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diff --git a/38310-h/38310-h.htm b/38310-h/38310-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9560bb --- /dev/null +++ b/38310-h/38310-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13888 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wolves Of God And Other Fey Stories, by Algernon Blackwood and Wilfred Wilson. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + +h1,h2,h3 {text-align: center; clear: both; font-weight: normal;} + +h1 {line-height: 180%; margin-top: 3em; font-size: 140%;} +h2 {font-size: 100%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;} +h3 {margin-top: 1.5em; font-size: 90%;} + +p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + +p.tp1 {text-align: center; font-size: 110%; line-height: 160%; + margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;} +p.tp2 {text-align: center; font-size: 90%;} +p.tp3 {text-align: center; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} +p.tp4 {text-align: center; font-size: 80%; margin-top: 5em; margin-bottom: 5em; + line-height: 200%;} + +hr.l1 {width: 60%; margin-top: 4em; margin-bottom: 4em; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} +hr.l2 {width: 30%; margin-top: 4em; margin-bottom: 4em; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} +hr.l3 {width: 100%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + border-top: solid 1px; border-bottom: solid 1px; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; color: black;} +hr.l4 {width: 3em; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em; clear: both;} +hr.l5 {width: 4em; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: 2em; clear: both;} + +table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; font-size: 90%; max-width: 90%;} +td {padding-right: 1em; padding-left: 1em;} +td.col1 {text-align: right; padding-right: 1em; vertical-align: top;} +td.col2 {text-align: left; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; + vertical-align: top; font-variant: small-caps;} +td.col3 {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} + +.pagenum {position: absolute; left: 94%; font-size: 60%; text-align: right; + color: #999999; letter-spacing: 0; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;} + +.blockquot {margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} +.blockquot1 {margin-top: 1.4em; margin-bottom: 1.4em; font-size: 90%; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + +.sign {float: right; margin-right: 3em; font-variant: small-caps;} + +.str {letter-spacing: 3em; margin-left: 3em; text-align: center;} + +p.cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; margin: 0 .1em 0 0; + font-weight: normal; font-size: 230%; line-height: 85%;} +.upper {text-transform: uppercase;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px; max-width: 22em; margin: auto; clear: both;} + +.lsoff {list-style-type: none; text-align: left;} +li {margin-left: -1em; margin-right: 1em;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.r6 {margin-top: 6em;} +.r12 {margin-top: 12em;} + +.f5 {font-size: 50%;} +.f7 {font-size: 70%;} +.f8 {font-size: 80%;} +.f12 {font-size: 120%;} +.f14 {font-size: 140%;} + +.figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center; + padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;} + +.centered {text-align: center; margin: auto; display: table;} +.poem {text-align: left; font-style: italic;} +.poem br {display: none;} +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} +.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + +.tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 6em; padding: .5em 1em .5em 1em; font-size: 80%;} +.tn {text-align: center; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wolves of God, by +Algernon Blackwood and Wilfred Wilson + +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: The Wolves of God + And Other Fey Stories + +Author: Algernon Blackwood + Wilfred Wilson + +Release Date: December 15, 2011 [EBook #38310] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOLVES OF GOD *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, eagkw and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="598" alt="Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr class="l2" /> + +<h1>THE WOLVES OF GOD</h1> + +<p> </p> + +<hr class="l2" /> + +<div class="centered"><div class="bbox"> +<p class="center"><i>OTHER WORKS BY<br /> +<span class="f14">ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</span></i></p> +<hr class="l3" /> +<ul class="lsoff"> +<li>JULIUS LE VALLON</li> +<li>THE WAVE: An Egyptian Aftermath</li> +<li>TEN-MINUTE STORIES</li> +<li>DAY AND NIGHT STORIES</li> +<li>THE PROMISE OF AIR</li> +<li>THE GARDEN OF SURVIVAL</li> +<li>THE LISTENER and Other Stories</li> +<li>THE EMPTY HOUSE and Other