance when he +died, the minister turned the other way, recanted in his last hour the +faith he had professed all through his life, and expired before he could +give words to his new mind and heart. And then I feel as if his +influence was left behind him in that room, and fell upon me and imposed +on me this mission." + +And as he spoke, he suddenly plucked at his face with an old, habitual +action of Doctor Wedderburn's when excited. I scarcely restrained a cry, +and with difficulty forced myself to go out slowly from his presence. +Nevertheless, I felt strongly impelled to fight against the atheism of +this boy, I who had formerly sown the seeds of destruction in the soul +of Doctor Wedderburn. But it was as if my own act of the past rose and +conquered me in the present. I declare solemnly it was so. Some +emanation from the poor dead creature's soul clung round that cursed +place of his doom, and, seizing upon the soul of Fraser, spread tyranny +from its throne. And whom did it take first as its victim, think you? +Kate, my wife. + +Let our individual beliefs be what they may, one thing we must all--when +we think--acknowledge, that the pulse which beats eternally in the heart +of life is reparation. + +Kate, as I have said, was originally finely pure and finely dowered with +the blessings of faith in a divine Providence, trust in the eventual +redemption of the world, hope that sin, sorrow, and sighing would, +indeed, flee away, and all mankind find eternal and unutterable peace. +In my worst moments I had never tried to destroy this beauty of her +soul; and, in her fall, now repaired, she had never abandoned her +religion. It was, I know, a haunting memory of the last moments of the +doctor that held me back from ever attacking the faith of another. For +myself, I did not think much of my future beyond death. Life filled my +horizon then. + +But now, after a short absence in England, during which I left Kate at +Carlounie, I returned to find her infected with Fraser's pestilent +notions. She declined to go to the kirk, declaring that it was better to +act up to her real convictions than to set what is called a good example +to her dependants. She and Fraser gloried openly in their new-found +damnation. I say damnation, for this was actually how the matter struck +me when I began carefully to consider it. Men often see only what +irreligion really is and means when they find it existing in a woman. I +was appalled at this deadly fire flaring up in the heart of Kate, and I +set myself, at first feebly, at length determinedly, to quench it and +stamp it out. + +But I fought against my own former self. I fought against the influence +of the spectre that surely haunted the Manse, and that spectre rose +originally from the very bosom of the burn at my summons. Am I mad to +think so? No, no. Oh, the eternal horror that may spring from one wild +and lawless action, from the recital of one diabolic litany! This was +surely the strangest, subtlest reparation that ever beat in the +inexorable heart of Life. Hugh Fraser was enveloped by the influence, +still retained mysteriously in his abode, of the soul that was gone to +its account. Through him it seized upon Kate, and thus the mystic number +was made up, three souls were bound and linked together. (I hear as I +write the voice of the grey traveller by the burn in the twilight.) And +in the first soul I had planted the seed of death, and so in the second +and in the third. Now, thrusting as it were backward through Kate and +Hugh Fraser, I fought with a dead man, long ago, perhaps, wrapped in +pain unknown. But, as the influence of Doctor Wedderburn had +formerly--before the fever--dominated my influence, so now it dominated +my influence from the tomb. Indeed, this man whom I had destroyed had a +drear revenge upon me. There had been an interregnum when the doctor +wavered from Christianity to atheism. But that had ceased to be. He died +undoubting, a blatant unbeliever. Hence, surely, his deadly power now. +He returned, as it were, to slay me. The spectre at the Manse defied me. + +Slowly I grew to feel, to know, all this. It did not come upon me in a +moment; for sometimes my worldly affairs still occupied me. My glory of +health and of strength still delighted me. I was as Faust--I was as +Faust in his monstrous and damnable youth. But there came a time when +the spectre at the Manse touched me with the hand of Hugh Fraser. And +then I rose up to battle with it, trembling at the thought of the grey +boy's words at the thought of the Cæsar of hell whose tribute was three +human souls. + +Kate and I were taking tea one evening with Fraser. We sat around the +hearth, by which was placed the table with the tea-service and the hot +cakes. Fraser began, as was his habit now, to discuss religious subjects +and to rail against the professors of faith. Kate listened to him +eagerly--a filthy fire, so I thought, gleaming in her great eyes. I was +silent, watching. And presently it seemed to me that Fraser's gestures +in talking grew like the dead gestures of the doctor. He threw his +hands abroad with the fingers divided in a manner of Wedderburn's. He +struck his knees sharply, and simultaneously, with both his palms to +emphasise his remarks, a frequent habit of the dead man's. So vehement +was the similarity that I began presently to feel that the doctor +himself declaimed in the firelight, and I was seized with a desire to +combat effectively his wicked, but forcible arguments. I broke in, then, +upon Fraser's tirade and cried the cause of religion. He turned upon me, +dealt with my pleas, scattered my contentions--growing, I fancied, very +old and with the rumbling voice of age,--thrust at me with the lances of +sarcasm, sore belaboured me into silence and mute fury. And all the time +Kate sat by, and I seemed to see her soul, with fluttering outstretched +wings, sinking down to hell, as a hawk drops out of sight into a dark +cleft of the mountains. And then, in the last resort, Fraser struck his +hand down on mine to clinch his defeat of me. And I, looking upon that +poor Kate, cried out:-- + +"God forgive you, Fraser, for what you're doing--murderer! murderer!" + +Scarcely had my cry died away than I knew I had borrowed the very words +of Wedderburn to me. A cold, like ice, came upon me. This reversal of +the past in the present was too ironic. I heard the doctor chuckling +drearily in Hades. I suddenly sprang up like one pursued, and got away +into the night, leaving Kate and Fraser together by the fire. But the +spectre of the Manse surely pursued me. I heard its soft but heavy +footsteps coming in my wake. I heard its old laughter in the dark behind +me; and I sickened and faltered, and was in fear beyond all human fear +of an enemy. The next day I told Fraser he must leave the Manse; I would +build him a shooting-lodge on any part of my estate that he preferred. + +"No," he said, "no; I have grown to love the old place; I never feel +alone there." + +I looked in his eyes, searching after his meaning. + +"I would rather pull down the Manse," I said. + +In reply, he touched with his forefinger the lease I had signed with +him, which lay on his writing-table. + +"You cannot, my friend," he said. + +I cannot do anything that I would. I am driven on a dark road by the +creature with the whip that is surely after every man who once yields to +his worst desires. + +Just after this I received a visit from Mr. Mackenzie, the new minister, +a young and fervent, but not very knowledgeable man, whose zeal was +red-hot, but incompetent, and who would have died for the faith he could +never properly expound, like many young ministers of our church. The +little man was in a twisting turmoil of distress, and was moved, so he +said, to deal very plainly with me. I bade him deal on. It seemed that +his flock was becoming infected with atheism, which spread like the +plague, from the old Manse. The young children lisped it to each other +in the lanes; lovers talked it between their kisses; youths chattered +perdition at the idle corner by the church wall. Even the old began to +look askance at the Bible that had been their only book of age, and to +shiver wantonly at the inevitable approach of death. The young minister +cried denunciation upon Fraser, like a vague-minded, but angry Jonah +before a provincial Nineveh. + +"Turn him out, Mr. Ralston, drive him forth," he ejaculated. "What is +his rent to you? What is his money in comparison with the immortal souls +of men? Away with him, away with him." + +I mentioned the small matter of the lease. The young minister, with a +quivering scarlet face, replied stammering:-- + +"A lease! But--but--your own wife--she is--is--" + +"I do not discuss her," I said sternly. + +"Well; they are deserting the services. You see that yourself. They will +not come to hear me preach. They will not listen to me." + +The man was tasting bitterness. He was almost crying. I was terribly +sorry for him. Yet, all I could do was to think of the spectre at the +Manse and answer:-- + +"I can do nothing." + +His words were true. Carlounie's soul was being devoured as by a plague. +A colony of unbelievers was springing up in the midst of the beautiful +woods and the mountains. Soon the evil fame of the place began to spread +abroad, and men, in distant parts of Scotland, to speak of mad +Carlounie. The matter weighed intolerably upon me, and at last became a +fixed idea. I could think of nothing else but this devil's home in the +hills, this haunted and harassed centre of doom and darkness which was +my possession and in which I lived. I fell into silence. I ceased to +stir abroad beyond my own land. It seemed to me that Carlounie should +keep strict quarantine, should be isolated, and that each person who +went over its borders carried a strange infection and was guilty of +murder. I forbade Kate to drive beyond my estates. + +"I never wish to," she said. + +And I knew that where Fraser was she was happy. He had her soul fast by +this; or, it would be truer to say, the spectre of the Manse had both +him and her. And he aged apace and bore on his countenance the stamp of +evil. And I brooded and brooded upon the whole matter. But, from +whatever point I started, I came back to the Manse and to the spectre +dwelling in it with Hugh Fraser. I had given death to Doctor Wedderburn, +in return for the life so miraculously given to me, and now his spirit, +retained in its ancient abiding-place, spread death about it in its +turn. This was, and is, my conviction. The influence of the departed +clings to roof, to walls, to floors, leans on the accustomed +window-seat, trembles by the bed-head, sits by the hearthstone, stands +invisible in the passage way. _To kill it one must destroy its home._ It +was my duty to kill it, therefore it was my duty to destroy the Manse. +This thought at length took complete possession of me, and, following +it, I strove in every imaginable way to oust Fraser from the house among +the sycamores. But he would not go. He loved the place, he said. He +stood by his lease and I was powerless. + +Oh, God, I have, surely I have, my excuse for what I have done! I meant +to be a saviour, not a destroyer! I would have restored Fraser and my +poor Kate to their freedom of heart. That was what I meant. Ay, but the +grey traveller fought against me. Shut up here by night in my house, on +the verge of--that which I cannot, dare not speak of, I declare that I +am guiltless. Let him bear the burden, him alone! In these last moments, +before my deed is known, I write the truth that men may exonerate me. +This is the truth. + +Overwhelmed with this idea that Carlounie must be rescued, that Hugh +Fraser and Kate must be rescued from this damnation that was preying +upon them, I determined, secretly, on the destruction of the Manse, in +which the spectre of the doctor stayed to work such evil. But, to do +this, I must first make sure that Hugh Fraser was at a distance, and +that his small household--he only kept two servants, hired from the +village--were away from the haunted dwelling. I, therefore, suggested to +Fraser that he should come and spend a week with me, and give his maids +a holiday. After a little demur, and drawn, I see now, by his hidden +passion for Kate, he accepted my invitation. He dismissed the maids to +their homes for a week, and moved over to us. When the minister knew of +it, he, no doubt, fully included me in his prayers for the damnation of +those who worked evil among his flock. Will he ever read these pages, I +wonder? Kate was now an avowed atheist, and she and Fraser were +continually together, glorying in their complete freedom from old +prejudices, and their new outlook upon life. They had, I heard them say, +broken through the ties that bound poor, terrified Christians; and, when +they said this, they smiled, the one upon the other. I did not then know +why. Meanwhile, I was preparing for my deed of redemption, as I called +it, and meant it to be. I was resolved to go out by night to the empty +Manse, and secretly to set it in flames. It stood alone. The country +people slept sound at night. I calculated that if I chose midnight for +my act none would see the flames, and, ere the peasants woke at dawn, +the Manse and the spectre within it would be destroyed for ever. Such +was my belief--such the spirit in which I prepared myself for this +strange work. + + +V + +THE RETURN OF THE GREY TRAVELLER + +I write these last words after the dead of night, towards the coming of +the dawn. Ere the light is grey in the sky I shall be away to the burn +to meet him, the grey traveller. He is there waiting for me. He has come +back. I go to meet him, and I shall never return. Carlounie will know my +face no more. All is done as he ordained. My words have been as deeds, +have marched on inevitably to actual deeds. Long ago he said that +sometimes, even as we can never go back from things that we have done, +we can never go back from things that we have said. So, indeed, it is. + +According to my fixed intention, I determined on a night for the +destruction of the Manse. The house was old and would burn like tinder. +I should break into it through the window of the study, which was never +shuttered. I should set fire to the interior at several points, and +escape in the darkness of the night. By dawn the accursed place would be +a ruin, and then--then I looked for a new era. Fool! Fool! I looked to +see the burden of the vile influence of the spectre lifted from the soul +of Fraser, and so from the soul of Kate, which was infected by him. I +looked to see my people sane and satisfied as of old, Carlounie no more +a plague-spot in the land, that poor and zealous man, the minister, calm +and at rest with his little faithful flock once more. All this I looked +for confidently. And so, when the black and starless night of my deed +came, I was happy and serene. That night Kate pleaded a headache, and +went to bed very early, before nine. She begged me not to come to her +room to bid her good-night, as she wanted perfect quiet and sleep. All +unsuspecting, I agreed to her request. Soon after she had gone, Fraser, +who had seemed heavy with unusual fatigue all through the evening, also +went off to bed, and I was left alone. But it was not yet time for me to +start on my errand of the darkness. The burning Manse would surely +attract attention before midnight. People might be out and about in the +village. A belated peasant might be on his way home by the lane that +skirted the privet hedge. I must wait till all were sleeping. The time +seemed very long. Once I fancied I heard a movement in the house--again +I dreamed that soft and hurried footsteps upon the gravel outside broke +on the silence. But I said to myself that I was nervous, highly strung +because of my strange project, that my imagination tricked me. At last +the hour came. Without going upstairs I drew on my thickest overcoat, +took my hat and a heavy stick, opened the hall door, and passed out into +the night. It was still and very cold, and the voice of the burn came +loudly to my ears. Treading quietly, I made my way into the road, and +set forth along it in the direction of the Manse. The ground was hard, +and scarcely had I gone a few yards before I thought that some one was +furtively following me. I stopped rather uneasily, and listened, but +heard nothing. I went on, and again seemed aware of distant footsteps +treading gently behind me. The sound made me suppose that some one of my +household must be after me, moved by curiosity as to the reason of my +present pilgrimage; but I was not minded to be watched, so I turned +sharply, yet very softly, around and faced the way I had come. I +encountered no one, nor did I any longer catch the patter of feet. So, +reckoning that my nerves must be playing with me, I pursued my way. But +the whole of the distance between my dwelling and the Manse I seemed +vaguely to hear a noise of one treading behind me. And, although I said +to myself that there was nobody out beside myself, I was filled with the +stir of a shifting uneasiness. I entered the lonely and narrow lane that +led beside the Manse, and presently arrived in front of the house; when, +what was my astonishment to perceive a light gleaming in the study +window. My hand was on the gate when it went out, and all the front of +the house was black and eyeless. For so brief a moment had I seen the +light that I was moved to think that it, too, existed, like the sound of +steps, only in my excited brain. Nevertheless, I did not go up at once +to the house, but paced the lane for a full half-hour, always--so it +seemed to me--tracked by some one. But, since I kept turning about, and +the footfalls were always at my back, I grew certain that they were +nothing more nor less than a fantasy on my part. It must have been well +after twelve when I summoned courage to enter the garden and to approach +the Manse. The steps, I thought, followed me to the gate and then +paused, as if a sentinel was posted there to keep watch. Arrived at the +stone step which preceded the hall door, I, too, paused in my turn and +listened. Did the spectre that inhabited this abode know of my coming, +of my purpose? Was it crouching within, like some frantic shadow, +fearful of its impending fate? Or was it, perhaps, preparing to attack, +to repel me? Strangely, I had now no fear of it, or of anything. I was +calm. I felt that my deed was one of rescue, even though, by performing +it, I wrought destruction. I moved to the study window, and was about to +smash in the glass with my heavy stick when a mad idea came to me to try +the hall door. I put my hand upon it and found it not locked. This +opening of the door sent a shiver through me, and a ghastly sense of the +occupation of this deserted abode. I was filled again with an acute +consciousness of the indwelling spectre, whom, in truth, I came to +murder. But, I reasoned, this door has been left unbarred by the +carelessness of Fraser's servants, that is all. + +I stood on the lintel, struck a match and set it to a candle end which +I drew from my coat pocket. The flame burned up, showing the narrow +passage, the umbrella stand, the doors on either side. I entered the +study softly, looking swiftly on all sides of me as I did so. Did I +expect a vision of Doctor Wedderburn lounging at the table, his fingers +thrust into a Bible? I scarcely know; but I saw nothing except the +grimly standing furniture, the lamp on the table, the vacant chairs, the +books in their shelves. I listened. There was no rustle of the spectre +that I came to kill. Did it watch me? Did it see me there? I set fire to +the room, passed quickly to the chamber on the other side of the +passage, from thence to the kitchen and the dining-parlour, leaving a +track of dwarf flames behind me. The means of destruction I had prepared +and carried with me. They availed. When I once more reached the garden, +the ground floor of the Manse was in a blaze. But now came the +incredible event which I must chronicle before I go down to the burn for +the last time. + +Having gained the garden, I waited there in the darkness to watch my +work progress. I saw the light within the Manse, at first a twinkle, +grow to a glare. I heard the faint crackle of the burning rooms increase +to a soft and continuous roar. And, as I watched and listened, a mighty +sense of relief ran through me. Thus did I burn up my past! thus did I +sacrifice grandly and gladly the ill spirit my wild desires had evoked! +Thus--thus! All the base of the Manse was red-hot, when, on a sudden, I +heard a great shout that seemed to come from the sky. Light sprang in an +upper window. There followed a sound like the smash of glass, and I saw +two arms shoot out, the top part of a figure and a face framed in the +glare. I deemed it the vision of the poor spectre that I destroyed. I +looked upon it and fancied I could detect the tortured lineaments of the +doctor, his accustomed gestures distorted by fear and fury. But then I +seemed to see behind him another figure, struggling, and to hear the +failing scream of a woman. But the flames from below leaped to the roof. +The floors fell in with an uproar. The figure, or figures, disappeared. + +Trembling I turned to go, my mind shuddering at the thought of the +apparition I had seen. I got into the lane and hastened towards home. +Soon the burning Manse was out of sight, and I was swallowed up in the +intense darkness. + +Now, as I went along, a terrible and very peculiar sensation came upon +me. I heard no footsteps; all was silence. Yet I seemed to be aware that +I was closely companioned, that at my very side something--I knew not +what--walked, keeping pace with me. And so close did I believe this +thing to be, that at moments I even felt it pressing against me like a +slim figure in the night. Once, when it thus nestled to me, as if in +affection, I could not refrain from crying out aloud. I stretched forth +my arms to grasp this surely amorous horror of the darkness, but found +nothing, and pursued my road in a sweat of apprehension. And still, the +thing was certainly with me, and seemed, I thought, to praise me as I +walked, as the good man is praised on his journey. My great horror was +that this creature that I could not see, could not hear, could not feel, +and yet was so sharply conscious of, was _well disposed towards me_. My +heart craved its hatred--but it loved me I knew. My soul demanded its +curses. I almost heard it bless me as I moved. My knees knocked +together, my limbs were turned to wax, as it was borne in upon me that I +had surely done this terror that walked in darkness a service of some +kind. To be pursued in fury by one of the dreadful beings that dwell in +the borderland beyond our sight is sad and dreary; but to be followed +thus by one as by a dog, to be fawned upon and caressed--this is +appalling. I longed to shriek aloud. I broke into a run, and, like one +demented, gained the gate of Carlounie; but always the thing was with +me--full of joy and laudation. At the house door I paused, facing round. +I was moved to address this thing I could not see. + +"Who is it that walks with me?" I cried, and my voice was high and +strained. + +A voice I knew, young, clear, level, a little formal, answered out of +the darkness:-- + +"It is I." + +It was the voice of the grey traveller whom I had seen long ago by the +burnside. I leaned back against the door and my shoulders shook against +it. + +"What do you want of me?" + +"I come to thank you." + +"What, then, have I done?" + +"You have brought the tribute money." + +I did not understand, and I answered:-- + +"No. One soul I may have destroyed, but two I have saved to-night. For I +have slain the spectre that preyed upon them and I have set them free +from bondage." + +The voice answered:-- + +"_Go into the house and see._" + +Then again I was filled with apprehension. I turned to go in at my door, +and, as I did so, I heard footsteps treading in the direction of the +burn, and a fading voice which cried, like an echo:-- + +"And then come to me." + +And, as the voice died, I heard the rush of sheep in the night. + + * * * * * + +Filled with nameless fear and a cold apprehension, I entered the house, +and, led by some cruel instinct, made my way to Kate's room. The lamp +she always had at night burned dimly on the dressing-table and cast a +grave radiance upon an empty bed. + +What could this mean? + +I stole to the room of Fraser, bearing the lamp with me. His chamber was +also untenanted; but, on the quilt of the bed, lay a piece of paper +written over. I took it up and read--with the sound of the burn in my +ears:-- + + "You stole her from me. I take back my own. To-night we stay + at the old Manse. To-morrow we shall be far away. HUGH FRASER." + +The paper dropped from my hand upon the quilt. A woman's scream rang in +my ears above the roar of flames. I understood. + + * * * * * + +The tribute money has been paid. I go down to the burn. The grey +traveller is waiting there for me. + + ROBERT HICHENS. + FREDERIC HAMILTON. + + + + +AN ECHO IN EGYPT + + +That lustrous land of weary music and wild dancing, of reverend tombs +and pert Arabs, that Egypt of plagues and tourists, to whose sandy bosom +Society flocks, affects her visitors in many different ways. Bellairs +went to her under the fixed impression that he was a cynic, and found +that he was a romanticist. Very acute in mind, he had long flattered +himself on being unimpressionable; and he was much inclined to think +that to be insensitive was to be strong with the best kind of strength. +He loved to lay stress on all that was devil-may-care in his character, +and to put aside all that was prone to cling, or weep, or wonder, or +pray, and he fancied that if he cultivated one side of his mind +assiduously he could eliminate the other sides. In England, in London, +the process had seemed to be successful. But Egypt gave to him illusions +with both hands, and, against his will, he had to accept them. Protests +were unavailing, and soon he ceased to protest, and told himself the +horrid fact that he was a sentimentalist, perhaps even a poet. Good +heavens! a Bellairs--a poet! His soldier ancestors seemed forming a +square and fixing bayonets to resist the charging notion. And yet--and +yet-- + +Instead of playing pool after dinner at night, Bellairs found himself +wandering, like Haroun Al Raschid, through the narrow ways of Cairo, +mixing with the natives, studying their loves, and drinking their +coffee. There were moments, retrograde moments, when he even wished to +wear their dress, to drape his long-limbed British form in a flowing +blue robe, and wrap his dark head in a bulging white turban. He resisted +this devil of an idea; but the fact that it had ever come to him +troubled him. And, partly to regain his manhood, his hard scepticism, +his contempt of outside, delicate influences, he went up the Nile--and +succumbed utterly to fantasy and to old romance. "I am no longer Jack +Bellairs," he told himself one day, as the steamer on which he travelled +neared Luxor on its way down the river from the First Cataract--"I am +somebody else; some one who is touched by a sunset, and responsive to a +gleam of rose on the Libyan Mountains, some one who dreams at night when +the pipes wail under the palm-trees, some one who feels that the great +river has life, and that the desert owns a wistful soul, and has a sweet +armour with silence. Good-bye, Jack Bellairs! Go home to England--I stay +here." + +And that evening he left the steamer, and took a room for a month at the +Luxor Hotel. And that evening he cast the skin of his former self, and +emerged, with fluttering wings, from the chrysalis of his identity. He +was a bachelor, aged twenty-eight, and he was travelling alone; so +there was no critical eye to mark the change in him, no chattering +tongue to express surprise at his pleasant abandonment to the follies +which make up the lives of sensitive artists and refined sensualists who +can differentiate between the promenade of the "Empire," and the garden +of love. As he stepped out into the Arab-haunted village that night, +after dinner, Bellairs breathed a sigh of relief. For a month he would +let himself go. Where to? He bent his steps towards the river, the Nile +that is the pulsing blood in the veins of Egypt. Moored in the shadow of +its brown banks lay a string of bright-eyed dahabeeyahs. From more than +one of them came music. Bellairs, his cigarette his only companion, +strolled slowly along listening idly in a pleasant dream. A woman's +voice sang, asking "Ninon" what was her scheme of life. A man beat out +his soul at the feet of "Medje." And, upon the deck of the last +dahabeeyah, a woman played a fantastic mazurka. Bellairs was fond of +music, and her performance was so clever, so full of nuances, +understanding, wild passion, that he stood still to remark it more +closely. + +"She has known many things, good and evil," he thought, as his mind +noted the intellect that spoke in the changes of time, the regret and +the gaiety that the touch demonstrated so surely and easily, as the mood +of the composition changed. The music ceased. + +"Betty," a woman's voice said, in English, but with a slight French +accent, "I want to see the stars. This awning hides them. Come for a +little walk." + +"Yes; I want to see the stars too, and the awning does hide them," a +girl's voice answered. "Do let us take a little walk." + +Bellairs smiled, as he said to himself, "The first voice is the voice of +the musician, and the second voice seems to be its echo." He was still +standing on the bank when the two women stepped upon the gangway to the +shore and climbed to the narrow path. + +As they passed him by they glanced at him rather curiously. One was a +woman of about thirty, dark, with a pale, strong-featured face. The +other was a fair, aristocratic-looking girl, not more than seventeen. + +"She is the echo," Bellairs thought. "Rather a sweet one." Then, at a +distance, he followed them, and presently found them sitting together in +the garden of the Hotel. He sat down not far off. A man, whom he knew +slightly, spoke to them, and afterwards crossed to him. + +"That lady plays very cleverly," Bellairs said. + +"Mademoiselle Leroux, you mean--yes. You know her?" + +"Not at all. I only heard her from the river bank." + +"She is travelling with Lord Braydon. She is a great friend of Lady +Betty Lambe, his daughter." + +"That pretty girl?" + +"Yes. Shall I introduce you?" + +"I should be delighted." + +A moment later Bellairs was sitting with the two ladies and talking of +Egypt. It seemed to him that they were the first nurses to dandle his +new baby-nature, this nature which Egypt had given to him, and which +only to-night he had definitely accepted. Perhaps this fact quickly +cemented their acquaintance. At any rate, a distinct friendship began to +walk in their conversation, and Bellairs found himself listening to +Mdlle. Leroux, and looking at Lady Betty, with a great deal of interest +and of admiration. Presently the former said:-- + +"I knew you would be introduced to us to-night." + +Bellairs was surprised. + +"When?" he asked. + +"When we passed you just now on the bank of the Nile." + +"I knew we should too," said Lady Betty. + +"You must be very intuitive," said Bellairs. + +"Women generally are," remarked Mdlle. Leroux. + +"Yes. Do your intuitions tell you whether our acquaintance will be long +and agreeable?" + +"Perhaps--but I never prophesy." + +"Why?" + +"Because I am always right." + +"Is that a valid reason for abstention?" + +"I think so. For in this world those who look forward generally see +darkness." + +"I cannot achieve a proper pessimism in Upper Egypt," Bellairs replied. + + * * * * * + +A week later, Bellairs felt quite certain that there had never been a +period in his life when he had not known and talked with Mdlle. Leroux +and Lady Betty Lambe. Lord and Lady Braydon asked him to lunch on the +dahabeeyah almost every day, and he often strolled down to tea without +invitation. Then, in the afternoon, there were donkey expeditions to +Karnak, or across the river to the tombs of the kings, to the desert +villa of Monsieur Naville, to ancient Thebes, to the two Colossi. Lord +Braydon was consumptive and was spending the winter and spring in Egypt. +Lady Braydon seldom left his side, and so it happened that Bellairs and +his two acquaintances of the garden were often alone together. Bellairs +became deeply interested in them, and for a rather peculiar reason. He +was fascinated by the extraordinary sympathy that existed between the +two women--if Lady Betty could be called a woman yet. Mdlle. Leroux had +obtained so strong an influence over the girl that she seemed to have +grafted not only her mind, but her heart, her apparatus of emotions and +of affections, on to Lady Betty's. What the former silently thought, +the latter silently thought too, and when the silence died in +expression, they frequently spoke almost the same sentence +simultaneously. Sometimes Mdlle. Leroux would express some feeling with +vehemence to Bellairs when Lady Betty was out of hearing, and an hour or +two afterwards, with only a slightly fainter vehemence, Lady Betty would +express the same feeling. Indeed, these two women seemed to have only +one heart, one soul, between them, the heart and soul that had +originally been the sole property of the elder one. + +"You are very generous," said Bellairs one day to Mdlle. Leroux. + +"Why?" she asked in surprise. + +"You give away things that most of us have only the power to keep." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Some day, perhaps, I will tell you." + +Clarice Leroux was tremendously impulsive, and she had taken an +immediate and strong liking to Bellairs. In this Lady Betty, as usual, +coincided. But when Clarice's liking passed through self-revelations, +confidences, towards a stronger feeling, it was rather strange to find +Lady Betty still treading in her footsteps, still ever succeeding her in +her attitudes of mind and of heart. Yet the inevitable double +flirtation, apparently expected and desired by the two women, was +strangely gilded by novelty; and, at first, Bellairs played as happily +with these two dual natures as a child plays with two doll +representatives of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. For, at first, he +possessed the child's power of detachment, and felt that he could at any +moment discard dolls for soldiers, or a Noah's Ark, and still keep +happiness in his lap. But most things have an inherent tendency to +become complicated if they are let alone and allowed to develop free +from definite guidance, and presently Bellairs became conscious of +advancing complications. His intellectual appreciation of a new +situation began to degenerate into a more emotional condition, which +disturbed and irritated him. It seemed that he was peering through the +bars of the gate that guards the garden of passion. Which of the two +women did he see in the garden? + +He told himself that, having regard to the circumstances of the case, he +ought to see both of them. Unfortunately, a vision of that kind never +has been, and never will be, seen by a man. The temple in which the idol +sits always makes a difference in the nature of our worship of the idol. +Bellairs was forced to recognise this fact. And the temple in which sat +the idol of Lady Betty's nature attracted him more than the temple in +which sat the idol of Mdlle. Leroux's nature. He came to this conclusion +one afternoon at Karnak. They three were hidden away in a stone nook of +this great stone forest, enshrined from the gaze of tourists by mighty +rugged pillars, walled in by huge blocks of antique masonry that threw +cold shadows whence the lizards stole to seek the sun. The blue sky was +broken to their gaze by a narrow section of what had been, doubtless, +once a wide-spread roof. A silence of endless ages hung around them in +this haven fashioned by dead men and living Time. + +Mdlle. Leroux had been boiling a kettle; and they sipped tea, and, at +first, did not talk. But tea unlooses the bonds of speech. After their +second cups they felt communicative. + +"One week gone out of my four," Bellairs said, "and each will seem +shorter-lived than its forerunner." + +"You go in three weeks from now?" said Mdlle. Leroux, with an uneven +intonation that betokened a sudden awakening to the finality of things. + +"Yes; at the end of January." + +"And we are here until nearly the end of March." + +"Yes," said Lady Betty; "it will seem a very long time. February will be +eternal." + +"It is the shortest month in the year," Bellairs remarked. + +Mdlle. Leroux looked at him sarcastically. + +"You English are so prosaic," she exclaimed. "Any Frenchman would have +understood." + +"What?" + +"That we were paying you a compliment." + +"Perhaps I did understand it, and preferred not to show my +comprehension; there is such a thing as modesty!" + +"There is--such a thing as false modesty!" + +"Exactly," remarked Lady Betty. + +"I will accept your compliment gladly," said Bellairs, looking at Lady +Betty. + +"Mine?" asked Clarice Leroux. + +"Yes," Bellairs replied. + +The consciousness that he cared very much more for such a pretty meaning +in Lady Betty than in Clarice Leroux led him then, for the first time, +to that Garden Gate. He looked at Lady Betty again with a new feeling. +She returned his gaze quietly. Then he turned his eyes to those of +Clarice. Hers were fixed upon him with a curious violence. He had a +momentary sensation, literally for the first time, that these two women +after all, had not one soul, one heart, between them. They did not feel +quite simultaneously. Lady Betty was always a step behind Clarice. Yes, +that was the difference between them. However quickly the echo follows +the voice that summons it, yet it must always follow. Would Lady Betty +never cease to follow? Bellairs found himself wondering eagerly, for +that afternoon a strange certainty came to him. He knew, in a flash, +that Clarice, if she did not already love him, was on the verge of +loving him. He knew now that he loved Lady Betty. But she didn't love +him yet, was not even quite close to loving him. Had she been in Egypt +alone, divorced from Clarice, Bellairs believed that he would not have +attracted her. He attracted her through Clarice, because he attracted +Clarice. Could he make her love him in the same way? It would be a +curious, subtle experiment to try to win one woman's heart by winning +another's: Bellairs silently decided to make it. All the rest of that +afternoon he talked to Clarice, showing to her the new self that Egypt +had given him, the poetry which had ousted the prose inherited from a +long line of ancestors, the sentiment of which he was no longer ashamed +now he felt it to be a weapon with which he might win two hearts, the +heart that contained another heart, as one conjurer's box contains a +hundred others. + + * * * * * + +"I knew it when I first saw you," Clarice said. "Directly I looked at +you that evening on the bank I knew it." + +"How strange," Bellairs answered. + +"And you--did you know it when you heard me playing?" + +"That mazurka! Remember I am a man." + +They were sitting in the garden. It was night. Very few people were out, +for a great Austrian pianist was playing in the public drawing-room, and +the little world of Luxor sat at his feet relentlessly. They two could +hear, mingling with a Polonaise of Chopin, the throbbing of tom-toms in +the dusty village, the faint and suggestive cry of the pipes, which fill +the soul at the same time with desire, and regret for past desire killed +by gratification. Bellairs had been making love to Clarice, and she had +told him that she loved him. And he had kissed her and his kiss had been +returned. + +"Will this kiss, too, have its echo?" he thought; and his eyes travelled +towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room behind which Lady Betty +sat. He turned again to Clarice. + +"Do you believe in echoes?" he asked. + +"Echoes!" + +"That each thing we do in life, each word, each cry, each act, calls +into being, perhaps very soon, perhaps very late, a repetition?" + +"From the same person?" + +"Or from some other person." + +"What a curious idea. You think we cannot ever do anything without +finding an imitator! I don't like to imagine it. I don't fancy that +there can ever, in the history of the world, be an exact repetition of +our feeling, our doing, to-night." + +"Yet, there may be. Who knows?" + +"I do. Instinct tells me there never can. There has never been, never +will be, any woman with a heart just like mine, given to a man just in +the same way as mine is given to you. Why should you think such a +hateful thing?" + +"I don't know. It was only an idea that occurred to me." + +And again he glanced towards the lighted windows. + +"The world is very full of echoes," he went on; "our troubles are +repeated." + +"But not our joys, our deepest joys. No, no, never!" + +"There have always been lovers, and they all act in much the same way!" + +"Hateful! Ah! why can't we invent some new mode of expression for +ourselves--you and I?" + +"Because we are human beings, and one network of tangled limitations." + +"You make me cry with anger," she said. + +And when he looked, he saw that there were tears shining in her eyes. + +At that moment a ghastly sensation of compunction swept over him. What +had he done? A deep wrong, the deepest wrong man can do. He had made an +experiment, as a scientist may make an experiment. He had vivisected a +soul, but the soul was yet ignorant of the fact. When it knew, would it +die? But then he told himself he had to do it. For he loved +passionately, and was certain that he could only gain the heart he had +not yet completely won by gaining this heart that he had completely won. +He had made an experiment. If it failed! But it could not fail. All that +Clarice said, all that she thought, all that she desired, Betty said, +thought, desired. After the necessary interval the echo must follow the +voice. And he smiled to himself. + +"Why do you smile like that?" Clarice asked. + +"Because--because I thought I heard an echo," he replied. And then they +kissed again. He, with his eyes shut, forced his imagination to tell him +that the lips he pressed were the lips of Betty. She thought only of the +lips of love, that burn up all the recollections of the lonely years, +all the phantoms which dwell in the deserts through which women pass to +joy--or to despair. + +The Austrian pianist was exhausted. Even his long hair could no longer +sustain his failing energies. He expired magnificently, the seventh +rhapsody of Liszt serving as his bier. Lady Betty came out into the +garden. + +"How unmusical you two are," she said; "his playing was exquisite." + +"We heard finer music here," Clarice answered, as she got up to go back +to the dahabeeyah--"did we not?" + +She turned to Bellairs. He was looking at Lady Betty and did not hear. +Clarice's cheek flushed angrily. + +"Come, Betty," she exclaimed. "Good-night, Mr Bellairs." + +"Good-night, Mr Bellairs," echoed Lady Betty. + +The two women moved away, and vanished down the narrow and dusty avenue +that leads to the bank of the Nile. Bellairs stood looking after them. +He was wondering why he loved Betty and did not love Clarice. It seemed +feeble to love an echo. Yet, the intonation of an echo is sometimes +exquisite in its trilling vagueness, its far-off, thrilling beauty. And +Bellairs fancied that if he once wakened Betty to passion he would free +her, in a moment, from her curious bondage, would give to her the soul +that Clarice must surely have crushed down and expelled, replacing it +with a replica of her own soul. And then he asked himself, being +analytically inclined that night, what he adored in Betty. Was it merely +her fresh young beauty? It could not be her nature; for that, at +present, was merely Clarice's, and he did not love the nature of +Clarice. Yet he felt it was something more than her beauty. When he had +made her love him he would know; for, when he had made her love him, he +would force her to be herself. + +He watched the bats circling among the shadowy palms. How gentle the air +was. How sweet the stars looked. Bellairs thought of England that was so +far away. It seemed impossible that he could ever be in London again, +ever again assume a Piccadilly nature, and laugh at the folly of having +a romance. Yes, it seemed impossible. Nevertheless, in a fortnight he +must go. But he would take Betty's promise with him. He was resolved on +that. And then he left the silent garden to the bats, and was soon +between the mosquito curtains, dreaming. + + * * * * * + +Three days afterwards Clarice was prostrated with a nervous headache. +She could not bear to have any one in her cabin, and Lady Betty sat on +the deck of the _Queen Hatasoo_ quite inconsolable. Bellairs, arriving +to pay his usual afternoon call, found her there. Lord Braydon was out, +sailing in a flat-bottomed boat far up the river with Lady Braydon, so +Lady Betty was quite desolate. She told Bellairs so mournfully. + +"And Clarice won't let me come near her," she exclaimed. "A step on the +floor, the creak of the cabin door as I come in, tortures her. She is +all nerves. I hope I shan't have her headache presently." + +"Is it likely?" + +"I often do. She seems to pass it on to me. I never had a headache until +I knew her. But, indeed, I never seemed to live, I never seemed to know +anything, be anything, until she came into my life." + +"I wish I had known you before you knew her," Bellairs said. + +"Why?" + +"I don't know--perhaps to see if you were really so very different from +what you are now." + +"I was--utterly." + +"What were you like?" + +"I can't remember--but I was utterly different." + +As she ceased speaking, Bellairs glanced over the rail to the river +bank. Two blue-robed donkey boys stood there trying to attract his +attention, and pointing significantly to their gaily-bedizened donkeys. + +"Shall we go for a ride?" he said to Lady Betty. "Just along the river +bank? Then we shall see Lord Braydon as he sails back. Mdlle. Leroux +won't miss you. Shall we go?" + +Betty hesitated. But she could do the invalid no good by staying. So she +assented. Bellairs helped her to the bank and placed her in the smart +red saddle. He motioned the boys to keep well in the rear, and they +started at a quick, tripping walk. As they went, a white face appeared +at a cabin window, staring after them, the face of Clarice, who had with +difficulty lifted her throbbing head from the pillow. She watched the +donkeys diminishing till they were black shadows moving along against +the sky, then she began to cry weakly, but only because she was too ill +to be with them. Her gift of prophecy failed her at this critical +juncture of her life, and she had no sense of a coming disaster, as she +lay back on her berth, and gave herself up once more to pain. + +That evening Lord Braydon asked Bellairs to dine on the dahabeeyah, and +he accepted the invitation. Clarice was still in durance, having +entirely failed to pass her headache on to Lady Betty. After dinner Lord +Braydon went into the saloon to write a letter to England, and Lady +Betty and Bellairs had the deck to themselves. He was resolved to put +his fate to the touch; for, during the donkey ride, he had discovered +the change in Betty which he had so eagerly desired, the change from +warm friendship to a different feeling. The girl had not acknowledged +it. Bellairs had not asked her to do so; but he meant to. Only the +thought of his treachery to the woman lying in the cabin below held him +back, just for a moment, and prompted him to talk lightly of indifferent +things. But that treachery had been a necessary manoeuvre in his +campaign of happiness. He strove to dismiss it from his mind as he leant +forward in his chair, and led Lady Betty to the subject that lay so near +to his heart. + +"You love me?" she said presently. + +"Yes--deeply. You are angry?" + +"How can I be? No, no--and yet--" + +"Yes?" + +"And yet, when you told me, I felt sad." + +Bellairs looked keenly vexed, and she hastened to add:-- + +"Not because I am--indifferent. No, no. I can't explain why the feeling +came. It was gone in a moment. And now--" + +"Now you are happy?" + +He caught her hand and she left it in his. + +"Yes, very happy." + +Bellairs bent over her and kissed her--as he lifted himself up a white +hand appeared on the rail of the companion that led from the lower to +the upper deck of the _Hatasoo_. Clarice wearily dragged herself up. +She was wrapped in a shawl and looked very ill. Betty ran to help her. + +"I thought I must get a little air," she said feebly. "How d'you do, Mr +Bellairs?" + +She sank down in a chair. + +Bellairs felt like a man between two fires. + + * * * * * + +Two days later Lord Braydon gave his consent to his daughter's +engagement with Bellairs, and Lady Betty ran to tell Clarice. She had +not previously said a word to her friend of what had passed between her +and Bellairs. He had begged her to keep silence until he had spoken to +Lord Braydon, and she had promised and had kept her promise. But now she +rushed into the saloon where Clarice was playing Chopin, and, throwing +her arms round her friend, told her the great news. The body of Clarice +became rigid in her arms. + +"And the king has consented," Betty cried. + +The king was her father. + +"Clarice, Clarice, isn't it wonderful?" + +"Wonderful! I thought so when you told me. But already I begin to doubt +if it is." + +"To doubt, Clarice?" + +"To doubt whether anything a man does is wonderful." + +That was all Clarice said. Then she kissed Betty, and went on playing +Chopin feverishly, while Betty told, to the accompaniment of the music, +all that was in her heart. + +"And," she said at last, "I love him, Clarice; I love him intensely. I +shall always love him." + +Clarice played a final chord and got up. + +Bellairs lunched on the dahabeeyah that day and Clarice met him as +usual. Her manner gave no sign of any mental disturbance. Perhaps it was +curiously calm. He wondered a little, but was too happy to wonder much. +Joy made him cruel, for nothing is so cruel as joy. Only he was glad +that Clarice had so much pride, for he thought now that in her pride lay +his safety. He no longer feared that she would condescend to a scene, +and he even thought that perhaps she did not feel so deeply as he had +supposed. + +"After all," he said to himself exultantly, "there's no harm done. I +need not have been so conscience-stricken. What is a pretty speech and a +kiss to a woman who has lived, travelled over the world, read widely, +thought many things? Now, if I had treated Betty in such a way I should +be a blackguard. She could not have understood. She could only have +suffered. I will never hurt her--Betty!" + +His nature was so full of her that it could no longer hold any thought +of Clarice. And for a little while, as Bellairs dived into Betty's +heart, he was astonished at the passion he found there, and +congratulated himself on having released her from bondage. Now, at +least, he was teaching her to be herself. He was killing the echo and +creating a voice, a beautiful, clear, radiant voice that would sing to +him, to him alone. + +"Betty has a great deal in her," he said to Clarice once. + +"Yes--a great deal. Who put it there, do you think?" + +"Who? Why, nobody. Surely you would not say that all you yourself have +of--of strength, originality, courage, was put into you by some other +man or woman." + +"No. I would not say that. But then--I am not Betty." + +Bellairs felt irritated. + +"Please don't run Betty down," he exclaimed hastily. + +"I! I run down Betty! I don't think you understand what I feel about +Betty. She is the one perfect being I know. I worship her." + +"I am sure you do," he said, mollified. "And you have done much for her, +perhaps too much." + +"I cannot tell that--yet," Clarice answered. "Some day I may know +whether I have done very much, or very little." + +"Some day--when?" + +"Perhaps very soon." + +Bellairs wondered what she meant, and wondered, too, why he had a sudden +sense of uneasiness. + +It was a day or two after this conversation that a light cloud seemed to +float across his lover's happiness with Betty. He could not tell the +exact moment when it came, nor from what quarter it journeyed. But he +felt the obscuring of the sun and the lessening of the lovely warmth of +intimacy. He was chilled and alarmed, and at night, when he was alone +with Betty in the stern of the _Hatasoo_ bidding her good-bye, he could +not refrain from saying:-- + +"Betty, is anything the matter?" + +"The matter, Jack?" + +"Yes. Are you quite happy to-day? Quite as happy as you were yesterday?" + +"I suppose so--I believe so." + +But she did not speak with a perfect conviction, and Bellairs was more +gravely troubled. + +"I am certain something is wrong," he persisted. "I have done something +that has offended you, or said something stupid. What is it? Do tell +me." + +"I can't. There is nothing to tell. Really, there is not." + +"You would tell me if there was?" + +"Of course." + +"And you love me as much as ever?" + +"Oh, yes." + +He looked into her eyes, asking them mutely to tell him the truth. And +he thought their expression was strangely cold. The light had surely +faded out of them. He kissed her silently and went forward. Clarice was +standing there looking at the rising moon. + +"Good-night," he said, holding out his hand. + +"How grave you look," she answered, not seeing the hand. + +"The moonlight makes people look unnatural." + +"It does not reach the deck yet." + +"Good-night," he said again, and he went down the stairs. + +She looked after him with a smile. When he had gone, she turned her head +and called. + +"Betty!" + +"Yes!" + +"Come here and sit with me. Let us watch the moon. Don't talk. I want to +think--and to make you think--as I do." + +The cloud which Bellairs had fancied he noticed did not dissolve in the +night. It was not drawn up mysteriously into the sun to fade in gold. On +the contrary, next day he could no longer pretend to himself that his +anxiety as a lover rendered him foolishly self-conscious, dangerously +observant of the merest trifles. There really was a change in Betty, and +a change which grew. He became seriously alarmed. Could it be possible +that the ardent passion which she had displayed in the first moments of +their engagement was already subsiding as cynics say passion subsides +after marriage? Such a supposition seemed ridiculous. The ardour which +has never fulfilled itself is not liable to cool. And Betty was a young +girl who had not known love before. If she tired of it after so short +an experience of its delights, she could be nothing less than a wholly +unnatural and distorted being. And she was strangely natural. Bellairs +rode out alone with her along the built-up brown roads into the desert, +and tried to interest her, but she was abstracted and seemed deep in +thought. Often she didn't hear what he was saying, and when she did hear +and replied, her answers were short and careless, and rather dismissed +than encouraged the subject to which they were applied. Bellairs, at +last, gave up attempting to talk, and from time to time stole a cautious +glance at her pretty face. He noticed that it wore a puzzled expression, +as if she were turning over something in her mind and could not come to +a conclusion about it. She did not look exactly sad, but merely grave +and distrait. At length he exclaimed, determined to rouse her into some +sort of comradeship:-- + +"You never caught that headache, did you?" + +"Clarice's, you mean? No." + +"Is it coming on now?" + +"Oh, no. I feel perfectly well. What made you think it was?" + +"You won't talk to me, and you look so preternaturally serious. I am +sure I have unwittingly offended you?" + +"No, you haven't. You are just as you always are, better to me than I +deserve." + +"You deserve the best man in the world." + +"I already have the best woman." + +"Mdlle. Leroux?" + +"Yes; Clarice." + +"You admire her very much." + +"Of course. I would give anything to be like her." + +Bellairs hesitated a moment. Then he said with a slight, uneasy laugh:-- + +"But you are wonderfully like her." + +Betty looked surprised. + +"I don't see how," she answered. + +"No, because we never see ourselves. But when I first knew you both, I +was immensely struck by the curious resemblance between you, in mind, in +the things you said, in the things you did, the people you liked." + +"We both liked you." + +"Yes." + +"It would have been strange if we had both loved you!" Betty said, +musingly. + +Bellairs laughed again, and gave his horse a cut with the whip. "I only +wanted one to do that," he said, not quite truthfully. "And, thank God, +I have got my desire." + +Betty did not answer. + +"Haven't I?" he persisted. + +"You know whether you have or not," she answered. "How beautiful the +sunset is going to be to-night. Look at the light over Karnak." + +She pointed towards the temple with her whip. Bellairs felt a crawling +despair that numbed him What did it all mean? Was he torturing himself +foolishly, or was this instinct which gnawed at his heart a thing to be +reckoned with? When he left Betty at the dahabeeyah, he walked slowly, +in the gathering shadows, along the path which skirts the dingy temple +of Luxor. This change in Betty was simply inexplicable. In no way could +he account for it. She had not the definite, angry coldness of a girl +who had made a dreadful mistake and hated the man who had led her to +make it. No; she seemed rather in a state of mental transition. She was +setting foot on some bridge, which, Bellairs felt, led away from the +shore on which she had been standing with him. Was her first transport +of love and joy a pretence? He could not believe so. He knew it was +genuine. That was the puzzle which he could not put together. And then +he tried to comfort himself by thinking deliberately of the many moods +that make the feminine mind so full of April weather, of how they come +and pass and are dead. All men had suffered from them, especially all +lovers. He could not expect to be exempt--only, till now, Betty had +seemed so utterly free from moods, so steadily frank, eager, charming, +responsive. Bellairs finally argued himself into a condition of despair, +during which he came to a resolve of despair. He silently decided to +seek a quiet interview with Clarice, and ask her what was the matter +with Betty. After all, there was no reason why he should not take this +step. Clarice had evidently not cared deeply for him. Otherwise, she +would not have accepted his desertion with such truly agreeable +fortitude. Theirs had been a passing flirtation--nothing more. And, +indeed, their intimacy gave him the right to consult her, while her +close knowledge of Betty must render her an infallible judge of any +reasons which there might be to render the latter's conduct +intelligible. + + * * * * * + +Bellairs did not have to wait long before he put his resolve into +practice. That evening Betty, who had become more and more abstracted +and silent, got up soon after dinner, and said she was tired, and was +going to bed. Bellairs tried to get a moment with