Stories</li> +<li>THE LOST VALLEY and Other Stories</li> +<li>JOHN SILENCE: Physician Extraordinary</li> +<li> </li> +<li class="center"><i>With Violet Pearn</i></li> +<li>KARMA: A Reincarnation Play</li></ul> +<hr class="l3" /> +<p class="center f12">E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY</p> +</div></div> + +<hr class="l2" /> + +<h1><span class="f14">THE WOLVES OF GOD</span><br /> +<i>And Other Fey Stories</i></h1> + +<p class="tp1"> +BY<br /> +<span class="f12">ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</span><br /> +<span class="f7"><i>Author of “The Wave,” “The Promise of Air,” etc</i></span><br /> +<span class="f5">AND</span><br /> +<span class="f12">WILFRED WILSON</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/title.png" width="125" height="180" alt="logo" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="tp1">NEW YORK<br /> +<span class="f12">E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">681 Fifth Avenue</span></p> + +<hr class="l2" /> + + +<p class="tp2"> +Copyright, 1921<br /> +By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY</p> +<hr class="l4" /> +<p class="tp3">All rights reserved</p> + +<p class="tp3 r12">Printed in the United States of America</p> + +<hr class="l2" /> + +<p class="tp4">TO THE MEMORY<br /> +OF<br /> +OUR CAMP-FIRES IN THE WILDERNESS</p> +<hr class="l2" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="col2" colspan="2"><span class="f8">CHAPTER</span></td><td align="right"><span class="f8">PAGE</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">I.</td><td class="col2">The Wolves of God</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">II.</td><td class="col2">Chinese Magic</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">III.</td><td class="col2">Running Wolf</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">IV.</td><td class="col2">First Hate</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">V.</td><td class="col2">The Tarn of Sacrifice</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">VI.</td><td class="col2">The Valley of the Beasts</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">VII.</td><td class="col2">The Call</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">VIII.</td><td class="col2">Egyptian Sorcery</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">IX.</td><td class="col2">The Decoy</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">X.</td><td class="col2">The Man Who Found Out</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">XI.</td><td class="col2">The Empty Sleeve</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">XII.</td><td class="col2">Wireless Confusion</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">XIII.</td><td class="col2">Confession</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1">XIV.</td><td class="col2">The Lane that ran East and West</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="col1"> XV.</td><td class="col2">“Vengeance is Mine”</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td></tr> +</table></div> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<h1>THE WOLVES OF GOD</h1> + +<hr class="l5" /> + +<h2>I<br /> +<br /> +THE WOLVES OF GOD</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">As</span> the little steamer entered the bay of Kettletoft in the +Orkneys the beach at Sanday appeared so low that +the houses almost seemed to be standing in the water; and +to the big, dark man leaning over the rail of the upper +deck the sight of them came with a pang of mingled +pain and pleasure. The scene, to his eyes, had not changed. +The houses, the low shore, the flat treeless country beyond, +the vast open sky, all looked exactly the same as +when he left the island thirty years ago to work for the +Hudson Bay Company in distant N. W. Canada. A lad +of eighteen then, he was now a man of forty-eight, old +for his years, and this was the home-coming he had so +often dreamed about in the lonely wilderness of trees where +he had spent his life. Yet his grim face wore an anxious +rather than a tender expression. The return was perhaps +not quite as he had pictured it.</p> + +<p>Jim Peace had not done too badly, however, in the +Company’s service. For an islander, he would be a rich +man now; he had not married, he had saved the greater +part of his salary, and even in the far-away Post where +he had spent so many years there had been occasional +opportunities of the kind common to new, wild countries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> +where life and law are in the making. He had not hesitated +to take them. None of the big Company Posts, it +was true, had come his way, nor had he risen very high +in the service; in another two years his turn would have +come, yet he had left of his own accord before those two +years were up. His decision, judging by the strength +in the features, was not due to impulse; the move had +been deliberately weighed and calculated; he had renounced +his opportunity after full reflection. A man with those +steady eyes, with that square jaw and determined mouth, +certainly did not act without good reason.