her alone, but she +frustrated the attempt by holding out her hand to him in public and +markedly bidding him good-night before Lord and Lady Braydon. When she +had disappeared, Bellairs sought Clarice, who was downstairs in the +saloon writing letters. Clarice looked up from the blotting-pad as he +entered. + +"I want to talk to you," he exclaimed abruptly. + +"I am writing letters." + +"Do give me a few minutes." + +"Very well," she said, pushing her paper away and laying down her pen. +"What is it?" + +"That's what I want to ask you. What has come over Betty? Is she ill?" + +"Betty! Has anything come over her?" + +Bellairs tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. + +"Don't tell me you haven't noticed the change," he said. "Forgive me for +saying that I couldn't believe it if you did." + +"In that case I won't trouble myself to say it." + +"Ah--you have! Then what's the matter? Tell me." + +"Hush, don't speak so loud or the sailors will hear you, and Abdul +understands English. I did not say I knew the reason of this change." + +"You must. You are Betty's other self, or rather she is--was--yours." + +"Was! Do you mean that she is not now?" + +"Remember, she loves me." + +"Oh, and that makes a difference?" + +"Surely!" + +"You have observed it?" + +Bellairs hesitated. He scarcely knew whether to reply in the affirmative +or the negative. He resolved upon a compromise. + +"There has hardly been time yet," he said; "naturally, I expect that +Betty will place me before every one else." + +Mdlle. Leroux's eyes flashed under the hanging lamp. + +"What we expect is not always what we get," she said significantly. + +Bellairs flushed. He understood that she was alluding to his treatment +of her, but he preferred to ignore it, and went on:-- + +"Is Betty ill to-night?" + +"Not at all." + +"Then what on earth is the matter? I ask you for a plain answer. I think +I deserve so much." + +"Men are always so deserving," she said with bitterness. + +"And women are always so exacting," he retorted. "But please answer my +question." + +"I will first ask you another. If you reply frankly to me, I will reply +frankly to you." + +She leaned her elbows on the table, supporting her face on the palms of +her upturned hands, and looked into his eyes. + +"Ask me," said Bellairs eagerly; "I'll do anything if you'll only +explain Betty to me." + +"Why did you try to make me love you? Why did you make love to me?" + +Bellairs pushed back his chair and there was an awkward silence. +Clarice's question was very unexpected and very difficult to answer. + +"Well?" she said, still with her eyes on his. + +"Is it any good our discussing this?" he replied at length. "It meant +nothing to you. It is over." + +"How do you know it meant nothing to me?" + +"You have shown that by your conduct. You care nothing. I am indifferent +to you." + +"No, not indifferent, not at all." + +"What? You can't mean--no, it is absurd!" + +"What is absurd?" + +"You can't--you don't mean that you really have any feeling for me?" + +"I do mean it!" + +Bellairs felt very uncomfortable. He scarcely knew what to do or say. He +fidgeted on his chair almost like a boy caught in a dishonest act. + +"We had really better not talk about it," he said. + +"Very well." Clarice reached out her hand for her pen and drew the +blotting-pad towards her. + +"But Betty?" said Bellairs uneasily. + +"You have not answered my question. I shall not answer yours." She +dipped her pen in the ink and prepared to go on with her letter. +Bellairs grew desperate. + +"Look here," he said; "you must tell me the reason of this change in +Betty. Now I know you don't care for me, you don't really love me." + +"No, I don't love you," she said quickly. + +"Well, then, since you say that, I will answer your question. I tried to +win your heart because I wanted to win Betty's!" + +"What do you mean?" + +"That Betty is practically you--or was, your echo, in word, deed, +thought. Her mind, her heart, followed yours in everything. I loved her, +and I knew that if I made you like me very much she must follow you in +that feeling as in others. Since you don't love me, I can dare to tell +you this." + +Clarice sat silent. + +"Are you angry?" he asked. + +"Go on," she said. + +"That's all." Again a silence. + +"It was your fault in a way," Bellairs said awkwardly. "You made Betty +your other self. Why did you not let her alone?" + +"Can a strong nature help impressing itself on others?" + +"Oh, I don't know. I'm no psychologist. But--you must let Betty alone +now," he said. + +"Suppose I can't. Suppose this sympathy between us has got beyond my +control?" + +"I shall release Betty from this bondage to you," Bellairs said, "my +love will--" + +"You! Your love!" Clarice said. And she burst into a laugh. + +Bellairs suddenly leaned forward across the table. + +"I believe you hate me," he exclaimed. + +She, on her part, leaned forward till her face was near his. + +"You're right," she whispered; "I do hate you. Now you know what's the +matter with Betty." + +For a moment Bellairs did not understand. + +"Now--I know--" he repeated. "I don't--Ah!" Comprehension flashed upon +him. + +"You devil," he said--"you she-devil! Curse--curse you!" Clarice laughed +again. Bellairs sprang up. + +"No, no, I won't believe it," he cried. "I can't. The thing's +impossible." + +"Is it? The pendulum of my heart has swung back from love to hate. +Betty's is following." + +"No, no!" + +"Wait, and you will see. Already she seems to care less for you. You +yourself have remarked it." + +"I have not," he said with violence. + +"To-morrow she will care less, and so less--less--till she too--hates +you." + +"Never!" + +"Only wait--and you will know. And now, good-night. I must really write +my letter. It is to my mother, and must go by to-morrow's mail." + +She resumed her writing quietly. Bellairs watched her for a moment. Then +he strode out of the room, across the gangway, up the bank. + +How dark the night was. + + * * * * * + +The explanation of Clarice struck Bellairs with a benumbing force. In +vain he argued to himself that it was not the true one, that no heart +could follow another as she said Betty's followed hers, that no nature +could merely for ever echo another's. Some furtive despair lurking in +his soul whispered that she had spoken the truth. An appalling sense of +utter impotence seized him, as it seizes a man who fights with a shadow. +But he resolved to fight. His whole life's happiness hung on the issue. + +On the following day he forced himself to be cheerful, gay, talkative. +He went early to the dahabeeyah, and proposed to Lord Braydon a picnic +to Thebes. Lord Braydon assented. A hamper was packed. The boat was +ordered. The little party assembled on the deck of the _Hatasoo_ for the +start; Lady Braydon, in a wide hat and sweeping grey veil, Clarice with +her big white parasol lined with pale green, Lord Braydon in his helmet, +his eyes protected by enormous spectacles. But where was Betty? Abdul, +the dragoman, went to tell her that they were going. She came, without +her hat, or gloves, holding a palm leaf fan in her hand. + +"I am not coming," she said. + +Clarice glanced at Bellairs. He pressed his lips together and felt that +he was turning white underneath the tan the Egyptian sun rays had +painted on his cheeks. Lady Braydon protested. + +"What's the matter, Betty?" she said. "The donkeys are ordered and +waiting for us on the opposite bank. Why aren't you coming?" + +"I have got a headache. I'm afraid of the sun to-day." All persuasion +was useless. They had to set out without her. Bellairs was bitterly +angry, bitterly afraid. He could scarcely make the necessary effort to +be polite and talkative, but Lord and Lady Braydon readily excused his +gloom, understanding his disappointment, and Clarice no longer desired +his conversation. That night he did not see Betty. She was confined to +her cabin and would see no one but Clarice. On the following day +Bellairs went very early to the dahabeeyah and asked for her. Abdul took +his message, and, after an interval, returned to him with the following +note:-- + + "DEAR MR BELLAIRS,--I am very sorry I cannot see you this + morning, but I am still very unwell. I think the mental agony + I have been and am undergoing accounts for my condition. I + must tell you the truth. I cannot marry you. I mistook my + feeling for you. I honestly thought it love. I find it is only + friendship. Can you ever forgive me the pain I am causing you? + I cannot forgive myself. But I should do you a much greater + wrong by marrying you than by giving you up. I have told my + father and mother. See them if you like. We sail to-morrow + morning for Assouan. + + "BETTY." + +Bellairs, crumpling this note in his hand, would have burst forth into a +passion of useless rage and despair, but Abdul's lustrous eyes were +fixed upon him. Abdul's dignified form calmly waited his pleasure. + +"Where is Lord Braydon?" said Bellairs, "I must see him." + +"His lordship is on the second deck, sir." + +"Take me to him." + +The interview that followed only increased the despair of Bellairs. Lord +Braydon was most sympathetic, most courteously sorry, but he said that +his daughter's decision was absolutely irrevocable, and he could not +attempt to coerce her in such an important matter. + +"At any rate, I must see her before you sail," said Bellairs at last. "I +think she owes me at least that one last debt." + +"I think so too," said Lord Braydon. "Come at six. I will undertake that +you shall see her." + +How Bellairs spent the intervening hours he could never remember. He did +not go back to the hotel; he must have wandered all day along the river +bank. Yet he felt neither the heat, nor any fatigue, nor any hunger. At +six o'clock he reached the dahabeeyah. Lady Betty was sitting alone on +the deck. She looked very pale and grave. + +"My father and mother and Clarice have gone up to the hotel," she said. +"That Austrian is playing again this evening." + +"Is he?" Bellairs answered. He sat down beside her and tried to take her +hand. But she would not let him. + +"No," she said. "No, it's no use. I have made a ghastly mistake, but I +will not make another. Oh, forgive me, do forgive me!" + +"How can I? If you will not try to love me my life is ruined." + +"Don't say that. It's no use to try to love. You know that. We must just +let ourselves alone. Love comes, or hate, just as God wills it. We can +only accept our fate." + +"As God wills," Bellairs said passionately; "why do you say that, when +you know it is not true?" + +"Not true--Mr Bellairs!" + +"Yes. If you echoed the will of God how could I blame you? We must all +do that--at least, when we are good. And those of us who are wicked I +suppose echo the Devil. But you--what do you echo?" + +"I--I echo no one. I don't understand you." + +"But you shall, before it is too late. Betty, be yourself. Emancipate +your soul. You are the echo of that woman, of Clarice. Don't you see it? +Don't you know it? You are her echo--and she hates me!" + +Betty drew back from him--she was evidently alarmed. + +"Are you mad?" she said. "Why do you say such things to me? Clarice and +I love each other, it is true, but our real natures are totally +different. She does not hate you, nor do I. She has never said one word +against you to me. She has always told me how much she liked you. What +are you saying?" + +"The truth!" + +"I--her echo! Why, then--then if that were the case she must have loved +you, or thought she loved you. Do you dare to tell me that?" + +"I do not say that," Bellairs answered hopelessly. + +"Of course not. The idea is so absurd. Clarice--oh! how can you talk +like this? And if I am only an echo, as you call it, how can you say you +care for me, care for another woman's shadow? You do not love me." + +"I do--with all my heart." + +"And yet you say I am nothing, that I have not even a heart of my own, +that I love or hate at the will of another." + +"Forgive me, forgive me! I don't know what I say. I only know I love +you." + +Her face softened. + +"And you deserve to be loved," she said; "but I--it is so horrible--I +cannot!" + +Suddenly Bellairs caught her in his arms. + +"You shall," he exclaimed, "you shall. I will make you." But she pushed +him back with a strange strength, and her face hardened till he scarcely +recognised it. + +"Don't do that--don't touch me--or you'll make me hate you," she said +vehemently. + +Bellairs let her go. At that moment there was a step on the deck. +Clarice appeared. She did not seem to notice that anything was wrong. +She smiled. + +"Isn't it sad, Mr Bellairs," she said, "we sail to-morrow. I love Luxor. +I can't bear to leave it." + +Bellairs suddenly turned and hurried away. He could no longer trust +himself. There was blood before his eyes. + + * * * * * + +It was dawn. The Nile was smooth as a river of oil. Light mists rolled +upwards gently, discovering the rosy flanks of the Libyan mountains to +the sun. The sky began to glimmer with a dancing golden heat. On the +brown bank where the boats lie in the shadow a man stood alone. His +hands were tightly clenched. His lips worked silently. His eyes were +fixed in a stare. And away in the distance up river, a tiny trail of +smoke floated towards Luxor. It came from a steam tug that drew a +following dahabeeyah. + +The _Queen Hatasoo_ was on her voyage to Assouan. + + + + +THE FACE OF THE MONK + + +I + +"No, it will not hurt him to see you," the doctor said to me; "and I +have no doubt he will recognise you. He is the quietest patient I have +ever had under my care--gentle, kind, agreeable, perfect in conduct, and +yet quite mad. You know him well?" + +"He was my dearest friend," I said. "Before I went out to America three +years ago we were inseparable. Doctor, I cannot believe that he is mad, +he--Hubert Blair--one of the cleverest young writers in London, so +brilliant, so acute! Wild, if you like, a libertine perhaps, a strange +mixture of the intellectual and the sensual--but mad! I can't believe +it!" + +"Not when I tell you that he was brought to me suffering from acute +religious mania?" + +"Religious! Hubert Blair!" + +"Yes. He tried to destroy himself, declaring that he was unfit to live, +that he was a curse to some person unknown. He protested that each deed +of his affected this unknown person, that his sins were counted as the +sins of another, and that this other had haunted him--would haunt him +for ever." + +The doctor's words troubled me. + +"Take me to him," I said at last. "Leave us together." + +It was a strange, sad moment when I entered the room in which Hubert was +sitting. I was painfully agitated. He knew me, and greeted me warmly. I +sat down opposite to him. + + * * * * * + +There was a long silence. Hubert looked away into the fire. He saw, I +think, traced in scarlet flames, the scenes he was going to describe to +me; and I, gazing at him, wondered of what nature the change in my +friend might be. That he had changed since we were together three years +ago was evident, yet he did not look mad. His dark, clean-shaven young +face was still passionate. The brown eyes were still lit with a certain +devouring eagerness. The mouth had not lost its mingled sweetness and +sensuality. But Hubert was curiously transformed. There was a dignity, +almost an elevation, in his manner. His former gaiety had vanished. I +knew, without words, that my friend was another man--very far away from +me now. Yet once we had lived together as chums, and had no secrets the +one from the other. + +At last Hubert looked up and spoke. + +"I see you are wondering about me," he said. + +"Yes." + +"I have altered, of course--completely altered." + +"Yes," I said, awkwardly enough. "Why is that?" + +I longed to probe this madness of his that I might convince myself of +it, otherwise Hubert's situation must for ever appal me. + +He answered quietly, "I will tell you--nobody else knows--and even you +may--" + +He hesitated, then he said:-- + +"No, you will believe it." + +"Yes, if you tell me it is true." + +"It is absolutely true. + +"Bernard, you know what I was when you left England for America--gay, +frivolous in my pleasures, although earnest when I was working. You know +how I lived to sound the depths of sensation, how I loved to stretch all +my mental and physical capacities to the snapping-point, how I shrank +from no sin that could add one jot or tittle to my knowledge of the mind +of any man or woman who interested me. My life seemed a full life then. +I moved in the midst of a thousand intrigues. I strung beads of all +emotions upon my rosary, and told them until at times my health gave +way. You remember my recurring periods of extraordinary and horrible +mental depression--when life was a demon to me, and all my success in +literature less than nothing; when I fancied myself hated, and could +believe I heard phantom voices abusing me. Then those fits passed away, +and once more I lived as ardently as ever, the most persistent worker, +and the most persistent excitement-seeker in London. + +"Well, after you went away I continued my career. As you know, my +success increased. Through many sins I had succeeded in diving very deep +into human hearts of men and women. Often I led people deliberately away +from innocence in order that I might observe the gradual transformation +of their natures. Often I spurred them on to follies that I might see +the effect our deeds have upon our faces--the seal our actions set upon +our souls. I was utterly unscrupulous, and yet I thought myself +good-hearted. You remember that my servants always loved me, that I +attracted people. I can say this to you. For some time my usual course +was not stayed. Then--I recollect it was in the middle of the London +season--one of my horrible fits of unreasonable melancholy swept over +me. It stunned my soul like a heavy blow. It numbed me. I could not go +about. I could not bear to see anybody. I could only shut myself up and +try to reason myself back into my usual gaiety and excitement. My +writing was put aside. My piano was locked. I tried to read, but even +that solace was denied to me. My attention was utterly self-centred, +riveted upon my own condition. + +"Why, I said to myself, am I the victim of this despair, this despair +without a cause? What is this oppression which weighs me down without +reason? It attacks me abruptly, as if it were sent to me by some power, +shot at me like an arrow by an enemy hidden in the dark. I am well--I am +gay. Life is beautiful and wonderful to me. All that I do interests me. +My soul is full of vitality. I know that I have troops of friends, that +I am loved and thought of by many people. And then suddenly the arrow +strikes me. My soul is wounded and sickens to death. Night falls over +me, night so sinister that I shudder when its twilight comes. All my +senses faint within me. Life is at once a hag, weary, degraded, with +tears on her cheeks and despair in her hollow eyes. I feel that I am +deserted, that my friends despise me, that the world hates me, that I am +less than all other men--less in powers, less in attraction--that I am +the most crawling, the most grovelling of all the human species, and +that there is no one who does not know it. Yet the doctors say I am not +physically ill, and I know that I am not mad. Whence does this awful +misery, this unmeaning, causeless horror of life and of myself come? Why +am I thus afflicted? + +"Of course I could find no answer to all these old questions, which I +had asked many times before. But this time, Bernard, my depression was +more lasting, more overwhelming than usual. I grew terribly afraid of +it. I thought I might be driven to suicide. One day a crisis seemed to +come. I dared no longer remain alone, so I put on my hat and coat, took +my stick, and hurried out, without any definite intention. I walked +along Piccadilly, avoiding the glances of those whom I met. I fancied +they could all read the agony, the degradation of my soul. I turned into +Bond Street, and suddenly I felt a strong inclination to stop before a +certain door. I obeyed the impulse, and my eyes fell on a brass plate, +upon which was engraved these words:-- + + VANE. + Clairvoyant. + 11 till 4 daily. + +"I remember I read them several times over, and even repeated them in a +whisper to myself. Why? I don't know. Then I turned away, and was about +to resume my walk. But I could not. Again I stopped and read the legend +on the brass plate. On the right-hand side of the door was an electric +bell. I put my finger on it and pressed the button inwards. The door +opened, and I walked, like a man in a dream, I think, up a flight of +narrow stairs. At the top of them was a second door, at which a +maidservant was standing. + +"'You want to see Mr Vane, sir?' + +"'Yes. Can I?' + +"'If you will come in, sir, I will see.' + +"She showed me into a commonplace, barely-furnished little room, and, +after a short period of waiting, summoned me to another, in which stood +a tall, dark youth, dressed in a gown rather like a college gown. He +bowed to me, and I silently returned the salutation. The servant left +us. Then he said:-- + +"'You wish me to exert my powers for you?' + +"'Yes.' + +"'Will you sit here?' + +"He motioned me to a seat beside a small round table, sat down opposite +to me, and took my hand. After examining it through a glass, and telling +my character fairly correctly by the lines in it, he laid the glass down +and regarded me narrowly. + +"'You suffer terribly from depression,' he said. + +"'That is true.' + +"He continued to gaze upon me more and more fixedly. At length he +said:-- + +"'Do you know that everybody has a companion?' + +"'How--a companion?' + +"'Somebody incessantly with them, somebody they cannot see.' + +"'You believe in the theory of guardian angels?' + +"'I do not say these companions are always guardian angels. I see your +companion now, as I look at you. His face is by your shoulder.' + +"I started, and glanced hastily round; but, of course, could see +nothing. + +"'Shall I describe him?' + +"'Yes,' I said. + +"'His face is dark, like yours; shaven, like yours. He has brown eyes, +just as brown as yours are. His mouth and his chin are firm and small, +as firm and small as yours.' + +"'He must be very like me.' + +"'He is. But there is a difference between you.' + +"'What is it?' + +"'His hair is cut more closely than yours, and part of it is shaved +off.' + +"'He is a priest, then?' + +"'He wears a cowl. He is a monk.' + +"'A monk! But why does he come to me?' + +"'I should say that he cannot help it, that he is your spirit in some +former state. Yes'--and he stared at me till his eyes almost mesmerised +me--'you must have been a monk once.' + +"'I--a monk! Impossible! Even if I have lived on earth before, it could +never have been as a monk.' + +"'How do you know that?' + +"'Because I am utterly without superstitions, utterly free from any +lingering desire for an ascetic life. That existence of silence, of +ignorance, of perpetual prayer, can never have been mine.' + +"'You cannot tell,' was all his answer. + + +II + +"When I left Bond Street that afternoon I was full of disbelief. +However, I had paid my half-guinea and escaped from my own core of +misery for a quarter of an hour. That was something. I didn't regret my +visit to this man Vane, whom I regarded as an agreeable charlatan. For a +moment he had interested me. For a moment he had helped me to forget my +useless wretchedness. I ought to have been grateful to him. And, as +always, my soul regained its composure at last. One morning I awoke and +said to myself that I was happy. Why? I did not know. But I got up. I +was able to write once more. I was able to play. I felt that I had +friends who loved me and a career before me. I could again look people +in the face without fear. I could even feel a certain delightful conceit +of mind and body. Bernard, I was myself. So I thought, so I knew. And +yet, as days went by, I caught myself often thinking of this invisible, +tonsured, and cowled companion of mine, whom Vane had seen, whom I did +not see. Was he indeed with me? And, if so, had he thoughts, had he the +holy thoughts of a spirit that has renounced the world and all fleshly +things? Did he still keep that cloistered nature which is at home with +silence, which aspires, and prays, and lives for possible eternity, +instead of for certain time? Did he still hold desolate vigils? Did he +still scourge himself along the thorny paths of faith? And, if he did, +how must he regard me? + +"I remember one night especially how this last thought was with me in a +dreary house, where I sinned, and where I dissected a heart. + +"And I trembled as if an eye was upon me. And I went home. + +"You will say that my imagination is keen, and that I gave way to it. +But wait and hear the end. + +"This definite act of mine--this, my first conscious renunciation--did +not tend, as you might suppose, to the peace of my mind. On the +contrary, I found myself angry, perturbed, as I analysed the cause of my +warfare with self. I have naturally a supreme hatred of all control. +Liberty is my fetish. And now I had offered a sacrifice to a prisoning +unselfishness, to a false god that binds and gags its devotees. I was +angry, and I violently resumed my former course. But now I began to be +ceaselessly companioned by uneasiness, by a furtive cowardice that was +desolating. I felt that I was watched, and by some one who suffered when +I sinned, who shrank and shuddered when I followed where my desires led. + +"It was the monk. + +"Soon I gave to him a most definite personality. I endowed him with a +mind and with moods. I imagined not only a heart for him, but a voice, +deep with a certain ecclesiastical beauty, austere, with a note more apt +for denunciation than for praise. His face was my own face, but with an +expression not mine, elevated, almost fanatical, yet nobly beautiful; +praying eyes--and mine were only observant; praying lips--and mine were +but sensitively sensual. And he was haggard with abstinence, while +I--was I not often haggard with indulgence? Yes, his face was mine, and +not mine. It seemed the face of a great saint who might have been a +great sinner. Bernard, that is the most attractive face in all the +world. Accustoming myself thus to a thought-companion, I at length--for +we men are so inevitably materialistic--embodied him, gave to him hands, +feet, a figure, all--as before, mine, yet not mine, a sort of saintly +replica of my sinfulness. For do not hands, feet, figure cry our deeds +as the watchman cries the hour in the night? + +"So, I had the man. There he stood in my vision as you are now. + +"Yes, he was there; but only when I sinned. + +"When I worked and yielded myself up to the clear assertion of my +intellect, when I fought to give out the thoughts that lingered like +reluctant fish far down in the deep pools of my mind, when I wrestled +for beauty of diction and for nameless graces of expression, when I was +the author, I could not see him. + +"But when I was the man, and lived the fables that I was afterwards to +write, then he was with me. And his face was as the face of one who is +wasted with grey grief. + +"He came to me when I sinned, as if by my sins I did him grave injury. +And, allowing my imagination to range wildly, as you will say, I grew +gradually to feel as if each sin did indeed strike a grievous blow upon +his holy nature. + +"This troubled me at last. I found myself continually brooding over the +strange idea. I was aware that if my friends could know I entertained +it, they would think me mad. And yet I often fancied that thought moved +me in the direction of a sanity more perfect, more desirable than my +sanity of self-indulgence. Sometimes even I said to myself that I would +reorganise my life, that I would be different from what I had been. And +then, again, I laughed at my folly of the imagination, and cursed that +clairvoyant of Bond Street, who made a living by trading upon the latent +imbecility of human nature. Yet, the desire of change, of +soul-transformation, came and lingered, and the vision of the monk's +worn young face was often with me. And whenever, in my waking dreams, I +looked upon it, I felt that a time might come when I could pray and weep +for the wild catalogue of my many sins. + + * * * * * + +"Bernard, at last the day came when I left England. I had long wished to +travel. I had grown tired of the hum of literary cliques, and the jargon +of that deadly parasite called 'modernity.' Praise fainted, and lay like +a corpse before my mind. I was sick of gaiety. It seemed to me that +London was stifling my powers, narrowing my outlook, barring out real +life from me with its moods and its fashions, and its idols of the hour, +and its heroes of a day, who are the traitors of the day's night. + +"So I went away. + +"And now I come to the part of my story that you may find it hard to +believe. Yet it is true. + +"One day, in my wanderings, I came to a monastery. I remember the day +well. It was an afternoon of early winter, and I was _en route_ to a +warm climate. But to gain my climate, and snatch a vivid contrast such +as I love, I toiled over a gaunt and dreary pass, presided over by +heavy, beetling-browed mountains. I rode upon a mule, attended only by +my manservant and by a taciturn guide who led a baggage-mule. Slowly we +wound, by thin paths, among the desolate crags, which sprang to sight in +crowds at each turn of the way, pressing upon us, like dead faces of +Nature, the corpses of things we call inanimate, but which had surely +once lived. For the earth is alive, and gives life. But these mountains +were now utterly dead. These grey, petrified countenances of the hills +subdued my soul. The pattering shuffle of the mules woke an occasional +echo, and even an echo I hated. For the environing silence was immense, +and I wished to steep myself in it. As we still ascended, in the waste +winter afternoon, towards the hour of twilight, snow--the first snow of +the season--began to fall. I watched the white vision of the flakes +against the grey vision of the crags, and I thought that this path, +which I had chosen as my road to Summer, was like the path by which holy +men slowly gain Paradise, treading difficult ways through life that they +may attain at last those eternal roses which bloom beyond the granite +and the snows. Up and up I rode, into the clouds and the night, into the +veil of the world, into the icy winds of the heights. An eagle screamed +above my head, poised like a black shadow in the opaque gloom. That +flying life was the only life in this waste. + +"And then my mule, edging ever to the precipice as a man to his fate, +sidled round a promontory of rock and set its feet in snow. For we had +passed the snow-line. And upon the snow lay thin spears of yellow light. +They streamed from the lattices of the monastery which crowns the very +summit of the pass. + + +III + +"At this monastery I was to spend the night. The good monks entertain +all travellers, and in summer-time their hospitalities are lavishly +exercised. But in winter, wanderers are few, and these holy men are left +almost undisturbed in their meditative solitudes. My mule paused upon a +rocky plateau before the door of the narrow grey building. The guide +struck upon the heavy wood. After a while we were admitted by a robed +figure, who greeted us kindly and made us welcome. Within, the place was +bare and poor enough, but scrupulously clean. I was led through long, +broad, and bitterly cold corridors to a big chamber in which I was to +pass the night. Here were ranged in a row four large beds with white +curtains. I occupied one bed, my servant another. The rest were +untenanted. The walls were lined with light wood. The wooden floor was +uncarpeted. I threw open the narrow window. Dimly I could see a mountain +of rocks, on which snow lay in patches, towering up into the clouds in +front of me. And to the left there was a glimmer of water. On the +morrow, by that water, I should ride down into the land of flowers to +which I was bound. Till then I would allow my imagination to luxuriate +in the bleak romance of this wild home of prayer. The pathos of the +night, shivering in the snow, and of this brotherhood of aspiring souls, +detached from the excitement of the world for ever, seeking restlessly +their final salvation day by day, night by night, in clouds of mountain +vapour and sanctified incense, entered into my soul. And I thought of +that imagined companion of mine. If he were with me now, surely he would +feel that he had led me to his home at length. Surely he would secretly +long to remain here. + +"I smiled, as I said to myself--'Monk, to-morrow, if, indeed, you are +fated to be my eternal attendant, you must come with me from this cold +station of the cross down into the sunshine, where the blood of men is +hot, where passions sing among the vineyards, where the battle is not of +souls but of flowers. To-morrow you must come with me. But to-night be +at peace!' + +"And I smiled to myself again as I fancied that my visionary companion +was glad. + +"Then I went down into the refectory. + +"That night, before I retired to my room of the four beds, I asked if I +might go into the chapel of the monastery. My request was granted. I +shall never forget the curious sensation which overtook me as my guide +led me down some steps past a dim, little, old, painted window set in +the wall, to the chapel. That there should be a church here, that the +deep tones of an organ should ever sound among these rocks and clouds, +that the Host should be elevated and the censer swung, and litanies and +masses be chanted amid these everlasting snows, all this was wonderful +and quickening to me. When we reached the chapel, I begged my kind guide +to leave me for a while. I longed to meditate alone. He left me, and +instinctively I sank down upon my knees. + +"I could just hear the keening of the wind outside. A dim light +glimmered near the altar, and in one of the oaken stalls I saw a bent +form praying. I knelt a long time. I did not pray. At first I scarcely +thought definitely. Only, I received into my heart the strange, +indelible impression of this wonderful place; and, as I knelt, my eyes +were ever upon that dark praying figure near to me. By degrees I +imagined that a wave of sympathy flowed from it to me, that in this +monk's devotions my name was not forgotten. + +"'What absurd tricks our imaginations can play us!' you will say. + +"I grew to believe that he prayed for me, there, under the dim light +from the tall tapers. + +"What blessing did he ask on me? I could not tell; but I longed that his +prayer might be granted. + +"And then, Bernard, at last he rose. He lifted his face from his hands +and stood up. Something in his figure seemed so strangely familiar to +me, so strangely that, on a sudden, I longed, I craved to see his face. + +"He seemed about to retreat through a side door near to the altar; then +he paused, appeared to hesitate, then came down the chapel towards me. +As he drew near to me--I scarcely knew why--but I hid my face deep in my +hands, with a dreadful sense of overwhelming guilt which dyed my cheeks +with blood. I shrank--I cowered. I trembled and was afraid. Then I felt +a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up into the face of the monk. + +"Bernard, it was the face of my invisible companion--it was my own +face. + +"The monk looked down into my eyes searchingly. He recoiled. + +"'_Mon démon!_' he whispered in French. '_Mon démon!_' + +"For a moment he stood still, like one appalled. Then he turned and +abruptly quitted the chapel. + +"I started up to follow him, but something held me back. I let him go, +and I listened to hear if his tread sounded upon the chapel floor as a +human footstep, if his robe rustled as he went. + +"Yes. Then he was, indeed, a living man, and it was a human voice which +had reached my ears, not a voice of imagination. He was a living man, +this double of my body, this antagonist of my soul, this being who +called me demon, who fled from me, who, doubtless, hated me. He was a +living man. + +"I could not sleep that night. This encounter troubled me. I felt that +it had a meaning for me which I must discover, that it was not chance +which had led me to take this cold road to the sunshine. Something had +bound me with an invisible thread, and led me up here into the clouds, +where already I--or the likeness of me--dwelt, perhaps had been dwelling +for many years. I had looked upon my living wraith, and my living wraith +had called me demon. + +"How could I sleep? + +"Very early I got up. The dawn was bitterly cold, but the snow had +ceased, though a coating of ice covered the little lake. How delicate +was the dawn here! The gathering, growing light fell upon the rocks, +upon the snow, upon the ice of the lake, upon the slate walls of the +monastery. And upon each it lay with a pretty purity, a thin refinement, +an austerity such as I had never seen before. So, even Nature, it +seemed, was purged by the continual prayers of these holy men. She, too, +like men, has her lusts, and her hot passions, and her wrath of warfare. +She, too, like men, can be edified and tended into grace. Nature among +these heights was a virgin, not a wanton, a fit companion for those who +are dedicated to virginity. + +"I dressed by the window, and went out to see the entrance of the +morning. There was nobody about. I had to find my own way. But when I +had gained the refectory, I saw a monk standing by the door. + +"It was my wraith waiting for me. + +"Silently he went before me to the great door of the building. He opened +it, and we stepped out upon the rocky plateau on which the snow lay +thickly. He closed the door behind us, and motioned me to attend him +among the rocks till we were out of sight of the monastery. Then he +stopped, and we faced one another, still without a word, the grey light +of the wintry dawn clothing us so wearily, so plaintively. + +"We gazed at each other, dark face to dark face, brown eyes to brown +eyes. The monk's pale hands, my hands, were clenched. The monk's strong +lips, my lips, were set. The two souls looked upon each other, there, in +the dawn. + +"And then at last he spoke in French, and with the beautiful voice I +knew. + +"'Whence have you come?' he said. + +"'From England, father.' + +"'From England? Then you live! you live. You are a man, as I am! And I +have believed you to be a spirit, some strange spirit of myself, lost to +my control, interrupting my prayers with your cries, interrupting my +sleep with your desires. You are a man like myself?' + +"He stretched out his hand and touched mine. + +"'Yes; it is indeed so,' he murmured. + +"'And you,' I said in my turn, 'are no spirit. Yet, I, too, believed you +to be a wraith of myself, interrupting my sins with your sorrow, +interrupting my desires with your prayers. I have seen you. I have +imagined you. And now I find you live. What does it mean? For we are as +one and yet not as one.' + +"'We are as two halves of a strangely-mingled whole,' he answered. 'Do +you know what you have done to me?' + +"'No, father.' + +"'Listen,' he said. 'When a boy I dedicated myself to God. Early, early +I dedicated myself, so that I might never know sin. For I had heard +that the charm of sin is so great and so terrible that, once it is +known, once it is felt, it can never be forgotten. And so it can make +the holiest life hideous with its memories. It can intrude into the very +sanctuary like a ghost, and murmur its music with the midnight mass. +Even at the elevation of the Host will it be present, and stir the heart +of the officiator to longing so keen that it is like the Agony of the +Garden, the Agony of Christ. There are monks here who weep because they +dare not sin, who rage secretly like beasts--because they will not sin.' + +"He paused. The grey light grew over the mountains. + +"'Knowing this, I resolved that I would never know sin, lest I, too, +should suffer so horribly. I threw myself at once into the arms of God. +Yet I have suffered--how I have suffered!' + +"His face was contorted, and his lips worked. I stood as if under a +spell, my eyes upon his face. I had only the desire to hear him. He went +on, speaking now in a voice roughened by emotion: + +"'For I became like these monks. You'--and he pointed at me with +outstretched fingers--'you, my wraith, made in my very likeness, were +surely born when I was born, to torment me. For, while I have prayed, I +have been conscious of your neglect of prayer as if it were my own. When +I have believed, I have been conscious of your unbelief as if it were +my own. Whatever I have feebly tried to do for God, has been marred and +defaced by all that you have left undone. I have wrestled with you; I +have tried to hold you back; I have tried to lead you with me where I +want to go, where I must go. All these years I have tried, all these +years I have striven. But it has seemed as if God did not choose it. +When you have been sinning, I have been agonising. I have lain upon the +floor of my cell in the night, and I have torn at my evil heart. +For--sometimes--I have longed--how I have longed!--to sin your sin.' + +"He crossed himself. Sudden tears sprang into his eyes. + +"'I have called you my demon,' he cried. 'But you are my cross. Oh, +brother, will you not be my crown?' + +"His eyes, shadowed with tears, gazed down into mine. Bernard, in that +moment, I understood all--my depression, my unreasoning despair, the +fancied hatred of others, even my few good impulses, all came from him, +from this living holy wraith of my evil self. + +"'Will you not be my crown?' he said. + +"Bernard, there, in the snow, I fell at his feet. I confessed to him. I +received his absolution. + +"And, as the light of the dawn grew strong upon the mountains, he, my +other self, my wraith, blessed me." + + * * * * * + +There was a long silence between us. Then I said:-- + +"And now?" + +"And now you know why I have changed. That day, as I went down into the +land of the sunshine, I made a vow." + +"A vow?" + +"Yes; to be his crown, not his cross. I soon returned to England. At +first I was happy, and then one day my old evil nature came upon me like +a giant. I fell again into sin, and, even as I sinned, I saw his face +looking into mine, Bernard, pale, pale to the lips, and with eyes--such +sad eyes of reproach! Then I thought I was not fit to live, and I tried +to kill myself. They saved me, and brought me here." + +"Yes; and now, Hubert?" + +"Now," he said, "I am so happy. God surely placed me here where I cannot +sin. The days pass and the nights, and they are stainless. And he--he +comes by night and blesses me. I live for him now, and see always the +grey walls of his monastery, his face which shall, at last, be +completely mine." + + * * * * * + +"Good-bye," the doctor said to me as I got into the carriage to drive +back to the station. "Yes, he is perfectly happy, happier in his mania, +I believe, than you or I in our sanity." + +I drove away from that huge home of madness, set in the midst of lovely +gardens in a smiling landscape, and I pondered those last words of the +doctor's:-- + +"You and I--in our sanity." + +And, thinking of the peace that lay on Hubert's face, I compared the +so-called mad of the world with the so-called sane--and wondered. + + + + +THE MAN WHO INTERVENED + + +I + +The atmosphere of the room in which Sergius Blake was sitting seemed to +him strange and cold. As he looked round it, he could imagine that a +light mist invaded it stealthily, like miasma rising from some sinister +marsh. There was surely a cloud about the electric light that gleamed in +the ceiling, a cloud sweeping in feathery, white flakes across the faces +of the pictures upon the wall. Even the familiar furniture seemed to +loom out faintly, with a gaunt and grotesque aspect, from shadows less +real, yet more fearful, than any living form could be. + +Sergius stared round him slowly, pressing his strong lips together. When +he concentrated his gaze upon any one thing--a table, a sofa, a +chair--the cloud faded, and the object stood out clearly before his +eyes. Yet always the rest of the room seemed to lie in mist and in +shadows. He knew that this dim atmosphere did not really exist, that it +was projected by his mind. Yet it troubled him, and added a dull horror +to his thoughts, which moved again and again, in persistent promenade, +round one idea. + +The hour was seven o'clock of an autumn night. Darkness lay over +London, and rain made a furtive music on roofs and pavements. Sergius +Blake listened to the drops upon the panes of his windows. They seemed +to beckon him forth, to tell him that it was time to exchange thought +for action. He had come to a definite and tremendous resolution. He must +now carry it out. + +He got up slowly from his chair, and with the movement the mist seemed +to gather itself together in the room and to disappear. It passed away, +evaporating among the pictures and ornaments, the prayer-rugs and +divans. A clearness and an insight came to Sergius. He stood still by +the piano, on which he rested one hand lightly, and listened. The +rain-drops pattered close by. Beyond them rose the dull music of the +evening traffic of New Bond Street, in which thoroughfare he lived. As +he stood thus at attention, his young and handsome face seemed carved in +stone. His lips were set in a hard and straight line. His dark-grey eyes +stared, like eyes in a photograph. The muscles of his long-fingered +hands were tense and knotted. He was in evening dress, and had been +engaged to dine in Curzon Street; but he had written a hasty note to say +he was ill and could not come. Another appointment claimed him. He had +made it for himself. + +Presently, lifting his hand from the piano, he took up a small leather +case from a table that stood near, opened it, and drew out a revolver. +He examined it carefully. Two chambers were loaded. They would be +enough. He put on his long overcoat, and slipped the revolver into his +left breast pocket. His heart could beat against it there. + +Each time his heart pulsed, Sergius seemed to hear the silence of +another heart. + +And now, though his mind was quite clear, and the mists and shadows had +slunk away, his familiar room looked very peculiar to him. The very +chair in which he generally sat wore the aspect of a stranger. Was the +wall paper really blue? Sergius went close up to it and examined it +narrowly, and then he drew back and laughed softly, like a child. In the +sound of his laugh irresponsibility chimed. "What is the cab fare to +Phillimore Place, Kensington?" he thought, searching in his waistcoat +pocket. "Half a crown?" He put the coin carefully in the ticket pocket +of his overcoat, buttoned the coat up slowly, took his hat and stick, +and drew on a pair of lavender gloves. Just then a new thought seemed to +strike him and he glanced down at his hands. + +"Lavender gloves for such a deed!" he murmured. For a moment he paused +irresolute, even partially unbuttoned them. But then he smiled and shook +his head. In some way the gloves would not be wholly inappropriate. +Sergius cast one final glance round the room. + +"When I stand here again," he said aloud, "I shall be a criminal--a +criminal!" + +He repeated the last word, as if trying thoroughly to realise its +meaning. + +Then he opened the door swiftly and went out on to the staircase. + +Just as he was putting a hasty foot upon the first stair, a man out in +the street touched his electric bell. Its thin tingling cry made Sergius +start and hesitate. In the semi-twilight he waited, his hands deep in +his pockets, his silk hat tilted slightly over his eyes. The porter +tramped along the passage below. The hall door opened, and a deep and +strong voice asked, rather anxiously and breathlessly:-- + +"Is Mr. Blake at home?" + +"I rather think he's gone out, sir." + +"No--surely--how long ago?" + +"I don't know, sir. He may be in. I'll see." + +"Do--do--quickly. If he's in, say I must see him--Mr Endover. But you +know my name." + +"Yes, sir." + +The porter, mounting the stone staircase, suddenly came upon Sergius +standing there like a stone figure. + +"Lord, sir!" he ejaculated. "You give me a start!" His voice was loud +from astonishment. + +"Hush!" Sergius whispered. "Go down at once and say that I've gone out!" + +The man turned to obey, but Anthony Endover was half-way up the stairs. + +"It's all right," he exclaimed, as he met the porter. + +He had passed him in an instant and arrived at the place where Sergius +was standing. + +"Sergius," he cried, and there was a great music of relief in his voice. +"Hulloa! Now you're not going out." + +"Yes, I am, Anthony." + +"But I want to talk to you tremendously. Where are you going?" + +"To dine with the Venables in Curzon Street." + +"I met young Venables just now, and he said you'd written that you were +ill and couldn't come. He asked me to fill your place." + +Sergius muttered a "Damn!" under his breath. + +"Well, come in for a minute," he said, attempting no excuse. + +He turned round slowly and re-entered his flat, followed by Endover. + + +II + +For some years Endover had been Sergius Blake's close friend. They had +left Eton at the same time; had been at Oxford together. Their intimacy, +born in the playing fields, grew out of its cricket and football stage +as their minds developed, and the world of thought opened like a holy +of holies--beyond the world of action. They both passed behind the veil, +but Anthony went farther than Sergius. Yet this slight separation did +not lead to alienation, but merely caused the admiration of Sergius for +his friend to be mingled with respect. He looked up to Anthony. +Recognising that his friend's mind was more thoughtful than his own, +while his passions were far stronger than Anthony's, he grew to lean +upon Anthony, to claim his advice sometimes, to follow it often. Anthony +was his mentor, and thought he knew instinctively all the workings of +Sergius' mind and all the possibilities of his nature. The mother of +Sergius was a Russian and a great heiress. Soon after he left Oxford, +she died. His father had been killed by an accident when he was a child. +So he was rich, free, young, in London, with no one to look after him, +until Anthony Endover, who had meanwhile taken orders, was attached as +fourth--or fifth--curate to a smart West End church, and came to live in +lodgings in George Street, Hanover Square. + +Then, as Sergius laughingly said, he had a father confessor on the +premises. Yet to-night he had bidden his porter to tell a lie in order +to keep his father confessor out. The lie had been vain. Sergius led the +way morosely into his drawing-room, and turned on the light. Anthony +walked up to the fire, and stretched his tall athletic figure in its +long ebon coat. His firm throat rose out of a jam-pot collar, but his +thin, strongly-marked face rather suggested an intellectual Hercules +than a Mayfair parson, and neither his voice nor his manner was tinged +with what so many people consider the true clericalism. + +For all that he was a splendid curate, as his rector very well knew. + +Now he stood by the fire for a minute in silence, while Sergius moved +uneasily about the room. Presently Anthony turned round. + +"It's beastly wet," he said in a melodious ringing voice. "The black dog +is on me to-night, Sergius." + +"Oh!" + +"You don't want to go out, really," Anthony continued, looking narrowly +at his friend's curiously rigid face. + +"Yes, I do." + +"Not to Curzon Street. They've filled up your place. I told Venables to +ask Hugh Graham. I knew he was disengaged to-night. Besides--you're +seedy." + +Sergius frowned. + +"I'm all right again now," he said coldly, "and I particularly wished to +go. You needn't have been so deuced anxious to make the number right." + +"Well, it's done now. And I can't say I'm sorry, because I want to have +a talk with you. I say, Serge, take off those lavender gloves, pull off +your coat, let's send out for some dinner, and have a comfortable +evening together in here. I've had a hard day's work, and I want a +rest." + +"I must go out presently." + +"After dinner then." + +"Before ten o'clock." + +"Say eleven." + +"No--that's too late." + +A violent, though fleeting expression of anxiety crossed Endover's face. +Then, with a smile, he said:-- + +"All right. Shall I ring the bell and order some dinner to be sent in +from Galton's?" + +"If you like. I'm not hungry." + +"I am." + +Anthony summoned the servant and gave the order. Then he turned again to +Sergius. + +"Here, I'll help you off with your coat," he said. + +But Sergius moved away. + +"No thanks, I'll do it. There are some cigarettes on the mantelpiece." + +Anthony went to get one. As he was taking it, he looked into the +mirror over the fireplace, and saw Sergius--while removing his +overcoat--transfer something from it to the left breast pocket of his +evening coat. + +He wanted still to feel his heart beat against that tiny weapon, still +to hear--with each pulse of his own heart--the silence, not yet alive, +but so soon to be alive, of that other heart. + +And, as Anthony glanced into the mirror, he said to himself, "I was +right!" + +He withdrew his eyes from the glass and lit his cigarette. Sergius +joined him. + +"I'm in the blues to-night," Anthony said, puffing at his cigarette. + +"Are you?" + +"Yes--been down in the East End. The misery there is ghastly." + +"It's just as bad in the West End, only different in kind. You're +smoking your cigarette all down one side." + +Anthony took it out of his mouth and threw it into the grate. He lit two +or three matches, but held them so badly that they went out before he +could ignite another cigarette. At last, inwardly cursing his nerves +that made his hasty actions belie the determined calm of his face, he +dropped the cigarette. + +"I don't think I'll smoke before dinner," he said. "Ah, here it is. And +wine--champagne--that's good for you!" + +"I shan't drink it. I hate to drink alone." + +"You shan't drink alone then." + +"What d'you mean?" + +"I'll drink with you." + +"But you're a teetotaller." + +"I don't care to-night." + +Anthony spoke briefly and firmly. Sergius was amazed. + +"What!" he said. "You're going to break your vow? You a parson!" + +"Sometimes salvation lies in the breaking of a vow," Anthony answered as +they sat down. "Have you never registered a silent vow?" + +Sergius looked at him hard in the eyes. + +"Yes," he said; and in his voice there was the hint of a thrilling note. +"But I shan't--I shouldn't break it." + +"I've known a soul saved alive by the breaking of a vow," Anthony +answered. "Give me some champagne." + +Sergius--wondering, as much as the condition of his mind, possessed by +one idea, would allow--filled his friend's glass. Anthony began to eat, +with a well-assumed hunger. Sergius scarcely touched food, but drank a +good deal of wine. The hands of the big oaken-cased clock that stood in +a far corner of the room crawled slowly upon their round, recurring +tour. Anthony's eyes were often upon them, then moved with a swift +directness that was akin to passion to the face of Sergius, which was +always strangely rigid, like the painted face of a mask. + +"I sat by a woman to-day," he said presently, "sat by her in an attic +that looked on to a narrow street full of rain, and watched her die." + +"This morning?" + +"Yes." + +"And now she's been out of the world seven or eight hours. Lucky woman!" + +"Ah, Sergius, but the mischief, the horror of it was that she wasn't +ready to go, not a bit ready." + +Sergius suddenly smiled, a straight, glaring smile, over the sparkling +champagne that he was lifting to his lips. + +"Yes; it's devilish bad for a woman or a--man to be shot into another +world before they're prepared," he said. "It must be--devilish bad." + +"And how can we know that any one is thoroughly prepared?" + +Sergius' smile developed into a short laugh. + +"It's easier to be certain who isn't than who is," he said. + +The eyes of Anthony fled to the clock face mechanically and returned. + +"Death terrified me to-day, Sergius," he said; "and it struck me that +the most awful power that God has given to man is the power of setting +death--like a dog--at another man." + +Sergius swallowed all the wine in his glass at a gulp. He was no longer +smiling. His hand went up to his left side. + +"It may be awful," he rejoined; "but it's grand. By Heaven! it's +magnificent." + +He got up, as if excited, and moved about the room, while Anthony went +on pretending to eat. After a minute or two Sergius sat down again. + +"Power of any kind is a grand thing," he said. + +"Only power for good." + +"You're bound to say that; you're a parson." + +"I only say what I really feel; you know that, Serge." + +"Ah, you don't understand." + +Anthony looked at him with a sudden, strong significance. + +"Part of a parson's profession--the most important part--is to +understand men who aren't parsons." + +"You think you understand men?" + +"Some men." + +"Me, for instance?" + +The question came abruptly, defiantly. Anthony seemed glad to answer it. + +"Well, yes, Sergius; I think I do thoroughly understand you. My great +friendship alone might well make me do that." + +The face of Sergius grew a little softer in expression, but he did not +assent. + +"Perhaps it might blind you," he said. + +"I don't think so." + +"Well, then, now, if you understand me--tell me--" + +Sergius broke off suddenly. + +"This champagne is awfully good," he said, filling his glass again. + +"What were you going to say?" Anthony asked. + +"I don't know--nothing." + +Anthony tried to conceal his disappointment. Sergius had seemed to be on +the verge of over-leaping the barrier which lay between them. Once that +barrier was overleapt, or broken down, Anthony felt that the mission he +had imposed upon himself would stand a chance of being accomplished, +that his gnawing anxiety would be laid to rest. But once more Sergius +diffused around him a strange and cold atmosphere of violent and knowing +reserve. He went away from the table and sat down close to the fire. +From there he threw over his shoulder the remark:-- + +"No man or woman ever understands another--really." + + +III + +Anthony did not reply for a moment and Sergius continued:-- + +"You, for instance, could never guess what I should do in certain +circumstances." + +"Such as--" + +"Oh, in a thousand things." + +"I should have a shrewd idea." + +"No." + +Anthony didn't contradict him, but got up from the dinner-table and +joined him by the fire, glass in hand. + +"I might not let you know how much I guessed, how much I knew." + +Sergius laughed. + +"Oh, ignorance always surrounds itself with mystery," he said. + +"Knowledge need not go naked." + +Again the eyes of the two friends met in the firelight, and over the +face of Sergius there ran a new expression. There was an awakening of +wonder in it, but no uneasiness. Anxiety was far away from him that +night. When passion has gripped a man, passion strong enough, resolute +enough, to over-ride all the prejudices of civilisation, all the +promptings of the coward within us, whose voice, whining, we name +prudence, the semi-comprehension, the criticism of another man cannot +move him. Sergius wondered for an instant whether Anthony suspected +against what his heart was beating. That was all. + +While he wondered, the clock chimed the half hour after nine. He heard +it. + +"I shall have to go very soon," he said. + +"You can't. Just listen to the rain." + +"Rain! What's that got to do with it?" + +Sergius spoke with a sudden unutterable contempt. + +"Ring for another bottle of champagne," Anthony replied. "This one is +empty." + +"Well--for a parson and a teetotaller, I must say!" + +Sergius rang the bell. A second bottle was opened. The servant went out +of the room. As he closed the door, the wind sighed harshly against the +window panes, driving the rain before it. + +"Rough at sea to-night," Anthony said. + +The remark was an obvious one; but, as spoken, it sounded oddly furtive, +and full of hidden meaning. Sergius evidently found it so, for he said: + +"Why, whom d'you know that's going to sea to-night?" + +Anthony was startled by the quick question, and replied almost +nervously:-- + +"Nobody in particular--why should I?" + +"I don't know why, but I think you do." + +"People one knows cross the channel every night almost." + +"Of course," Sergius said indifferently. + +He glanced towards the clock and again mechanically his hand went up, +for a second, to his left breast. Anthony leaned forward in his chair +quickly, and broke into speech. He had seen the stare at the clock-face, +the gesture. + +"It's strange," he said, "how people go out of our lives, how friends +go, and enemies!" + +"Enemies!" + +"Yes. I sometimes wonder which exit is the sadder. When a friend +goes--with him goes, perhaps for ever, the chance of saying 'I am your +friend.' When an enemy goes--" + +"Well, what then?" + +"With him goes, perhaps for ever, too, the chance of saying, 'I am not +your enemy.'" + +"Pshaw! Parson's talk, Anthony." + +"No, Sergius, other men forgive besides parsons; and other men, and +parsons too, pass by their chances of forgiving." + +"You're a whole Englishman, I'm only half an Englishman. There's +something untamed in my blood, and I say--damn forgiveness!" + +"And yet you've forgiven." + +"Whom?" + +"Olga Mayne." + +The face of Sergius did not change at the sound of this name, unless, +perhaps, to a more fixed calm, a more still and pale coldness. + +"Olga is punished," he said. "She is ruined." + +"Her ruin may be repaired." + +Sergius smiled quietly. + +"You think so?" + +"Yes. Tell me, Sergius"--Anthony spoke with a strong earnestness, a +strong excitement that he strove to conceal and hold in check--"you +loved her?" + +"Yes, I loved her--certainly." + +"You will always love her?" + +"Since I'm not changeable, I daresay I shall." + +Anthony's thin, eager face brightened. A glow of warmth burned in his +eyes and on his cheeks. + +"Then you would wish her ruin repaired." + +"Should I?" + +"If you love her, you must." + +"How could it be repaired?" + +"By her marriage with--Vernon." + +Anthony's strong voice quivered before he pronounced the last word, and +his eyes were alight with fervent anxiety. He was looking at Sergius +like a man on the watch for a tremendous outbreak of emotion. The +champagne he had drunk--a new experience for him since he had taken +orders--put a sort of wild finishing touch to the intensity of the +feelings, under the impulse of which he had forced himself upon Sergius +to-night. He supposed that his inward excitement must be more than +matched by the so different inward excitement of his friend. But he--who +thought he understood!--had no true conception of the region of cold, +frosty fury in which Sergius was living, like a being apart from all +other men, ostracised by the immensity and peculiarity of his own power +of emotion. Therefore he was astonished when Sergius, with undiminished +quietude, replied: + +"Oh, with Vernon, that charming man of fashion, whose very soul, they +say, always wears lavender gloves? You think that would be a good +thing?" + +"Good! I don't say that. I say--as the world is now--the only thing. He +is the author of her fall. He should be her husband." + +"And I?" + +Anthony stretched out his hand to grasp his friend's hand, but Sergius +suddenly took up his champagne glass, and avoided the demonstration of +sympathy. + +"You can be nothing to her now, Serge," Anthony said, and his voice +quivered with sympathy. + +"You think so? I might be." + +"What?" + +"Oh, not her husband, not her lover, not her friend." + +"What then?" + +Sergius avoided answering. + +"You would have her settle down with Vernon in Phillimore Place?" he +said. "Play the wife to his noble husband? Well, I know there's been +some idea of that, as I told you yesterday." + +The clock chimed ten. Although Sergius seemed so calm, so +self-possessed, Anthony observed that now he paid no heed to the little, +devilish note of time. This new subject of conversation had been +Anthony's weapon. Desperately he had used it, and not, it seemed, +altogether in vain. + +"Yes; as you told me yesterday." + +"And it seems good to you?" + +"It seems to me the only thing possible now." + +"There are generally more possibilities than one in any given event, I +fancy." + +Again Anthony was surprised at the words of Sergius, who seemed to grow +calmer as he grew more excited, who seemed, to-night, strangely +powerful, not simply in temper, but even in intellect. + +"For a woman there is sometimes only one possibility if she is to be +saved from ignominy, Serge." + +"So you think that Olga Mayne must become the wife of Vernon, who is +a--" + +"Coward. Yes." + +At the word coward, Sergius seemed startled out of his hard calm. He +looked swiftly and searchingly at Anthony. + +"Why do you say coward?" he asked sharply. "I was not going to use that +word." + +Anthony was obviously disconcerted. + +"It came to me," he said hurriedly. + +"Why?" + +"Any man that brings a girl to the dust is a coward." + +"Ah--that's not what you meant," Sergius said. + +Anthony stole a glance at the clock. The hand crawled slowly over the +quarter of an hour past ten. + +"No, it was not," he said slowly. + + +IV + +Sergius got up from his chair and stood by the fire. He was obviously +becoming engrossed by the conversation. Anthony could at least notice +this with thankfulness. + +"Anthony, I see you've got a fresh knowledge of Vernon since I was with +you yesterday," Sergius continued; "some new knowledge of his nature." + +"Perhaps I have." + +"How did you get it?" + +"Does that matter?" + +"You have heard of something about him?" + +"No." + +"You have seen him, then; I say, you have seen him?" + +Anthony hesitated. He pushed the champagne bottle over towards Sergius. +It had been placed on a little table near the fireplace. + +"No; I don't want to drink. Why on earth don't you answer me, Anthony?" + +"I have always felt that Vernon was a coward. His conduct to you shows +it. He was--or seemed--your friend. He saw you deeply in love with +this--with Olga. He chose to ruin her after he knew of your love. Who +but a coward could act in such a way?" + +An expression of dark impatience came into the eyes of Sergius. + +"You are confusing treachery and cowardice, and you are doing it +untruthfully. You have seen Vernon." + +Anthony thought for a moment, and then said: + +"Yes, I have." + +"By chance, of course. Why did you speak to him?" + +"I thought I would." + +Sergius was obviously disturbed and surprised. The deeply emotional, yet +rigid calm in which he had been enveloped all the evening was broken at +last. A slight excitement, a distinct surface irritation, woke in him. +Anthony felt an odd sense of relief as he observed it. For the +constraint of Sergius had begun to weigh upon him like a heavy burden +and to move him to an indefinable dread. + +"I wonder you didn't cut him," Sergius said. "You're my friend. And +he's--he's--" + +"He's done you a deadly injury. I know that. I am your friend, Serge; I +would do anything for you." + +"Yet you speak to that--devil." + +"I spoke to him because I'm your friend." + +Sergius sat down again, with a heavy look, the look of a man who has +been thrashed, and means to return every blow with curious interest. + +"You parsons are a riddle to me," he said in a low and dull voice. "You +and your charity and your loving-kindness, and your turning the cheek to +the smiter and all the rest of it. And as to your way of showing +friendship--" + +His voice died away in something that was almost a growl, and he stared +at the carpet. Between it and his eyes once more the mist seemed rising +stealthily. It began to curl upwards softly about him. As he watched it, +he heard Anthony say:-- + +"Sergius, you don't understand how well I understand you." + +The big hand of the clock had left the half-hour after ten behind him. +Anthony breathed more freely. At last he could be more explicit, more +unreserved. He thought of a train rushing through the night, devouring +the spaces of land that lie between London and the sea that speaks, +moaning, to the South of England. He saw a ship glide out from the +dreary docks. Her lights gleamed. He heard the bell struck and the harsh +cry of the sailors, and then the dim sigh of a coward who had escaped +what he had merited. Then he heard Sergius laugh. + +"That again, Anthony!" + +"Yes. I didn't meet Vernon by chance at all." + +"What? You wrote to him, you fixed a meeting?" + +"I went to Phillimore Place, to his house." + +Sergius said nothing. Strange furrows ploughed themselves in his young +face, which was growing dusky white. He remained in the attitude of one +devoted entirely to listening. + +"You hear, Sergius?" + +"Go on--when?" + +"To-day. I decided to go after I met you yesterday night--and after I +had seen that woman die--unprepared." + +"What could she have to do with it?" + +"Much. Everything almost." + +Anthony got up now, almost sprang up from his chair. His face was +glowing and working with emotion. There was a choking sensation in his +throat. + +"You don't know what it is," he said hoarsely, "to a man with--with +strong religious belief to see a human being's soul go out to blackness, +to punishment--perhaps to punishment that will never end. It's +abominable. It's unbearable. That woman will haunt me. Her despair will +be with me always. I could not add to that horror." + +His eyes once more sought the clock. Seeing the hour, he turned, with a +kind of liberating relief, to Sergius. + +"I couldn't add to it," he exclaimed, almost fiercely, "so I went to +Vernon." + +"Why?" + +"Sergius--to warn him." + +There was a dead silence. Even the rain was hushed against the window. +Then Sergius said, in a voice that was cold as the sound of falling +water in winter:-- + +"I don't understand." + +"Because you won't understand how I have learnt to know you, Sergius, to +understand you, to read your soul." + +"Mine too?" + +"Yes; I've felt this awful blow that's come upon you--the loss of Olga, +her ruin--as if I myself were you. We haven't said much about it till +yesterday. Then, from the way you spoke, from the way you looked, from +what you said, even what you wouldn't say, I guessed all that was in +your heart." + +"You guessed all that?" + +Sergius was looking directly at Anthony and leaning against the +mantelpiece, along which he stretched one arm. His fingers closed and +unclosed, with a mechanical and rhythmical movement, round a china +figure. The motion looked as if it were made in obedience to some +fiercely monotonous music. + +"Yes, more--I knew it." + +Sergius nodded. + +"I see," he said. + +Anthony touched his arm, almost with an awe-struck gesture. + +"I knew then that you--that you intended to kill Vernon. And--God +forgive me!--at first I was almost glad." + +"Well--go on!" + +Anthony shivered. The voice of Sergius was so strangely calm and level. + +"I--I--" he stammered. "Serge, why do you look at me like that?" + +Sergius looked away without a word. + +"For I, too, hated Vernon, more for what he had done to you even than +for what he had done to Olga. But, Sergius, after you had gone, in the +night, and in the dawn too, I kept on thinking of it over and over. I +couldn't get away from it--that you were going to commit such an awful +crime. I never slept. When at last it was morning, I went down to my +district; there are criminals there, you know." + +"I know." + +"I looked at them with new eyes, and in their eyes I saw you, always +you; and then I said to myself could I bear that you should become a +criminal?" + +"You said that?" + +The fingers of Sergius closed over the china figure, and did not +unclose. + +"Yes. I almost resolved then to go to Vernon at once and to tell him +what I suspected--what I really knew." + +The clock struck eleven. Anthony heard it; Sergius did not hear it. + +"Then I went to sit with that wretched woman. Already I had resolved, as +I believed, on the course to take. I had no thought for Vernon yet, only +for you. It seemed to me that I did not care in the least to save him +from death. I only cared to save you--my friend--from murder. But when +the woman died I felt differently. My resolve was strengthened, my +desire was just doubled. I had to save not only you, but also him. He +was not ready to die." + +Anthony trembled with a passion of emotion. Sergius remained always +perfectly calm, the china figure prisoned in his hand. + +"So--so I went to him, Sergius." + +"Yes." + +"I saw him. Almost as I entered he received your letter, saying that you +forgave him, that you would call to-night after eight o'clock to tell +him so, and to urge on his marriage with Olga. When he had read the +letter--I interpreted it to him; and then I found out that he was a +coward. His terror was abject--despicable; he implored my help; he +started at every sound." + +"To-night he'll sleep quietly, Anthony." + +"To-night he has gone. Before morning he will be on the sea." + +The sound of the wind came to them again, and Sergius understood why +Anthony had said: "Rough at sea to-night." + +Suddenly Sergius moved; he unclosed his fingers: the ruins of the china +figure fell from them in a dust of blue and white upon the mantelpiece. + +"No--it's too late, Sergius. He went at eleven." + +Sergius stood quite still. + +"You came here to-night to keep me here till he had gone?" + +"Yes." + +"That's why you--" + +He stopped. + +"That's why I came. That's why I broke my pledge. I thought wine--any +weapon to keep you from this crime. And, Sergius, think. Vernon dead +could never have restored Olga to the place she has lost. That, too, +must have driven me to the right course, though I scarcely thought of it +till now." + +Sergius said, as if in reply: "So you have understood me!" + +"Yes, Sergius. Friendship is something. Let us thank God, not even that +he is safe, but that you--you are safe--and that Olga--" + +"Hush! Has she gone with him?" + +"She will meet him. He has sworn to marry her." + +The hand of Sergius moved to his left breast. Anthony's glowing eyes +were fixed upon him. + +"Ah, yes, Sergius," Anthony cried. "Put that cursed, cursed thing down, +put it away. Now it can never wreck your life and my peace." + +Sergius drew out the revolver slowly and carefully. Again the mist rose +around him. But it was no longer white; it was scarlet. + +There was a report. Anthony fell, without a word, a cry. + +Then Sergius bent down, and listened to the silence of his friend's +heart--the long silence of the man who intervened. + + + + +AFTER TO-MORROW + + +I + +In his gilded cage, above the window-boxes that were full of white +daisies, the canary chirped with a desultory vivacity. That was the only +near sound that broke the silence in the drawing-room of No. 100 Mill +Street, Knightsbridge, in which a man and a woman stood facing one +another. Away, beyond his twittering voice, sang in the London streets +the muffled voice of the season. The time was late afternoon, and rays +of mellow light slanted into the pretty room, and touched its crowd of +inanimate occupants with a radiance in which the motes danced merrily. +The china faces of two goblins on the mantelpiece glowed with a +grotesque meaning, and their yellow smiles seemed to call aloud on +mirth; but the faces of the man and woman were pale, and their lips +trembled, and did not smile. + +She was tall, dark, and passionate-looking, perhaps twenty-eight or +thirty. He was a few years older, a man so steadfast in expression that +silly people, who spring at exaggeration as saints spring at heaven, +called him stern, and even said he looked forbidding--at balls. + +At last the song of the canary was broken upon by a voice. Sir Hugh +Maine spoke, very quietly. "Why not?" he said. + +"I don't think I can tell you," Mrs. Glinn answered, with an obvious +effort. + +"You prefer to refuse me without giving a reason?" + +"I have a right to," she said. + +"I don't question it. You cannot expect me to say more than that." + +He took up his hat, which lay on a chair, and smoothed it mechanically +with his coat-sleeve. + +The action seemed to pierce her like a knife, for she started, and +half-extended her hand. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "At least, wait one +moment. So you belong to the second class of men." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Men are divided into two classes--those who refuse to be refused, and +those who accept. But don't be too--too swift in your acceptance. After +all, a refusal is not exactly a bank-note." + +She tried to smile. + +"But I am exactly a beggar," he answered, still keeping the hat in his +hand. "And if you have nothing to give me, I may as well go." + +"And spend the rest of your life in sweeping the old crossing?" + +"And spend the rest of my life as I can," he said. "That need not +concern you." + +"A woman must be all to a man, or nothing?" + +"You must be all to me, or nothing." + +She sat down in an arm-chair in that part of the room that was in +shadow. She always sat instinctively in shadow when she wanted to think. + +"Well?" Sir Hugh said. "What are you thinking?" + +She glanced up at him. "That you don't look much like a beggar," she +said. + +"It is possible to feel tattered in a frock-coat and patent-leather +boots," he answered. "Good-bye. I am going back to my crossing." And he +moved towards the door. + +"No, stop!" she exclaimed. "Before you go, tell me one thing." + +"What is it?" + +"Will you ever ask me to marry you again?" + +He looked hard into her eyes. "I shall always want to, but I shall never +do it," he said slowly. + +"I am glad you have told me that. We women depend so much on a +repetition of the offence, when we blame a man for saying he loves us, +and ask him not to do it again. If you really mean only to propose once, +I must reconsider my position." + +She was laughing, but the tears stood in her eyes. + +"Why do you want to make this moment a farcical one?" he asked rather +bitterly. + +"Oh, Hugh!" she answered, "don't you see? Because it is really--really +so tragic. I only try to do for this moment what we all try to do for +life." + +"Then you love me?" he said, moving a step forward. + +"I never denied that," she replied. "I might as well deny that I am a +woman." + +He held out his arms. "Eve--then I shall never go back to the crossing." + +But she drew back. "Go--go there till to-morrow! To-morrow afternoon I +will see you; and if you love me after that--" + +"Yes?" + +She turned away and pressed the bell. "Good-bye," she said. Her voice +sounded strange to him. + +He came nearer, and touched her hand; but she drew it away. + +"You may kiss me," she said. + +"Eve!" + +"After to-morrow." + +The footman came in answer to the bell. Mrs Glinn did not turn round. "I +only rang for you to open the door for Sir Hugh," she said. "Good-bye +then, Sir Hugh. Come at five." + +"I will," he answered, wondering. + +When he had gone, Mrs Glinn sat down in a chair and took up a French +novel. It was by Gyp. She tried to read it, with tears running over her +cheeks. But at last she laid it down. + +"After to-morrow," she murmured. "Ah, why--why does a woman ever love +twice?" And then she sobbed. + +But the canary sang, and the motes danced merrily in the sunbeams. And +on the table where she had put it down lay "_Le Mariage de Chiffon_." + + +II + +That evening, when Sir Hugh Maine came back to his rooms in Jermyn +Street after dining out, he found a large man sprawling in one of his +saddle-back chairs, puffing vigorously at a pipe that looked worn with +long and faithful service. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and +sprang up. + +"Hullo, Maine!" he cried. "D'you recognise the tobacco and me?" + +Hugh grasped his hand warmly. "Rather," he said. "Neither is changed. At +least--h'm--I think you both seem a bit stronger even than usual. Who +would have thought of seeing you, Manning? I did not know you were in +Europe." + +"I came from Asia. I thought I should like to hear Melba before the end +of the season. And it was getting sultry out there. So here I am." + +"And were those your only reasons?" + +"Give me a brandy-and-soda," said the other. + +Maine did as he was bid, lit a cigar, and sat down, stretching out his +long legs. The other man took a pull at his glass, and spoke again. + +"I am very fond of music," he said; "and Melba sings very well." + +"Ah!" + +"Look here, Maine," Manning broke out suddenly, "you are right--I had +another reason. Kipling says that those who have heard the East +a-calling never heed any other voice. He's wrong though. The West has +been calling me, or, at least, a voice in the West, and I have resisted +it for a deuce of a time. But at last it became imperative." + +"A woman's voice, I suppose?" + +"Yes." + +"Tell me what is its _timbre_, if you care to." + +"I will. You're an old friend, and I can talk to you. But you tell me +one thing first: Is a man really a fool to marry a woman with a past?" + +"You are going to?" + +"I have tried not to. I have been trying not to for three years. Listen! +When I was travelling in Japan I met her. She was with an American +called Glinn." + +"What?" + +"You knew him?" + +"No! It's all right. I was surprised, because at the moment I was +thinking of that very name." + +"Oh! Well, she passed as Mrs Glinn; but, somehow, it got out that she +was something else. The usual story, you know. People fought shy of +her; but I don't think she cared much. Glinn was devoted to her, and she +loved him, and was as true to him as any wife could have been. Then the +tragedy came." + +"What was it?" + +"Glinn died suddenly in Tokio, of typhoid. She nursed him to the end. +And when the end came her situation was awful, so lonely and deserted. +There wasn't a woman in the hotel who would be her friend; so I tried to +come to the rescue, arranged her affairs, saw about the funeral, and did +what I could. She was well off; Glinn left her nearly all his money. He +would have married her, only he had a wife alive somewhere." + +"And you fell in love with her, of course?" + +"That was the sort of thing. If you knew her you would not wonder at it. +She was not a bad woman. Glinn had been the only one. She loved him too +much; that was all. She came to Europe, and lived in Paris for a time, +keeping the name of Mrs Glinn. I used to see her sometimes, but I never +said anything. You see, there was her past. In fact, I have been +fighting against her for three years. I went to India to get cured; but +it was no good. And now, here I am." + +"And she is in Paris?" + +"No, in London at present; but I didn't know her address till to-day. I +think she had her doubts of me, and meant to give me the slip." + +"How did you find it out?" + +"Quite by chance. I was walking in Mill Street, Knightsbridge, and saw +her pass in a victoria." + +Maine got up suddenly, and went over to the spirit-stand. "In Mill +Street?" he said. + +"Yes. The carriage stopped at No. 100. She went in. A footman came out +and carried in her rug. _Ergo_, she lives there." + +"How hot it is!" said Maine in a hard voice. He threw up one of the +windows and leaned out. He felt as if he were choking. A little way down +the street a half-tipsy guardsman was reeling along, singing his own +private version of "Tommy Atkins." He narrowly avoided a lamp-post by an +abrupt lurch which took him into the gutter. Maine heard some one laugh. +It was himself. + +"Well, old chap," said Manning, who had come up behind him, "what would +you advise me to do? I'm in a fix. I'm in love with Eve--that's her +name; I can't live without her happily, and yet I hate to marry a woman +with a--well, you know how it is." + +Maine drew himself back into the room and faced round. "Does she love +you?" he asked; and there was a curious change in his manner towards his +friend. + +"I don't know that she does," Manning said, rather uncomfortably. "But +that would come right. She would marry me, naturally." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I mean the position. Lady Herbert Manning could go where Mrs +Glinn could not, and all that sort of thing." + +"The only question is whether you can bring yourself to ask her?" + +"My dear chap, you don't put it too pleasantly." + +"It's the fact, though." + +Lord Herbert hesitated. Then he said dubiously, "I suppose so." + +Maine lit another cigar and sat down again. His face was very white. +"You're rather conventional, Manning," he said presently. + +"Conventional! Why?" + +"You think her--this Mrs Glinn--a good woman. Isn't that enough for +you?" + +"But, besides Eve and myself, there is a third person in the situation." + +"How on earth did you find out that?" exclaimed Maine. + +The other looked surprised. "How did I find out? I don't understand +you." + +Maine recollected himself. He had made the common mistake of fancying +another might know a thing because he knew it. + +"Who is this third person?" he asked. + +"Society." + +"Ah! I said you were conventional." + +"Every sensible man and woman is." + +"I don't know that I agree. But the third person does certainly +complicate the situation. What are you going to do then?" + +Lord Herbert put down his pipe. It was not smoked out. "That's what I +want to know," he answered. + +"Of course, there's the one way--of being unconventional. Then, there's +the way of being conventional but unhappy. Is there any alternative?" + +Lord Herbert hesitated obviously, but at length he said: "There is, of +course; but Mrs Glinn is a curious sort of woman. I don't quite know--" + +He paused, looking at his friend. Maine's face was drawn and fierce. + +"What's the row?" Lord Herbert asked. + +"Nothing; only I shouldn't advise you to try the alternative. That's +all." + +"Maine, what do you mean?" + +"Just this," replied the other. "That I know Mrs Glinn, that I agree +with you about her character--" + +"You know her? That's odd!" + +"I have known her for a year." + +They looked each other in the eyes while a minute passed. Then Lord +Herbert said slowly, "I understand." + +"What?" + +"That I have come to the wrong man for advice." + +There was a silence, broken only by the ticking of a clock and the +uneasy movements of Maine's fox-terrier, which was lying before the +empty grate and dreaming of departed fires. + +At last Maine said: "To-day I asked Mrs Glinn to marry me." + +The other started perceptibly. "Knowing what I have told you?" he asked. + +"Not knowing it." + +"What--what did she say?" + +"Nothing. I am to see her to-morrow." + +Lord Herbert glanced at him furtively. "I suppose you will not go--now?" +he said. + +"Yes, Manning, I shall," Maine answered. + +"Well," the other man continued, looking at his watch and yawning, "I +must be going. It's late. Glad to have seen you, Maine. I am to be found +at 80 St James's Place. Thanks; yes I will have my coat on. My pipe--oh! +here it is. Good-night." + +The door closed, and Maine was left alone. + +"Will she tell me to-morrow, or will she be silent?" he said to himself. +"That depends on one thing: Has love of truth the largest half of her +heart, or love of me?" + +He sighed--at the conventionality of the world, perhaps. + + +III + +"I am not at home to any one except Sir Hugh Maine," Mrs Glinn said to +the footman. "You understand?" + +"Yes, ma'am." + +He went out softly and closed the door. + +The English summer had gone back upon its steps that afternoon, and +remembered the duty it owed to its old-time reputation. The canary, a +puffed-out ball of ragged-looking feathers in its cage, seemed listening +with a depressed attention to the beat of the cold rain against the +window. The daisies, in their boxes, dripped and nodded in the wind. +There was a darkness in the pretty room, and the smile of the china +goblins was no longer yellow. Like many people who are not made of +china, they depended upon adventitious circumstances for much of their +outward show. When they were not gilded there was a good deal of the +pill apparent in their nature. + +Mrs Glinn was trying not to be restless. She was very pale, and her dark +eyes gleamed with an almost tragic fire; but she sat down firmly on the +white sofa, and read Gyp, as Carmen may have read her doom in the cards. +One by one the pages were turned. One by one the epigrams were made the +property of another mind. But through all the lightness and humour of +the story there crept like a little snake a sentence that Gyp had not +written:-- + +"Can I tell him?" + +And no answer ever came to that question. When the door-bell at last +rang, Mrs Glinn laid down her novel carefully, and mechanically stood +up. A change of attitude was necessary to her. + +Sir Hugh came in, and was followed by tea. They sat down by the tiny +table, and discussed French literature. Flaubert and Daudet go as well +with tea as Fielding and Smollett go with supper. + +But, when the cups were put down, Maine drove the French authors in a +pack out of the conversation. + +"I did not come here to say what I can say to every woman I meet who +understands French," he remarked. + +And then Mrs Glinn was fully face to face with her particular guardian +devil. + +"No?" she said. + +She did not try to postpone the moment she dreaded. For she had a strong +man to deal with, and, being a strong woman at heart, she generally held +out her hand to the inevitable. + +"You have been thinking?" Maine went on. + +"Yes. What a sad occupation that is sometimes--like knitting, or +listening to church-bells at night!" + +"Eve, let us be serious." + +"God knows I am," she answered. "But modern gravity is dressed in +flippancy. No feeling must go quite naked." + +"Don't talk like that," he said. "As there is a nudity in art that may +be beautiful, so there is a nudity in expression, in words, that may be +beautiful. Eve, I have come to hear you tell me something. You know +that." He glanced into her face with an anxiety that she did not fully +understand. Then he said: "Tell it me." + +"There is--is so much to tell," she said. + +"Yes, yes." + +"He does not understand," she thought. + +He thought, "She does not understand." + +"And I am not good at telling stories." + +"Then tell me the truth." + +She tried to smile, but she was trembling. "Of course. Why should I +not?" She hesitated, and then added, with a forced attempt at petulance, +"But there is nothing so awkward as giving people more than they expect. +Is there?" + +He understood her question, despite its apparent inconsequence, and his +heart quickened its beating: "Give me everything." + +"I suppose I should be doing that if I gave you myself," she said +nervously. + +"You know best," he answered; and for a moment she was puzzled by not +catching the affirmative for which she had angled. + +"Do you want me very, very much?" she asked. + +"So much that, as I told you yesterday, I could not ask for you twice. +Don't you understand?" + +"Yes. I could not marry a man who had bothered me to be his wife. One +might as well be scolded into virtue. You want me, then, Hugh, and I +want you. But--" + +Again she stopped, with sentences fluttering, as it seemed, on the very +edges of her lips. Her heart was at such fearful odds with her +conscience, that she felt as if he must hear the clashing of the swords. +And he did hear it. He would fain have cheered on both the combatants. +Which did he wish should be the conqueror? He hardly knew. + +"Yes?" he said. + +"It is always so difficult to finish a sentence that begins with 'but,'" +she began; and for the first time her voice sounded tremulous. "When two +people want each other very much, there is always something that ought +to keep them apart--at least, I think so. God must love solitude; it is +His gift to so many." There were tears in her eyes. + +"Why should we keep apart, Eve?" + +"Because we should be too happy together, I suppose." + +He leaned suddenly forward and took both her hands in his. "How cold you +are!" he said, startled. + +The words seemed to brace her like a sea-breeze. + +"Hugh," she said, "I wish to tell you something. There is a 'but' in the +sentence of my life." + +He drew her closer to him, with a strange impulse to be nearer the soul +that was about to prove itself as noble as he desired. But that very act +prevented the fulfilment of his wish. The touch of his hands, the +eagerness of his eyes, gave the victory to her heart. She shut the lips +that were speaking, and he kissed them. Kisses act as an opiate on a +woman's conscience. Only when Eve felt his lips on hers did she know her +own weakness. Sir Hugh having kissed her, waited for the telling of the +secret. At that moment he might as well have sat down and waited for the +millennium. + +"What is it?" he said at last. + +"Nothing," she answered, "nothing." She spoke the word with a hard +intonation. + +Hugh held her close in his arms, with a sort of strange idea that to do +so would crush his disappointment. She was proving her love by her +silence. Why, then, did he wish that she should speak? At last she said, +in a low voice:-- + +"There is one thing you ought to know. If I marry you, I marry you a +beggar. I shall lose my fortune. I am not obliged to lose it, but I mean +to give it up. Don't ask me why." + +He had no need to. He waited, but she was silent. So that was all. He +kissed her again, loosened his arms from about her and stood up. + +"I have enough for both," he said. + +He did not look at her, and she could not look at him. + +"Are you going?" she said. + +"Yes; but I will call this evening." + +He was at the door, and had half-opened it when he turned back, moved by +a passionate impulse. + +"Eve!" he cried, and his eyes seemed asking her for something. + +"Yes?" she said, looking away. + +There was a silence. Then he said "Good-bye!" The door closed upon him. + +Mrs Glinn stood for a moment where he had left her. In her mind she was +counting the seconds that must elapse before he could reach the street. +If she could be untrue to herself till then, she could be untrue to +herself for ever. Would he walk down the stairs slowly or fast? She +wanted to be a false woman so much, so very much, that she clenched her +hands together. The action seemed as if it might help her to keep on +doing wrong. But suddenly she unclasped her hands, darted across the +room to the door, and opened it. She listened, and heard Hugh's +footsteps in the hall. He picked up his umbrella, and unfolded it to be +ready for the rain. The _frou-frou_ of the silk seemed to stir her to +action. + +"Hugh!" she cried in a broken voice. + +He turned in the hall, and looked up. + +"Come back," she said. + +He came up the stairs three steps at a time. + +"Hugh," she said, leaning heavily on the balustrade, and looking away, +"I have a secret to tell you. I have tried to be wicked to-day, but +somehow I can't. Listen to the truth." + +"I need not," he answered. "I know it already." + +Then she looked at him, and drew in her breath: "You know it?" + +"Yes." + +"How you must love me!" + + * * * * * + +There was a ring at the hall door. The footman opened it, held a short +parley with some one who was invisible, shut the door, and came upstairs +with a card. + +Mrs Glinn took it, and read, "Lord Herbert Manning." + +He had decided to be unconventional too late. + + + + +A SILENT GUARDIAN + + +I + +The door of the long, dreary room, with its mahogany chairs, its +littered table, its motley crew of pale, silent people, opened +noiselessly. A dreary, lean footman appeared in the aperture, bowing +towards a corner where, in a recess near a forlorn, lofty window, sat a +tall, athletic-looking man of about forty-five years of age, with a +strong yet refined face, clean shaven, and short, crisp, dark hair. The +tall man rose immediately, laying down an old number of _Punch_, and +made his way out, watched rather wolfishly by the other occupants of the +room. The door closed upon him, and there was a slight rustle and a hiss +of whispering. + +Two well-dressed women leaned to one another, the feathers in their hats +almost mingling as they murmured: "Not much the matter with him, I +should fancy." + +"He looks as strong as a horse; but modern men are always imagining +themselves ill. He has lived too much, probably." + +They laughed in a suppressed ripple. + +At the end of the room near the door, under the big picture of a grave +man in a frock-coat, holding a double eye-glass tentatively in his right +hand as if to emphasise an argument--a young girl bent towards her +father, who said to her in a low voice: + +"That man who has just left the room is Brune, the great sculptor." + +"Is he ill?" the girl asked. + +"It seems so, since he is here." + +Then a silence fell again, broken only by the rustle of turned pages and +the occasional uneasy shifting of feet. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile, in a small room across the hall, by a window through which +the autumn sun streamed with a tepid brightness, Reginald Brune lay on a +narrow sofa. His coat and waistcoat were thrown open; his chest was +bared. Gerard Fane, the great discoverer of hidden diseases, raised +himself from a bent posture, and spoke some words in a clear, even +voice. + +Brune lifted himself half up on his elbow, and began mechanically to +button the collar of his shirt. His long fingers did not tremble, though +his face was very pale. + +He fastened the collar, arranged his loose tie, and then sat up slowly. + +A boy, clanking two shining milk-cans, passed along the pavement, +whistling a music-hall song. The shrill melody died down the street, and +Brune listened to it until there was a silence. Then he looked up at +the man opposite to him, and said, as one dully protesting, without +feeling, without excitement:-- + +"But, doctor, I was only married three weeks ago." + +Gerard Fane gave a short upward jerk of the head, and said nothing. His +face was calmly grave. His glittering brown eyes were fastened on his +patient. His hands were loosely folded together. + +Brune repeated, in a sightly raised voice:-- + +"I was married three weeks ago. It cannot be true." + +"I am here to tell the truth," the other replied. + +"But it is so--so ironic. To allow me to start a new life--a beautiful +life--just as the night is coming. Why, it is diabolical; it is not +just; the cruelty of it is fiendish." + +A spot of gleaming red stained each of the speaker's thin cheeks. He +clenched his hands together, riveting his gaze on the doctor, as he went +on:-- + +"Can't you see what I mean? I had no idea--I had not the faintest +suspicion of what you say. And I have had a very hard struggle. I have +been poor and quite friendless. I have had to fight, and I have lost +much of the good in my nature by fighting, as we often do. But at last I +have won the battle, and I have won more. I have won goodness to give +me back some of my illusions. I had begun to trust life again. I had--" + +He stopped abruptly. Then he said:-- + +"Doctor, are you married?" + +"No," the other answered; and there was a note of pity in his voice. + +"Then you can't understand what your verdict means to me. Is it +irrevocable?" + +Gerard Fane hesitated. + +"I wish I could hope not; but--" + +"But--?" + +"It is." + +Brune stood up. His face was quite calm now and his voice, when he spoke +again, was firm and vibrating. + +"I have some work that I should wish to finish. How long can you give +me?" + +"Three months." + +"One will do if my strength keeps up at all. Good-bye." + +There was a thin chink of coins grating one against the other. The +specialist said:-- + +"I will call on you to-morrow, between four and five. I have more +directions to give you. To-day my time is so much taken up. Good-bye." + +The door closed. + +In the waiting-room, a moment later, Brune was gathering up his coat and +hat. + +The two ladies eyed him curiously as he took them and passed out. + +"He does look a little pale, after all," whispered one of them. A +moment later he was in the street. + +From the window of his consulting-room, Gerard Fane watched the tall +figure striding down the pavement. + +"I am sorry that man is going to die," he said to himself. + +And then he turned gravely to greet a new patient. + + +II + +Gerard Fane's victoria drew up at the iron gate of No. 5 Ilbury Road, +Kensington, at a quarter past four the following afternoon. A narrow +strip of garden divided the sculptor's big red house from the road. +Ornamental ironwork on a brick foundation closed it in. The great +studio, with its huge windows and its fluted pillars, was built out at +one end. The failing sunlight glittered on its glass, and the dingy +sparrows perched upon the roof to catch the parting radiance as the +twilight fell. The doctor glanced round him and thought, "How hard this +man must have worked! In London this is a little palace." + +"Will you come into the studio, sir, please?" said the footman in answer +to his summons. "Mr Brune is there at present." + +"Surely he cannot be working," thought the doctor, as he followed the +man down a glass-covered paved passage, and through a high doorway +across which a heavy curtain fell. "If so, he must possess resolution +almost more than mortal." + +He passed beyond the curtain, and looked round him curiously. + +The studio was only dimly lit now, for daylight was fast fading. On a +great open hearth, with dogs, a log-fire was burning; and beside it, on +an old-fashioned oaken settle, sat a woman in a loose cream-coloured +tea-gown. She was half turning round to speak to Reginald Brune, who +stood a little to her left, clad in a long blouse, fastened round his +waist with a band. He had evidently recently finished working, for his +hands still bore evident traces of labour, and in front of him, on a +raised platform, stood a statue that was not far from completion. The +doctor's eyes were attracted from the woman by the log-fire, from his +patient, by the lifeless, white, nude figure that seemed to press +forward out of the gathering gloom. The sculptor and his wife had not +heard him announced, apparently, for they continued conversing in low +tones, and he paused in the doorway, strangely fascinated--he could +scarcely tell why--by the marble creation of a dying man. + +The statue, which was life size, represented the figure of a beautiful, +grave youth, standing with one foot advanced, as if on the point of +stepping forward. His muscular arms hung loosely; his head was slightly +turned aside as in the attitude of one who listens for a repetition of +some vague sound heard at a distance. His whole pose suggested an alert, +yet restrained, watchfulness. The triumph of the sculptor lay in the +extraordinary suggestion of life he had conveyed into the marble. His +creature lived as many mollusc men never live. Its muscles seemed tense, +its body quivering with eagerness to accomplish--what? To attack, to +repel, to protect, to perform some deed demanding manfulness, energy, +free, fearless strength. + +"That marble thing could slay if necessary," thought Gerard Fane, with a +thrill of the nerves all through him that startled him, and recalled him +to himself. + +He stepped forward to the hearth quietly, and Brune turned and took him +by the hand. + +"I did not hear you," the sculptor said. "The man must have opened the +door very gently. Sydney, this is Dr Gerard Fane, who is kindly looking +after me." + +The woman by the fire had risen, and stood in the firelight and the +twilight, which seemed to join hands just where she was. She greeted the +specialist in a girl's young voice, and he glanced at her with the +furtive thought, "Does she know yet?" + +She looked twenty-two, not more. + +Her eyes were dark grey, and her hair was bronze. Her figure was thin +almost to emaciation; but health glowed in her smooth cheeks, and spoke +in her swift movements and easy gestures. Her expression was responsive +and devouringly eager. Life ran in her veins with turbulence, never with +calm. Her mouth was pathetic and sensitive, but there was an odd +suggestion of almost boyish humour in her smile. + +Before she smiled, Fane thought, "She knows." + +Afterwards, "She cannot know." + +"Have you a few moments to spare?" Brune asked him. "Will you have tea +with us?" + +Fane looked at Mrs Brune and assented. He felt a strange interest in +this man and this woman. The tragedy of their situation appealed to him, +although he lived in a measure by foretelling tragedies. Mrs Brune +touched an electric bell let into the oak-panelled wall, and her husband +drew a big chair forward to the hearth. + +As he was about to sit down in it, Gerard Fane's eyes were again +irresistibly drawn towards the statue; and a curious fancy, born, +doubtless, of the twilight that invents spectres and of the firelight +that evokes imaginations, came to him, and made him for a moment hold +his breath. + +It seemed to him that the white face menaced him, that the white body +had a soul, and that the soul cried out against him. + +His hand trembled on the back of the chair. Then he laughed to himself +at the absurd fancy, and sat down. + +"Your husband has been working?" he said to Mrs Brune. + +"Yes, all the day. I could not tempt him out for even five minutes. But +then, he has had a holiday, as he says, although it was only a +fortnight. That was not very long for--for a honeymoon." + +As she said the last sentence she blushed a little, and shot a swift, +half-tender, half-reproachful glance at her husband. But he did not meet +it; he only looked into the fire, while his brows slightly contracted. + +"I think Art owns more than half his soul," the girl said, with the +flash of a smile. "He only gives to me the fortnights and to Art the +years." + +There was a vague jealousy in her voice; but then the footman brought in +tea, and she poured it out, talking gaily. + +From her conversation, Fane gathered that she had no idea of her +husband's condition. With a curious and fascinating naturalness she +spoke of her marriage, of her intentions for the long future. + +"If Reginald is really seedy, Dr Fane," she said, "get him well quickly, +that he may complete his commissions. Because, you know, he has +promised, when they are finished, to take me to Italy, and to Greece, to +the country of Phidias, whose mantle has fallen upon my husband." + +"Do not force Dr Fane into untruth," said Brune, with an attempt at a +smile. + +"And is that statue a commission?" Fane asked, indicating the marble +figure, that seemed to watch them and to listen. + +"No; that is an imaginative work on which I have long been engaged. I +call it, 'A Silent Guardian.'" + +"It is very beautiful," the doctor said. "What is your idea exactly? +What is the figure guarding?" + +Brune and his wife glanced at one another--he gravely, she with a +confident smile. + +Then he said, "I leave that to the imagination." + +Dr Fane looked again at the statue, and said slowly, "You have wrought +it so finely that in this light my nerves tell me it is alive." + +Mrs Brune looked triumphant. + +"All the world would feel so if they could see it," she said; "but it is +not to be exhibited. That is our fancy--his and mine. And now I will +leave you together for a few minutes. Heal him of his ills, Dr Fane, +won't you?" + +She vanished through the door at the end of the studio. The two men +stood together by the hearth. + +"She does not know?" Fane asked. + +The other leaned his head upon his hand, which was pressed against the +oak mantelpiece. + +"I am too cowardly to tell her," he said in a choked voice. "You must." + +"And when?" + +"To-day." + +There was a silence. Then, in his gravest professional manner, Fane gave +some directions, and wrote others down, while the sculptor looked into +the dancing fire. When Fane had finished:-- + +"Shall I tell her now?" he asked gently. + +Brune nodded without speaking. His face looked drawn and contorted as he +moved towards the door. His emotion almost strangled him, and the effort +to remain calm put a strain upon him that was terrible. + +Gerard Fane was left alone for a moment--alone with the statue whose +personality, it seemed to him, pervaded the great studio. In its +attitude there was a meaning, in its ghost-like face and blind eyes a +resolution of intention, that took possession of his soul. He told +himself that it was lifeless, inanimate, pulseless, bloodless marble; +that it contained no heart to beat with love or hate, no soul to burn +with impulse or with agony; that its feet could never walk, its hands +never seize or slay, its lips never utter sounds of joy or menace. Then +he looked at it again, and he shuddered. + +"I am over-working," he said to himself; "my nerves are beginning to +play me tricks. I must be careful." + +And he forcibly turned his thoughts from the marble that could never +feel to the man and woman so tragically circumstanced, and to his +relation towards them. + +A doctor is so swiftly plunged into intimacy with strangers. To the +sculptor it was as if Fane held the keys of the gates of life and death +for him; as if, during that quarter of an hour in the consulting-room, +the doctor had decided, almost of his own volition, that death should +cut short a life of work and of love. And even to Fane himself it seemed +as if his fiat had precipitated, even brought about, a tragedy that +appealed to his imagination with peculiar force. His position towards +this curiously interesting girl was strange. He had seen her for a +quarter of an hour only, and now it was his mission to cause her the +most weary pain that she might, perhaps, ever know. The opening of the +studio door startled him, and his heart, that usually beat so calmly, +throbbed almost with violence as Mrs Brune came up to him. + +"What is it?" she asked, facing him, and looking him full in the eyes +with a violence of interrogation that was positively startling. "What is +it you have to tell me? Reginald says you have ordered him to keep +quiet--that you wish me to help you in--in something. Is he ill? May he +not finish his commissions?" + +"He is ill," said Gerard Fane, with a straightforward frankness that +surprised himself. + +She kept her eyes on his face. + +"Very ill?" + +"Sit down," the doctor said, taking her hands and gently putting her +into a chair. + +With the rapidity of intellect peculiar to women, she heard in those +two words the whole truth. Her head drooped forward. She put out her +hands as if to implore Fane's silence. + +"Don't speak," she murmured. "Don't say it; I know." + +He looked away. His eyes rested on the statue that made a silent third +in their sad conference. How its attitude suggested that of a stealthy +listener, bending to hear the more distinctly! Its expressionless eyes +met his, and was there not a light in them? He knew there was not, yet +he caught himself saying mentally:-- + +"What does he think of this?" and wondering about the workings of a soul +that did not, could not, exist. + +Presently the girl moved slightly, and said:-- + +"He only knew this for certain yesterday?" + +"Only yesterday." + +"Ah! but he must have suspected it long ago,"--she pointed towards the +statue--"when he began that." + +"I don't understand," Fane said. "What can that marble have to do with +his health or illness?" + +"When we first began to love each other," she said, "he began to work on +that. It was to be his marriage gift to me, my guardian angel. He told +me he would put all his soul into it, and that sometimes he fancied, if +he died before me, his soul would really enter into that statue and +watch over and guard me. 'A Silent Guardian' he has always called it. +He must have known." + +"I do not think so," Fane said. "It was impossible he should." + +The girl stood up. The tears were running over her face now. She turned +towards the statue. + +"And he will be cold--cold like that!" she cried in a heart-breaking +voice. "His eyes will be blind and his hands nerveless, and his voice +silent." + +She suddenly swayed and fainted into Fane's arms. He held her a moment; +and when he laid her down, a reluctance to let the slim form, lifeless +though it was, slip out of his grasp, came upon him. He remembered the +previous day, the doomed man going down the street--his thought as he +looked from the window of his consulting-room, "I am sorry that man is +going to die." + +Now, as he leant over the white girl, he whispered, forming the very +words with his lips, "I am not sorry." + +And the statue seemed to bend and to listen. + + +III + +Six weeks passed away. Winter was deepening. Through the gloom and fog +that shrouded London, Christmas approached, wrapped in seasonable snow. +The dying man had finished his work, and a strange peace stole over +him. Now, when he suffered, when his body shivered and tried to shrink +away, as if it felt the cold hands of death laid upon it, he looked at +the completed statue, and found he could still feel joy. There had +always been in his highly-strung, sensitive nature an element, so +fantastic that he had ever striven to conceal it, of romance; and in his +mind, affected by constant pain, by many sleepless nights, grew the +curious idea that his life, as it ebbed away from him, entered into his +creation. As he became feeble, he imagined that the man he had formed +towered above him in more God-like strength, that light flowed into the +sightless eyes, that the marble muscles were tense with vigour, that a +soul was born in the thing which had been soulless. The theory, held by +so many, of re-incarnation upon earth, took root in his mind, and he +came to believe that, at the moment of death, he would pass into his +work and live again, unconscious, it might be, of his former existence. +He loved the statue as one might love a breathing man; but he seldom +spoke of his fancies, even to Sydney. + +Only, he sometimes said to her, pointing to his work:-- + +"You will never be alone, unprotected, while he is there." + +And she tried to smile through the tears she could not always keep back. + +Gerard Fane was often with them. He sunk the specialist in the friend, +and not a day passed without a visit from him to the great studio, in +which the sculptor and his wife almost lived. + +He was unwearied in his attendance upon the sick man, unwavering in his +attempts to soothe his sufferings. But, in reality, and almost against +his will, the doctor numbered each breath his patient drew, noted with a +furious eagerness each sign of failing vitality, bent his ear to catch +every softest note in the prolonged _diminuendo_ of this human symphony. + +When Fane saw Mrs Brune leaning over her husband, touching the damp brow +with her cool, soft fingers, or the dry, parched lips with her soft, +rosy lips, he turned away in a sick fury, and said to himself:-- + +"He is dying, he is dying. It will soon be over." + +For with a desperate love had entered into him a desperate jealousy, and +even while he ministered to Brune he hated him. + +And the statue, with blind eyes, observed the drama enacted by those +three people, the two men and the woman, till the curtain fell and one +of the actors made his final exit. + +Fane's nerves still played him tricks sometimes. He could not look at +the statue without a shudder; and while Brune imaginatively read into +the marble face love and protection, the doctor saw there menace and +hatred. He came to feel almost jealous of the statue, because Sydney +loved it and fell in with her husband's fancy that his life was fast +ebbing into and vitalising the marble limbs, that his soul would watch +her from the eyes that were now without expression and thought. + +When Fane entered the studio, he always involuntarily cast a glance at +the white figure--at first, a glance of shuddering distaste, then, as he +acknowledged to himself his love for Sydney, a glance of defiance, of +challenge. + +One evening, after a day of many appointments and much mental stress and +strain, he drove up to Ilbury Road, was admitted, and shown as usual +into the studio. He found it empty. Only the statue greeted him silently +in the soft lamplight, that scarcely accomplished more than the defining +of the gloom. + +"My master is upstairs, sir," said the footman. "I will tell him you are +here." + +In a moment Sydney entered, with a lagging step and pale cheeks. Without +thinking of the usual polite form of greeting, she said to Fane, "He is +much worse to-day. There is a change in him, a horrible change. Dr Fane, +just now when I was talking to him it seemed to me that he was a long +way off. I caught hold of his hands to reassure myself. I held them. I +heard him speaking, but it was as if his words came from a distance. +What does it mean? He is not--he is not--" + +She looked the word he could not speak. + +Fane made her sit down. + +"I will go to him immediately," he said. "I may be able to do +something." + +"Yes, go--do go!" she exclaimed with feverish excitement. + +Then suddenly she sprang up, and seizing his hands with hers, she said +in a piercing voice: "You are a great doctor. Surely--surely you can +keep this one life for me a little longer." + +As they stood, Fane was facing the statue, which was at her back, and +while she spoke his eyes were drawn from the woman he loved to the +marble thing he senselessly hated. It struck him that a ghastly change +had stolen over it. A sudden flicker of absolute life surely infused it, +quickened it even while she spoke, stole through the limbs one by one, +welled up to the eyes as light pierces from a depth, flowed through all +the marble. A pulse beat in the dead, cold heart. A mind rippled into +the rigid, watching face. There was no absolute movement, and yet there +was the sense of stir. Fane, absorbed in horror, seemed to watch an act +of creation, to see life poured from some invisible and unknown source +into the bodily chamber that had been void and dark. + +Motionless he saw the statue dead; motionless he saw the statue live. + +He drew his hands from Sydney's. He was too powerfully impressed to +speak, but she looked up into his face, turned, and followed his eyes. + +She, too, observed the change, for her lips parted, and a wild +amazement shone in her eyes. Then she touched Fane's arm, and whispered, +rather in awe than in horror, "Go--go to him. See if anything has +happened. I will stay and watch here." + +With a hushed tread Fane left the studio, passed through the hall, +ascended the stairs to the sculptor's room. Outside the door he +hesitated for a moment. He was trembling. He heard a clock ticking +within. It sounded very loud, like a hammer beating in his ears. He +pushed the door open at length, and entered. Brune's tall figure was +sitting in an armchair, bowed over a table on which lay an open Art +magazine. + +His head lay hidden on his arms, which were crossed. + +Fane raised the face and turned it up towards him. + +It was the face of a dead man. + +He looked at it, and smiled. + +Then he stole down again to the studio, where Sydney was still standing. + +"Yes?" she said interrogatively, as he entered. + +"He is dead," Fane answered. + +She only bowed her head, as if in assent. She stood a moment, then she +turned her tearless eyes to him, and said:-- + +"Why could not you save him?" + +"Because I am human," Fane answered. + +"And we did not say good-bye," she said. + +Fane was strung up. Conflicting feelings found a wild playground in his +soul. His nerves were in a state of abnormal excitement, and something +seemed to let go in him--the something that holds us back, normally, +from mad follies. He suddenly caught Sydney's hand, and in a choked +voice said:-- + +"He is dead. Think a little of the living." + +She looked at him, wondering. + +"Think of the living that love you. He neither hates nor loves any more. +Sydney! Sydney!" + +As she understood his meaning she wrung her hand out of his, and said, +as one trying to clear the road for reason:-- + +"You love me, and he bought you to keep him alive. Why, then--" + +A sick, white change came over her face. + +"Sydney! Sydney!" he said. + +"Why, then he bought death from you. Ah!" + +She put her hand on the bell, and kept it there till the servant hurried +in. + +"Show Dr Fane out," she said. "He will not come here again." + +And Fane, seeing the uselessness of protest, ready to strike himself for +his folly, went without a word. Only, as he went, he cast one look at +the statue. Was there not the flicker of a smile in its marble eyes? + + +IV + +People said Dr Gerard Fane was over-working, that he was not himself. +His manner to patients was sometimes very strange, brusque, impatient, +intolerant. A brutality stole over him, and impressed the world that +went to him for healing very unfavourably. The ills of humanity rendered +him now sarcastic instead of pitiful, a fatal attitude of mind for a +physician to adopt; and he was even known to pronounce on sufferers +sentence of death with a callous indifference that was inhuman as well +as impolitic. As the weeks went by, his reception-room became less +crowded than of old. There were even moments in his day when he had +leisure to sit down and think, to give a rein to his mood of impotent +misery and despair. Sydney had never consented to receive him again. +Woman-like--for she could be extravagantly yet calmly unreasonable--she +had clung to the idea that Fane had hastened, if not actually brought +about, her husband's death by his treatment. She made no accusation. She +simply closed her doors upon him. She had a horror of him, which never +left her. + +Again and again Fane called. She was always denied to him. Then he met +her in the street. She cut him. He spoke to her. She passed on without a +reply. At last a dull fury took possession of him. Her treatment of him +was flagrantly unjust. He had wished the sculptor to die, but he had +allowed nature to accomplish her designs unaided, even to some extent +hampered and hindered by his medical skill and care. He loved Sydney +with the violence of a man whose emotions had been sedulously repressed +through youth, vanquished but not killed by ambition, and the need to +work for the realisation of that ambition. The tumults of early manhood, +never given fair play, now raged in his breast, from which they should +have been long since expelled, and played havoc with every creed of +sense, and every built-up theory of wisdom and experience. Fane became +by degrees a monomaniac. + +He brooded incessantly over his developed but starved passion, over the +thought that Sydney chose to believe him a murderer. At first, when he +was trying day after day to see her, he clung to his love for her; but +when he found her obdurate, set upon wronging him in her thought, his +passion, verging towards despair, changed, and was coloured with hatred. +By degrees he came to dwell more upon the injury done to him by her +suspicion than upon his love of her, and then it was that a certain +wildness crept into his manner, and alarmed or puzzled those who +consulted him. + +That his career was going to the dogs Fane understood, but he did not +care. The vision of Sydney was always before him. He was for ever +plotting and planning to be with her alone--against her will or not, it +was nothing to him. And when he was alone with her, what then? + +He would know how to act. + +It was just in the dawn of the spring season over London that further +inaction became insupportable to him. One evening, after a day of +listless inactivity spent in waiting for the patients who no longer came +in crowds to his door, he put on his hat and walked from Mayfair to +Kensington, vaguely, yet with intention. He looked calm, even absent; +but he was a desperate man. All fear of what the world thinks or says, +all consideration of outward circumstances and their relation to worldly +happiness, had died within him. He was entirely abstracted and +self-centred. + +He reached the broad thoroughfare of Ilbury Road, with its line of +artistic red houses, detached and standing in their gardens. The +darkness was falling as he turned into it and began to walk up and down +opposite the house with the big studio in which he was once a welcome +visitor. There was a light in one of the bedroom windows and in the +hall, and presently, as Fane watched, a brougham drove up to the door. +It waited a few moments before the house, then some one entered the +carriage. The door was banged; the horse moved on. Through the windows +Fane saw a woman's face, pale, against the pane. It was the face of +Sydney. For a moment he thought he would call to the coachman to stop. +Then he restrained himself, and again walked up and down, waiting. She +must return presently. He would speak to her as she was getting out of +the carriage. He would force her to receive him. + +Towards nine o'clock his plans were altered by an event which took +place. The house door opened, and the footman came out with a handful of +letters for the post. The pillar-box was very near, and the man +carelessly left the hall door on the jar while he walked down the road. +Fane caught a glimpse of the hall that he knew so well. A step, and he +could be in the house. He hesitated. He looked down the road. The man +had his back turned, and was putting the letters into the box. Fane +slipped into the garden, up the steps, through the door. The hall was +empty. At his right was the passage leading to the studio. He stole down +it, and tried the door. It opened. In the darkness the heavy curtain +blew against his face. In another instant he closed the door softly at +his back, and stood alone in the wide space and the blackness. Here +there was not a glimmer of light. Thick curtains fell over the windows. +No fire burned upon the hearth. There was no sound except when a +carriage occasionally rolled down the road, and even then the wheels +sounded distant. + +The silence and darkness had their effect upon Fane. He had done a +desperate thing; but, until he found himself alone in the vacant +studio, he had not fully realised the madness of his conduct, and how it +would appear to the world. After the first moments of solitude had +passed he came to himself a little, and half opened the door with the +intention of stealing out; but he heard steps in the hall, and shrank +back again like a guilty creature. He must wait, at least, until the +household retired to rest. + +And, waiting, the old, haunting thoughts came back to assail him once +more. He began to brood over Sydney's cruel treatment of him, over her +vile suspicions. Here, in the atmosphere which he knew so well--for a +faint, strange perfume always lingered about the studio, and gave to it +the subtle sense of life which certain perfumes can impart--his emotions +were gradually quickened to fury. He recalled the days of his intimacy +with the sculptor, of his unrestrained converse with Sydney. He recalled +his care for the invalid, persevered in, despite his passion, to the +end. And then his thought fastened upon the statue, which, strange to +say, he had almost forgotten. + +The statue! + +It must be there, with him, in the darkness, staring with those white +eyes in which he had seen a soul flicker. + +As the recollection of it came to him, he trembled, leaning against the +wall. + +He was in one of those states of acute mental tension in which the mind +becomes so easily the prey of the wildest fantasies, and slowly, +laboriously, he began to frame a connection between the lifeless marble +creature and his own dreary trouble. + +Because of one moment of folly Sydney treated him as a pariah, as a +criminal. Her gentle nature had been transformed suddenly. + +By what subtle influence? + +Fane remembered the day of his first visit to Ilbury Road, and his +curious imagination that the statue recognised and hated him. + +Had that hatred prompted action? Was there a devil lurking in the white, +cold marble to work his ruin? When Sydney sent him out of her presence +for ever, the watching face had seemed to smile. + +Fane set his teeth in the darkness. He was no longer sane. He was +possessed. The tragedy of thought within him invited him to the +execution of another tragedy. He stretched out his hand with the +rehearsing action of one meditating a blow. + +His hand fell upon an oak table that stood against the wall, and hit on +something smooth and cold. It was a long Oriental dagger that the dead +sculptor had brought from the East. Fane's fingers closed on it +mechanically. The frigid steel thrilled his hot palm, and a pulse in his +forehead started beating till there was a dull, senseless music in his +ears that irritated him. + +He wanted to listen for the return of Sydney's carriage. + +His soul was ablaze with defiance. He was alone in the darkness with his +enemy; the cold, deadly, blind, pulseless thing that yet was alive; the +silent thing that had yet whispered malign accusations of him to the +woman he loved; the nerveless thing that poisoned a beautiful mind +against him, that stole the music from his harp of life and let loose +the winds upon his summer. + +His fingers closed more tightly, more feverishly upon the slippery +steel. + +Sydney actually thought, or strove to think, him a criminal. What if he +should earn the title? A sound as of the sea beating was in his ears, +and flashes of strange light seem to leap to his vision. What would a +man worth the name do to his enemy? + +And he and his enemy were shut up alone together. + +He drew himself up straight and steadied himself against the wall, +peering through the blackness in the direction of the statue. + +And, as he did so, there seemed to steal into the atmosphere the breath +of another living presence. He could fancy he heard the pulse of another +heart beating near to his. The sensation increased upon him powerfully +until suspicion grew into conviction. + +His intention had subtly communicated itself to the thing he could not +see. + +He knew it was on guard. + +There was no actual sound, no movement, but the atmosphere became +charged by degrees with a deadly, numbing cold, like the breath of frost +in the air. A chill ran through Fane's blood. A sluggish terror began to +steal over him, folding him for the moment in a strange inertia of mind +and of body. A creeping paralysis crawled upon his senses, like the +paralysis of nightmare that envelops the dreamer. He opened his lips to +speak, but they chattered soundlessly. Mechanically his hand clutched +the thin, sharp steel of the dagger. + +His enemy--then Sydney. + +He would not be a coward. He struggled against the horror that was upon +him. + +And still the cold increased, and the personality of Fane's invisible +companion seemed to develop in power. There was a sort of silent +violence in the hidden room, as if a noiseless combat were taking place. +Waves of darkness were stirred into motion; and Fane, as a man is drawn +by the retreating tides of the sea out and away, was drawn from the wall +where he had been crouching. + +He stole along the floor, the dagger held in his right hand, his heart +barely beating, his lips white--nearer, nearer to his enemy. + +He counted each step, until he was enfolded in the inmost circle of that +deadly frost emanating from the blackness before him. + +Then, with a hoarse cry, he lifted his arm and sprang forward and +upward, dashing the dagger down as one plunging it through a human +heart. + +The cry died suddenly into silence. + +There was the sound of a heavy fall. + +It reached the ears of the servants below stairs. + +The footman took a light, and, with a scared face, went hesitatingly to +the studio door, paused outside and listened while the female servants +huddled in the passage. + +The heavy silence succeeding the strange sound appalled them, but at +length the man thrust the door open and peered in. + +The light from the candle flickered merrily upon Fane's bowed figure, +huddled face downwards upon the floor. + +His neck was broken. + +The statue, that was the dead sculptor's last earthly achievement, stood +as if watching over him. But it was no longer perfect and complete. + +Some splinters of marble had been struck from the left breast, and among +them, on the smooth parquet, lay a bent Oriental dagger. + + + + +A BOUDOIR BOY + + +I + +"It is so impossible to be young," Claude Melville said very wearily, +and with his little air of played-out indifference. He was smoking a +cigarette, as always, and wore a dark red smoking-suit that, he thought, +went excellently with his black eyes and swarthy complexion. + +His father had been a blue-eyed Saxon giant, his mother a pretty Kentish +woman, with an apple-blossom complexion and sunny hair; yet he managed +to look exquisitely Turkish, and thought himself a clever boy for so +doing. But then he always thought himself clever. He had cultivated this +conception of himself until it had become a confirmed habit of mind. On +his head was a fez with a tassel, and he was sitting upon the hearthrug +with his long legs crossed meditatively. His room was dimly lit, and had +an aspect of divans, Attar of roses scented the air. A fire was burning, +although it was a spring evening and not cold. London roared faintly in +the distance, like a lion at a far-away evening party. + +"It is so impossible to be young," Claude repeated, without emphasis. "I +was middle-aged at ten. Now I am twenty-two, and have done everything I +ought not to have done, I feel that life has become altogether +improbable. Even if I live until I am seventy--the correct age for +entering into one's dotage, I believe--I cannot expect to have a second +childhood. I have never had a first." + +He sighed. It seemed so hard to be deprived of one's legal dotage. + +His friend, Jimmy Haddon, looked at him and laughed. Jimmy was puffing +at a pipe. His pipe was the only one Claude ever allowed to be smoked +among his divans and his roses. + +After thoroughly completing his laugh, Jimmy remarked:-- + +"Would you like to take a lesson in the art of being young?" + +"Immensely." + +"I know somebody who could give you one." + +"Really, Jimmy! What strange people you always know; curates, and women +who have never written improper novels, and all sorts of beings who seem +merely mythical to the rest of us!" + +"This is not a curate." + +"Then it must be a woman who has never written an improper novel." + +"It is." + +"And you mean to tell me seriously that there is such a person? To see +her would be to take what _Punch_ calls a pre-historic peep. She must be +ingeniously old." + +"She is sixty-four, and she is my aunt." + +"How beautiful of her. I am an only child, so I can never be an uncle. +It is one of my lasting regrets, although I daresay that profession is +terribly overcrowded like the others. But why is she sixty-four? It +seems a risky thing for a woman to be?" + +"She takes the risk without thinking at all about it." + +"She must be very daring." + +"No; she's only completely natural." + +"Natural. What is that?" + +Jimmy laughed again. He was fond of Claude, but he and Claude met so +often chiefly because they were extremes. Jimmy was a handsome athlete, +who had been called to the bar, and persistently played cricket or +football whenever the courts were sitting. He was cursed with a large +private income, which he spent royally, and blessed with a good heart. +Once he had appeared for the defence in a divorce case, which--lasting +longer than he had anticipated, owing to the obvious guilt of all +parties concerned in it, and the consequent difficulty of getting an +innocent jury to agree about a verdict--had cost him a cricket match. +Since then he had looked upon the law in the legendary way, as an ass, +and spent most of his time in exercising his muscles. In the intervals +of leisure which he allowed himself from sports and pastimes, he saw a +good deal of Claude, who amused him, and whom he never bored. He called +him a boudoir boy, but had a real liking for him, nevertheless, and +sometimes longed to wake him up, and separate him from the absurd +_chiffons_ with which he occupied his time. Now he laughed at him +openly, and Claude did not mind in the least. They were really friends, +however preposterous such a friendship might seem. + +"What is that? Well--my aunt. When you see her you will understand +thoroughly." + +"Does she live in Park Lane or in Clapham?" + +"She lives in the country, in Northamptonshire, is very well off, and +has a place of her own." + +"And a husband?" + +"No. She is a prosperous spinster, dines the local cricket team once a +year, keeps the church going, knows all the poor people, and all the +rich in the neighbourhood, and has only one fad." + +"What is that?" + +"She always wears her hair powdered. Come down and stay with her, and +she will teach you to be young." + +"Well--but I am afraid she will work me very hard." + +"Not she. You would like a new experience." + +Claude yawned, and blinked his long dark eyes in a carefully Eastern +manner. + +"I am afraid there is no such thing left for me," he said with an +elaborate dreariness. "Still, if your aunt will invite me, I will come. +Of course you will accompany me, I must have a chaperon." + +"Of course." + +"Ah!" Claude said, as a footman came softly into the room, "here is our +absinthe. Now, Jimmy, please do forget your horrible football, and I +will teach you to be decadent." + +"As my aunt will teach you to be young--you old boy." + + +II + +"Mr Haddon has left, sir," said the footman, standing by Claude's +bedside in the detached manner of the well-bred domestic. "Here is a +note for you, sir; I was to give it you the first thing." + +And he handed it on a salver. + +Claude stretched out his thin white arm and took it, without manifesting +any of the surprise that he felt. When the footman had gone, he poured +out a cup of tea from the silver teapot that stood on a small table at +his elbow, sipped it, and quietly opened the square envelope. The +Northamptonshire sun was pouring in with a countrified ardour through +the bedroom window. Outside the birds twittered in Miss Haddon's +cherished garden. For Claude had come down at that contented spinster's +invitation to spend a week with her, bringing Jimmy as chaperon, and +this was the very first morning of his visit. Now he learnt that his +chaperon had already "left," possibly to be a "half-back," or something +equally ridiculous, at a local football match in a neighbouring +village. Claude spread the note out and read it, while the birds chirped +to the very manifest spring. + + "DEAR BOY,--Good-bye, and good luck to you. I know you are + never angry, so it is scarcely worth while to tell you not to + be. I am off. Back in a week. You will learn your lesson + better alone with Aunt Kitty. There is no absinthe in her + cellar, but she knows good champagne from bad. You will be all + right. Study hard.--Yours ever, + + JIM." + +Claude drank two cups of tea instead of his usual one, and read the note +four times. Then he lay back, wrapping his dressing-gown--a fine +specimen of Cairene embroidery--closely round him, shut his eyes, and +seemed to go to sleep. All he said to himself was:-- + +"Jimmy writes a very dull letter." + +At half-past nine, Miss Haddon's house reverberated in a hollow manner +with the barbarous music of a gong, the dressing-gong. Claude heard it +very unsympathetically, and felt rather inclined merely to take off his +dressing-gown, as an act of mute defiance, and go deliberately to sleep, +instead of getting up and putting things on. But he remembered his +manners wearily, and slid out of bed and into a carefully-warmed bath +that was prepared in the neighbouring dressing-room. Having completed an +intricate toilette, and tied a marvellously subtle tie, shot with +rigorously subdued, but voluptuous colours, he sauntered downstairs in +time to be thoroughly immersed in the full clamour of the second--or +breakfast--gong, which he encountered in the hall. + +"Why will people wake the dead merely because they are going to eat a +boiled egg and a bit of toast?" he asked himself as he entered the +breakfast-room. + +Miss Haddon was standing by the window, reading letters in the proper +English manner. The sun lay on her grey hair, which she wore dressed +high, and void of cap. + +"You are very punctual," she said with a smile. "I was going to send up +to know whether you would prefer to breakfast in your room. My nephew +told me you might like to. I shall be glad to have your company. Jimmy +has run away and left us together, I find." + +"Yes, Jimmy has run away," Claude answered, beginning slowly to feel the +full force of Jimmy's perfidy. He looked at Miss Haddon's cheerful, rosy +face, and bright brown eyes, and wondered whether she had been in the +plot. + +"I hope you will not be bored," Miss Haddon went on, as they sat down +together, the intonation of her melodious elderly voice seeming to +dismiss the supposition, even while she suggested it. "But, indeed, I +think it is almost impossible to be bored in the country." + +Claude, who was always either in London or Paris, looked frankly +astonished. In handing him his cup of tea, Miss Haddon noticed it. + +"You don't agree with me?" she asked. + +"I cannot disagree, at least," he said; "because, to tell the truth, I +am always in towns." + +"Probably you are happy there then," she rejoined, with a briskness that +was agreeable, because it was not a hideous assumption, like the +geniality that often prevails, fitfully, at Christmas time. + +But Claude could not permit his hostess to remain comfortable in this +utterly erroneous belief. + +"Oh, please--" he said, with gentle rebuke, "I am not happy anywhere." + +Miss Haddon glanced at him with a gay and whimsical, but decidedly +acute, scrutiny. + +"Perhaps you are too young to be happy," she said; "you have not +suffered enough." + +"I have never been young," he answered, eating his devilled kidney with +a silent pathos of perseverance--"never." + +"And I shall never be old, or, at any rate, feel old. It can't be done. +I'm sixty-four, and look it, but I can't cease to revel in details, take +an interest in people, and regard life as my half-opened oyster. It is a +pity one can't go on living till one is two or three hundred or so. +There is so much to see and know. Our existence in the world is like a +day at the Stores. We have to go away before we have been into a +quarter of the different departments." + +"I don't find life at all like that. I have seen all the departments +till I am sick of them. But perhaps you never come to London?" + +"Every year for three months to see my friends. I stay at an hotel. It +is a most delightful time." + +Her tone was warm with pleasant memories. Claude felt himself more and +more surprised. + +"You enjoy the country, and London?" he said. + +"I enjoy everything," said Miss Haddon. "And surely most people do." + +"None of the people I know seem to enjoy anything very much. They try +everything, of course. That is one's duty." + +"Then the latest literature really reflects life, I imagine," Miss +Haddon said. "If what you say is true, everything includes the sins as +well as the virtues. I have often wondered whether the books that I have +thought utterly and absurdly false could possibly be the outcome of +facts." + +"Such as what books?" + +"Oh, I'll name no names. The authors may be your personal friends. But +it is so then? In their search after happiness the people of to-day, the +moderns, give the warm shoulder to vice as well as to virtue?" + +"They ignore nothing." + +"Not even duty?" + +"Our duty is to ourselves, and can never be ignored." + +Miss Haddon tapped a boiled egg very sharply on its head with a spoon. +She wondered if the action were a performance of duty to herself or to +the egg. + +"That, I understand," she remarked briskly, "is the doctrine of what is +called in London the young decadent; and in the country--forgive +me--sometimes the young devil of the day." + +"I am decadent, Miss Haddon," Claude said with a gentle pride that was +not wholly ungraceful. + +The elderly lady swept him with a bright look of fresh and healthy +interest. + +"How exciting," she exclaimed, after a moment's decisive pause, but with +a completely natural air. "You are the first I have seen. For Jimmy +isn't one, is he?" + +"Jimmy! No. He plays football, and eats cold roast beef and cheese for +lunch." + +"Do tell me--how does one do it?" + +She seemed intensely interested, and was merrily munching an apple grown +in one of her own orchards. + +Claude raised his dark eyebrows. + +"I beg your pardon?" + +"How does one become a decadent? I have heard so much about you all, +about your cleverness, and your clothes, and the things you write, and +draw, and smoke, and think, and--and eat--" + +She seemed suddenly struck by a bright idea. + +"Oh, Mr Melville!" she exclaimed, leaning forward behind the great +silver urn, and darting at him a glance of imploring earnestness, "will +you do me a favour? We are left to ourselves for a whole week. Teach me, +teach me to be a decadent." + +"But I thought you were going to teach me to be yo--" Claude began, and +stopped just in time. "I mean--er--" + +He paused, and they gazed at each other. There was meditation in the +boy's eyes. He was wondering seriously whether it would be possible for +an elderly spinster lady, of countrified morals and rural procedure, to +be decadent. She was rather stout, too, and appeared painfully healthy. + +"Will you?" Miss Haddon breathed across the urn and the teapot. + +"Well, we might try," Claude answered doubtfully. + +He was remarking to himself:-- + +"Poor, dear Jimmy! He certainly doesn't understand his aunt!" + +She was murmuring in her mind: "I have always heard they have no sense +of humour!" + + +III + +"Mr Melville, Mr Melville," cried Miss Haddon's voice towards evening on +the following day, "the absinthe has arrived!" + +Claude came out languidly into the hall. + +"Has it?" he said dreamily. + +"Yes, and Paul Verlaine's poetry, and the blue books--I mean the yellow +books, and" (rummaging in a just-opened parcel) "yes, here are two +novels by Catulle Mendez, and a box of those rose-tipped cigarettes. +Now, what ought I to do? Shall we have some absinthe instead of our tea, +or what?" + +Claude looked at her with a momentary suspicion, but her grey hair +crowned an eager face decorated with an honest expression. The suspicion +was lulled to rest. + +"We had better have our tea," he answered slowly. "I like my absinthe +about an hour or so before dinner." + +"Very well. Tea, James, and muffins." + +The butler retired with fat dignity, but wondering not a little at the +unusual vagaries of his mistress. Miss Haddon and Claude, laden with +books, repaired to the drawing-room and sat down by the fire. Claude +placed himself, cross-legged, upon a cushion on the floor. The box of +rose-tipped cigarettes was in his hand. Miss Haddon regarded him +expectantly from her sofa. Her expression seemed continually exclaiming, +"What's to be done now?" + +The boy felt that this was not right, and endeavoured gently to correct +it. + +"Please try to be a little--a--" + +"Yes?" + +"A little more restrained," he said. "What we feel about life is that it +should never be crude. All extremes are crude." + +"What--even extremes of wickedness?" + +He hesitated. + +"Well, certainly extremes of goodness, or happiness, or anything of that +kind. When one comes to think of it seriously, happiness is really +absurd, is it not? Just consider how preposterous what is called a happy +face always looks, covered with those dreadful, wrinkled things named +smiles, all the teeth showing, and so on. I know you agree with me. +Happiness drives all thought out of a face, and distorts the features in +a most painful manner. When I go out walking on a Bank Holiday, a thing +I seldom do, I always think a cheerful expression the most degrading of +all expressions. A contented clerk disfigures a whole street--really." + +Miss Haddon's appearance had gradually grown very sombre during this +speech, and she did not brighten up on the approach of tea and muffins +on a wicker table whimsical with little shelves. + +"Perhaps you are right," she said. "I daresay happiness is +unreasonable. Ought I to sit on the floor too?" + +Claude deprecated such an act on the part of his hostess. Sitting on the +floor was one of his pet originalities, and he hated rivalry. Besides, +Miss Haddon was distinctly too stout for that sort of thing. + +"I do it because I feel so Turkish," he explained. "Otherwise, it would +be an assumption, and not naïve. People make a great mistake in fancying +the decadent is unnatural. If anything, he is too natural. He follows +his whim. The world only calls us natural when we do everything we +dislike. If Rossetti had played football every Saturday, his poetry +would have been much more read in England than it has been. Yes, please, +I will have another muffin." + +"But I think I feel Turkish too," Miss Haddon said calmly. "Yes, I am +sure I do. I ought not to resist it; ought I? Otherwise I shall be +flying in the face of your beautiful theories." And she squatted down on +the floor at his elbow. + +Claude had a wonderful purple moment of acute irritation, during which +he felt strangely natural. Miss Haddon did not appear to notice it. She +went on bombarding him with questions in a cheery manner until he began +to be rather ill, but her face never lost its expression of grave +sadness, a strange, inexplicable melancholy that was not in the least +Bank Holiday. The contrast between her expression and her voice worried +Claude, as an intelligent pantaloon might worry a clown. He felt that +something was wrong. Either face or voice required alteration. And then +questions are like death--extremely irksome. Besides, he found it +difficult to answer many of them, difficult to define precisely the +position of the decadent, his intentions and his aims. It was no use to +tell Miss Haddon that he didn't possess either the one or the other. +Always with the same definitely sad face, the same definitely cheerful +voice, she declined to believe him. He fidgeted on his cushion, and his +Turkish placidity threatened to be seriously disturbed. + +The appearance of the absinthe created a diversion. Claude arranged a +glass of it, much diluted with water, for the benefit of his hostess, +and she began to sip it with an air of determined reverence. + +"It tastes like the smell of a drag hunt," she said after a while. + +Claude's gently-lifted eyebrows proclaimed misapprehension. + +"When they drag a trail over a course and satisfy the hounds with a dead +rabbit at the end of it," she explained. + +"My dear lady," he protested plaintively. "Really, you do not grasp the +inner meaning of what you are drinking. Presently the most perfect +sensation will steal over you, a curious happy detachment from +everything, as if you were floating in some exquisite element. You will +not care what happens, or what--" + +"But must I drink it all before I feel detached?" she asked. "It's +really so very nasty, quite disgusting to the taste. Surely you think +so." + +"I drink it for its after-effect." + +"Is it like a good act that costs us pain at the moment, and gives us +the pleasure of self-satisfaction ultimately?" + +"I don't know," the boy exclaimed abruptly. To compare absinthe to a +good act seemed to him quite intolerable. + +He let his rose-tipped cigarette go out, and was glad when the dressing +gong sounded in the hall. + +Miss Haddon sprang up from the floor briskly. + +"I rather admire you for drinking this stuff," she said. "I am sure you +do it to mortify the flesh. A Lenten penance out of Lent is most +invigorating to the mind." + +As Claude went up to dress, he felt as if he never wished to touch +absinthe again. The glitter of its personality was dulled for him now +that it was looked upon as merely a nasty sort of medicine to be +indulged in as a mortification of the flesh, like wearing a hair shirt, +or rejecting meat on Fridays. He found Miss Haddon painfully prosaic. It +seemed almost silly to be a decadent in her company. To feel Turkish +alone was graceful and quaint, almost intellectual, but to have an old +lady feeling Turkish, too, and squatting on the floor to emphasise the +sensation, was tragic, seemed to bring imbecility very near. Claude +dressed with unusual agitation, and made a distinct failure of his tie. + +All through dinner Miss Haddon talked optimistically about her prospects +as a successful decadent, much as if she were discussing her future on +the Stock Exchange, or as the editor of a paper. She calculated that at +her present rate of progress she ought to be almost on a level with her +guest by the end of the week, and spoke hopefully of ceasing to take any +interest in the ordinary facts of life, of learning a proper contempt +for all healthy-minded humanity, and of appreciating at its proper value +what seems to ordinary people, weak-kneed affection in literature, in +art, and, above all, in movement and in appearance. Her bright eyes +flashed upon Claude beneath her crown of powdered hair, as she talked, +and the big room rang with her jovial voice. + +The boy began to feel exceedingly confused. Yet he had never been less +bored. Miss Haddon might be stout and sixty-four. Nevertheless, her net +personality was far less wearisome than that of many a town-bred sylph. +Unconsciously Claude ate with a hearty appetite, indulged immoderately +in excellent roast beef, and even swallowed a beautifully-cooked Spanish +onion without thinking of the committal of a crime. During dessert Miss +Haddon gave him a racy description of a rural cricket match and of the +supper and speeches which followed it, and he found himself laughing +heartily and wishing he had been there. He pulled himself up short with +a sudden sensation of horror, and his hostess rose to go into the +drawing-room. + +"Shall we play Halma or Ek Bahr?" she asked; "or would they be out of +order? I wish particularly to conform to all your tenets." + +"Dear lady, please, we have no tenets," he protested. "Do remember that, +or you will never become what you wish. But I do not care for any +games." + +"Then shall we sit down and each read a volume of the 'Yellow Book'?" + +She hastened towards a table to find copies of that work, but something +in her brisk and anxious movement caused Claude to exclaim hurriedly: + +"Please--please teach me Halma." + +That night he went up to bed flushed with triumph. + +Miss Haddon had allowed him to win a couple of games. Never before had +he felt so absolutely certain of the unusual acuteness of his intellect. + + +IV + +Three days later, Miss Haddon and Claude Melville were feeding +chickens--under protest. + +"I mean to give it up, of course," the former said. "It's a degrading +pursuit; it's almost as bad as the 'things that Jimmy does,' the things +that give him such a marvellous complexion and keep his figure so +magnificent." + +She threw a handful of grain to the frenzied denizens of the enlarged +meat-safe before them, and added in a tone of pensive reflectiveness: + +"Why is it, I wonder, that these actions which, as you have taught me, +are unworthy of thinking people, tend to make the body so beautiful, the +eyes so bright and clear, the cheeks rose-tinted, the limbs straight and +supple?" + +All the time that she was speaking her glance crept musingly over +Claude's tall, but weak-looking and rather flaccid form, seeming to +pause on his thin undeveloped arms, his lanky legs, and his slightly +yellow face. That face began to flush. She sighed. + +"There must be something radically wrong in the scheme of the universe," +she continued. "But, of course, one ought to live for the mind and for +subtle sensations, even though they do make one look an object." + +Her eyes were on the chickens now, who were fighting like feathered +furies, pouncing, clucking, running for safety, grain in beak, or, with +a fiery anxiety, chasing the favoured brethren who had secured a morsel +and were hoping to be permitted to swallow it. Claude glanced at her +furtively out of the corner of his eye, and endeavoured, for the first +time in his life, to stand erect and broaden his rather narrow chest. + +Silently he resolved to give instructions to his tailor not to spare the +padding in his future coats. He was glad, too, that knee-breeches, for +which he had occasionally sighed, had not come into fashion again. After +all, modern dress had its little advantages. Miss Haddon was still +scattering grain, rather in the attitude of Millet's "_Sower_," and +still talking reflectively. + +"We must try to convert Jimmy," she said. "I have a good deal of +influence over him, Mr Melville. We must try to make him more like you, +more thoughtful, more inactive, more frankly sensual, more fond of +sofas, in the future than he has been in the past. Do you know, I am +ashamed to say it, but I don't believe I have ever seen Jimmy lying on a +sofa. Poor Jimmy! Look at that hen! She is choking. Hens gulp their food +so! And then, he's inclined to be persistently unselfish. That must be +stopped too. I have learnt from you that to be decadent one must be +acutely and untiringly selfish. The blessings of selfishness! What a +volume might be written upon them! Mr Melville, all chickens must be +decadent, for all chickens are entirely selfish. It is strange to think +that the average fowl is more advanced in ethics--is it ethics I +mean?--than the average man or woman, is it not? And we ate a decadent +at dinner last night. I feel almost like a cannibal." + +She threw away the last grain, and was silent. But suddenly Claude +spoke. + +"Miss Haddon," he said, and his voice had never sounded so boyish to her +before, "you have been laughing at me for nearly a week." He paused, +then he went on, rather unevenly, in the up-and-down tones induced by +stifled excitement, "and I have never found it out until this moment. I +suppose you think me a great fool. I daresay I have been one. But please +don't--I mean, please let us give up acting our farce." + +"But have we reached the third act?" she said. + +They were walking through the garden, among the crocuses and violets +now. + +"I am sure I don't know," he answered, trying to seem easy. "Perhaps it +is a farce in one act." + +"Perhaps it is not a farce at all, my dear boy," she said very gently +and with a sudden old-world gravity that was not without its grace. + +They reached the house. She put her basket down on the oak table in the +wide hall, and faced him in the eager way that was natural to her, and +that was so youthful. + +"Mr Melville--Claude," she said, as she held out her hand, clad in a +very countrified brown glove, with a fan-like gauntlet, "of all Jimmy's +friends I think I shall like you the best. People who have acted +together ought to be good comrades." + +He took the hand. That seemed necessary. + +"But I haven't been acting," he said. + +"Oh, yes, you have," she answered, "and I have only been on the stage +for a week; while you--well, I suppose you have been on it for at least +two or three years. I am taking my farewell of it this morning, and +you--?" + +The boy's face was deeply flushed, but he did not look, or feel, +actually angry. + +"I don't know about myself yet," he said. + +"Think it all over," the old lady exclaimed. "And now let us have lunch. +I am hungry." + + * * * * * + +Jimmy arrived that evening. + +"How old are you, Claude?" he exclaimed, clapping his friend on the +back. + +"I am not sure," Claude replied. "But I almost begin to wish that I were +sixty-four." + + + + +THE TEE-TO-TUM + + +I + +Jack Burnham was quite determined not to marry Mrs Lorton, and if there +was one thing in the world upon which she had rigidly set her heart it +was upon refusing him. There were several things about her which he +deliberately disliked. In the first place, she was a widow, and he +always had an uneasy suspicion that widows, like dynamite, were +mysteriously dangerous. Then her Christian name was Harriet, and she +never took afternoon tea. The former of these two facts indicated, +according to his ideas, that her parents were people of bad taste, the +latter that she possessed notions that were against nature. Also, she +was well informed, and knew it. This condition of the mind, he +considered, should be the blessed birthright of the male sex, and he +looked upon her as an usurper. She didn't wear mourning, which implied +that she was forgetful--of dead husbands. Then--well, that was about all +he had against her, and it was quite enough. + +As for her, the whole nature of her protested eloquently against the way +he waxed his moustache, against the colour of his brown hair, and of +his brown boots, against his lounging gait, and his opinion of Mr +Gladstone. He had a certain arrogance about him, when with her, which +arose in truth from his fear of her intellectual prowess. This led her +to dub him intolerably conceited. She desired to humble him, and +considered that she could best do so by refusing his offer of marriage. +But she must first persuade him to propose. That was the difficulty. + +They were constantly meeting in London. You always constantly meet your +enemies in London. And, when they met, they always devoted a great deal +of time to the advancement of the tacit and polite quarrel between them. +They argued with one another in Hyde Park on fine mornings, and were +really disgusted with one another at dinner parties and "At Homes." He +thought her fast--at balls; and she had once considered him blatant--at +a Marlborough House garden party. This last fact, indeed, put the coping +stone to the feud between them, for Mrs Lorton expressed her opinion to +a friend, and Burnham, of course, got to know of it. To be thought +blatant at Marlborough House was really intolerable. One might as well +be pronounced to have had a heathen air at Lambeth Palace. + +Distinctly, Jack Burnham and Harriet Lorton were acutely antagonistic. + +Yet, there must surely have been some strange, unknown link of sympathy +between them, for they both caught the influenza on the same day--it +was a Sunday morning--and both permitted it to develop into double +pneumonia. + +After all, spar as we may, are we not all brothers and sisters? + +The double pneumonia ought to have drawn them together; but, as he lived +in Piccadilly and she in Queen's Gate, and each was thoroughly +self-centred--nothing produces egoism so certainly as influenza--neither +knew of the illness of the other. + +Providence denied to both that subtle joy, and they got to the mutton +chop and chipped potato stage of convalescence in childlike ignorance of +each other's misfortune. + +There must certainly have been a curious community of mind between them, +for both their doctors ordered them to Margate, and they both took rooms +at Westgate. Now a similar taste in seaside places is undoubtedly an +excellent foundation for eternal friendship. Let the world crumble in +atoms, two people who both like Westgate will still find something to +talk about amid the confusion occasioned by the dissolution of kingdoms. + +Jack Burnham arrived at the St Mildred's Hotel on a Thursday, with his +man. + +Harriet Lorton came on the following Friday, with her maid. + +Neither had any notion of the other's proceedings until they met back to +back, as you shall presently hear. + + +II + +In ordinary circumstances of health and vigour, Burnham and Mrs Lorton +possessed dispositions of quite singular vivacity, looked upon life as a +fairly good, if rather practical joke, and were fully disposed to +consider happiness their _métier_. Being modern, they sometimes +concealed their original gaiety, as if it were original sin, and +pretended to a cruel cynicism; yet at heart, it must be confessed, they +were as lively as poor children playing in the street. But when they +went to Westgate, influenza had had its fill of them, and the infinite +pathos of the world, and of all that is therein, appealed to them with a +seizing vitality. Burnham, on the Thursday, was moved to tears at +Birchington Station by the sight of a mother and eleven children missing +the last train to Margate. Harriet Lorton, on the following Friday, had +hysterics at Victoria, when she perceived a young lady drop a cage +containing a grey parrot, and smash the bird's china bath upon the +platform. The fact that the parrot had been actually taking its bath at +the moment, and was left by the misfortune in much confusion and no +water, struck her so poignantly as nearly to break her heart. She wept +in a first-class carriage all the way down, and arrived at Westgate, +towards ten o'clock, in a state of complete collapse. + +Mr Burnham was in bed drinking a cup of soup at this time. He heard the +luggage being carried up, but did not suspect whose it was. +Nevertheless, the ravages of disease led him to consider the slight +noise and bustle a personal insult, and he lay awake most of the night +brooding upon the wrongs of which he, erroneously, believed himself to +be the victim. + +It was on the next morning that the two invalids met back to back in a +shelter with glass partitions upon the lawn. + +Mrs Lorton, smothered in wraps, had taken up her position on the bench +that faces Westgate without noticing a bowed and ulstered figure, shod +in brown boots, sitting in a haggard posture on the reciprocal bench +that faces the sea. Nobody was about, for it was not the season, and Mrs +Lorton began slowly to weep on account of the loneliness. It struck her +disordered fancy as so personal. Creation was sending her to Coventry. +At her back the tears ran over Burnham's handsome countenance. He was +staring at the sea, and thinking of all the people who had been drowned +in water since the days of the Deluge. He wondered how many there were, +and cried copiously, considering himself absolutely alone and free to +give vent to his feelings, which struck him as splendidly human. + +When two people weep together one of them usually weeps louder than the +other, and, on this occasion, Burnham made the most noise. He became, +in fact, so uproariously solicitous about the drowned men and women whom +he had never known that Mrs Lorton gradually was made aware of the +presence of another mourner who was not a mute. She turned round and +beheld a back convulsed with emotion. Its grief went straight to her +heart, and, casting her own sorrow and her sense of etiquette to the +wind--which blew bracingly from the north-east--she tapped upon the +glass screen that bisected the shelter. + +Burnham took no notice. He was too deeply involved in grief. So Mrs +Lorton knocked again, with all the vigour that incipient convalescence +gave to her. This time Burnham was startled, and turned a hollow face +upon her. They stared at each other through the intervening glass for a +moment in wild surprise, the tears congealing upon their cheeks. + +Beyond Burnham Mrs Lorton saw the whirling white foam of the sea. Beyond +Mrs Lorton Burnham saw the neat villas of Westgate. It struck them both +as a tremendous moment, and they trembled. + +Remember that they were very weak. + +At last he, conceiving naturally that she had recognised and desired to +summon him, walked slowly round to her side of the shelter, and held out +to her a wavering hand. + +"Good heavens!" he ejaculated. "The last person I--" + +"You!" said Mrs Lorton. "How astonishing! What on earth--" + +He seized the opening she gave him with all the ardour of the +whole-souled influenza patient. + +"I have been ill," he said with a deep pathos, "very, very ill. My +symptoms were most extraordinary." + +He sank down heavily at her side, and continued, "I doubt if any one has +endured such agony before. It began on a Sunday with--" + +"So did mine," Mrs Lorton interrupted with some show of determination. +"You cannot conceive what it was like. I had pains in every limb, every +limb positively. The doctor--" + +"Of course I went straight to bed," he remarked with firmness. "I knew +at once what was wrong. But mine was no ordinary case. Talk of +thumbscrews! Why--" + +"For nights I tossed in agony," she went on with a poignant self-pity, +so much engrossed that she never noticed the brown boots which on other +occasions had so deeply offended her. "Morphia and eucalyptus were no--" + +"He said it was pneumonia, double pneumonia," Burnham concluded +emphatically. "How I came through it I shall never know." His smile at +this point was wan, and seemed to deprecate existence. "I suppose there +is still some work for me to do. At the same time, I--" + +"Mine was also double!" Mrs Lorton said with distinct tartness, +condemning privately his arrogance, and noticing the boots with a +strange feeling of sudden and unutterable despair. + +"It is all so much worse for a woman," she added vaguely, with some idea +of out-doing him, such as she had felt once or twice at dinner parties, +when her epigrams had been smarter than his. + +"The strong possess a greater capacity for suffering than the weak," +Burnham retorted. "Medical science tells us that--" + +"Please spare me the revelations of the dissecting-room," she cried +bitterly; "I am in no condition to bear them." + +She glanced at him with pathetic eyes, and added, "I ought to have gone +to Margate." + +"I ought to have gone there too," he said. + +"Really, you make the conversation sound like one of Maeterlinck's +plays," she rejoined. "Do be more original." + +The reproach cut him to the heart. He never knew why, but he felt so +much injured that he with great difficulty restrained his tears. + +"Women can be very brutal," he said moodily, biting his lips, and +wondering how many authors it was necessary to read in order never to be +at a disadvantage with a clever woman. + +Mrs Lorton was conscious that she had hurt him, and instead of being her +nice, natural self and glorying in the fact, she experienced a sense of +profound pity that gave her quite a tightened feeling about the left +side. However, she only said, "Men can be very selfish"--a generality +that many people consider as convincing as a bomb--and got up to go. + +"I am staying at the St Mildred's," she remarked. "It is the dull +season, so I am the only person there at present." + +"I beg your pardon," Burnham said, also getting upon his feet, "I am +there too. My number is 12 and I have a private sitting-room. I do not +feel up to the coffee-room yet." + +Mrs Lorton turned as pale as ashes with vexation. She had no private +sitting-room, and had ordered dinner in the coffee-room for that very +evening. + +She felt herself at a disadvantage as they walked in a gloomy silence +towards the beach. + + +III + +Three days had passed away, and Jack Burnham had found that he was, in +his own phrase, "up to the coffee-room" after all. In consequence, Mrs +Lorton and he dined there every evening at separate tables. A sense of +rivalry--and there is no rivalry more keen than that between contesting +invalids--prevented both of them from eating as much as they would have +liked. When the widow refused a course, Burnham shook his head at it +wearily, and they rose from their meals in a state of passionate hunger, +which they solaced with captain's biscuits in the seclusion of their +bedrooms. Since they had Westgate almost to themselves, and the weather +was becoming bright and warm, they were much out of doors; but their +profound depression still continued, and they were as morbid human +beings as Max Nordau could have desired to meet with when he was seeking +for specimens of degeneration. + +Their continual greedy anxiety to narrate the details of their physical +and mental sensations drove them to seek one another's company, and soon +it became an understood thing that they should sit together on the lawn +or in the winter garden during the morning, and stroll feebly in the +direction of Margate during the breezy afternoon. + +These times were times of battle, of a struggle for supremacy in +symptoms that led to much heart searching and to infinite exaggeration. +Mrs Lorton, being a woman, generally got the best of it, and Burnham +entered the hotel at tea-time with set teeth, and an appalling sense of +injustice and of failure in his breast. One night at dinner, determined +to conquer or to die, he refused everything but soup; and noted, with a +grim satisfaction, that Mrs Lorton could hardly contain her chagrin at +having inadvertently devoured a cutlet and a spoonful of jelly. Indeed, +her temper was so much upset by this occurrence that she went straight +to bed on leaving the coffee-room, and sent down a message the next +morning to say that she was far too ill to venture out. + +Burnham, therefore, sat in the shelter alone, cursing the craft of +woman. In the intervals between the cursings he was conscious of a +certain loneliness that seemed to be in the atmosphere. It hovered with +the seagulls above the sprightly waves, swept over the lawn hand in hand +with the wind, basked in the sunshine, and companioned him closely upon +the esplanade as he walked home to lunch. He was puzzled by it. + +At lunch-time Mrs Lorton was still confined to bed, so her maid +announced. Burnham promptly began to wonder whether she was going to +die. He strolled towards Margate wondering, and found himself presently +in the sunset, gazing with tears in his eyes at the silhouette of +Margate Pier, and, mentally, placing a reverent tribute of flowers from +Covent Garden upon her early grave in Brompton Cemetery. + +He also found himself, later, dropping a tear at the thought of his own +death, for of course with his weak health he could not hope to outlive +anybody for very long. Mrs Lorton's absence at dinner struck him as more +pathetic than all the misery of the travailing universe, until he +remembered that at last he could gratify his appetite, and even accept +two _entrées_ at the hands of the waiter. + +Life, if it is full of sorrows, is also full of consolations. + +He ate steadily for a couple of hours, pitying himself all the time. + +Next day Mrs Lorton re-appeared in a very bad temper. Her seclusion, +although it had enabled her to score several points off her rival, had +been in other respects wearisome and vexatious. She barely nodded to +Burnham, and went out towards the shelter alone. He followed furtively, +longing, as usual, for condolence, and presently saw her seat herself +facing the sea. The strained relations between them seemed to forbid his +placing himself at her side. The back-to-back posture would be more +illustrative of the exact position of affairs, and Burnham's nicety and +accuracy of mind induced him accordingly to face Westgate. Their +positions of the first day were thus reversed. She looked at the sea; he +stared at the villas. Strange turmoil of life, in which we never know +which way we shall be facing next! It struck Burnham suddenly, and so +forcibly, _à propos_ of his and Mrs Lorton's reversal, that the ready +tears sprang to his eyes. How would it all end? Man spins about like a +tee-to-tum, bowing to all points of the compass. The time comes when the +tee-to-tum runs down--and what then? Burnham was certainly run down. +That must be his excuse for what he did. He glanced behind him through +the glass screen, and saw by the motion of Mrs Lorton's back that she +was sobbing. In truth, the sight of the dancing waves had set her +thinking of all the poor people who have been drowned in water since the +beginning of things. Poor dead folk! She was trembling with emotion, and +still wept mechanically when she found Mr Burnham on her side of the +shelter proposing to her with all his might and main. He was asking her +to comfort him, to be a true woman and shield him with her strength, to +support his tottering footsteps along the rugged ways of life, to dry +his tears and stay the agonies of his shaken soul. + +"Your health will help my weakness," he said. "Your vigour will teach me +to be strong." + +It was a strange proposal, and she began to defend herself from his +imputations, stating her maladies, marshalling her symptoms of decay in +an imposing procession. + +But it was no good. He had taken her unawares and got the start of her. +She felt it, and his determined weakness obtained a power over her which +she could never afterwards explain. + +His influenza triumphed, for she forgot her resolution. + +A wave of morbid pity for him swept over the woman in her. If he was +disorganised now, what would be his condition if she refused him? + +"Have I the right," she asked herself, "to devote a fellow-creature to +everlasting misery?" + +Her influenza told her plainly that she had not. + + * * * * * + +People say that the marriage will really come off. + +Jack Burnham announced it everywhere before Mrs Lorton got thoroughly +well, and Mrs Lorton told everybody while Jack Burnham was still what +his friends called "awfully dicky." + +One can but hope that their married life will be passed on the same side +of the shelter. If he persists in facing the sea, and she in staring at +the villas--well, they will live most of Ibsen's plays! + +But at least they will be modern. + +And so the tee-to-tum, thought of pathetically by Burnham on a memorable +occasion, spins round, and the sea and the villas are the two aspects of +life. + + + + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber's note: + + +Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained. + +Duplicate title headings at the beginning of the book and before each +story have been removed. + +The following corrections were made to the text: + +p. 267: missing period added (danced merrily.) + +p. 325: single close quote to double close quote ("I hope you will not +be bored,") + +p. 328: healthly to healthy (fresh and healthy interest) + +p. 331: be to he ("A little more restrained," he said.) + +p. 349: paragraph break removed after comma (and continued, "I doubt if +any one) + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BYE-WAYS*** + + +******* This file should be named 33040-8.txt or 33040-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/0/4/33040 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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