</p> + +<p>A curious expression now flickered over his weather-hardened +face as he saw again his childhood’s home, and +the return, so often dreamed about, actually took place at +last. An uneasy light flashed for a moment in the deep-set +grey eyes, but was quickly gone again, and the tanned +visage recovered its accustomed look of stern composure. +His keen sight took in a dark knot of figures on +the landing-pier—his brother, he knew, among them. A +wave of home-sickness swept over him. He longed to see +his brother again, the old farm, the sweep of open country, +the sand-dunes, and the breaking seas. The smell +of long-forgotten days came to his nostrils with its sweet, +painful pang of youthful memories.</p> + +<p>How fine, he thought, to be back there in the old +familiar fields of childhood, with sea and sand about him +instead of the smother of endless woods that ran a thousand +miles without a break. He was glad in particular +that no trees were visible, and that rabbits scampering +among the dunes were the only wild animals he need ever +meet....</p> + +<p>Those thirty years in the woods, it seemed, oppressed +his mind; the forests, the countless multitudes of trees, +had wearied him. His nerves, perhaps, had suffered +finally. Snow, frost and sun, stars, and the wind had +been his companions during the long days and endless +nights in his lonely Post, but chiefly—trees. Trees, trees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +trees! On the whole, he had preferred them in stormy +weather, though, in another way, their rigid hosts, ’mid +the deep silence of still days, had been equally oppressive. +In the clear sunlight of a windless day they assumed a +waiting, listening, watching aspect that had something +spectral in it, but when in motion—well, he preferred a +moving animal to one that stood stock-still and stared. +Wind, moreover, in a million trees, even the lightest breeze, +drowned all other sounds—the howling of the wolves, for +instance, in winter, or the ceaseless harsh barking of the +husky dogs he so disliked.</p> + +<p>Even on this warm September afternoon a slight shiver +ran over him as the background of dead years loomed up +behind the present scene. He thrust the picture back, +deep down inside himself. The self-control, the strong, +even violent will that the face betrayed, came into operation +instantly. The background was background; it belonged +to what was past, and the past was over and done +with. It was dead. Jim meant it to stay dead.</p> + +<p>The figure waving to him from the pier was his brother. +He knew Tom instantly; the years had dealt easily with +him in this quiet island; there was no startling, no unkindly +change, and a deep emotion, though unexpressed, +rose in his heart. It was good to be home again, he realized, +as he sat presently in the cart, Tom holding the +reins, driving slowly back to the farm at the north end of +the island. Everything he found familiar, yet at the +same time strange. They passed the school where he used +to go as a little bare-legged boy; other boys were now +learning their lessons exactly as he used to do. Through +the open window he could hear the droning voice of the +schoolmaster, who, though invisible, wore the face of Mr. +Lovibond, his own teacher.</p> + +<p>“Lovibond?” said Tom, in reply to his question. “Oh, +he’s been dead these twenty years. He went south, you +know—Glasgow, I think it was, or Edinburgh. He got +typhoid.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<p>Stands of golden plover were to be seen as of old in +the fields, or flashing overhead in swift flight with a whir +of wings, wheeling and turning together like one huge +bird. Down on the empty shore a curlew cried. Its piercing +note rose clear above the noisy clamour of the gulls. +The sun played softly on the quiet sea, the air was keen +but pleasant, the tang of salt mixed sweetly with the clean +smells of open country that he knew so well. Nothing +of essentials had changed, even the low clouds beyond the +heaving uplands were the clouds of childhood.</p> + +<p>They came presently to the sand-dunes, where rabbits +sat at their burrow-mouths, or ran helter-skelter across the +road in front of the slow cart.</p> + +<p>“They’re safe till the colder weather comes and trapping +begins,” he mentioned. It all came back to him in +detail.</p> + +<p>“And they know it, too—the canny little beggars,” replied +Tom. “Any rabbits out where you’ve been?” he +asked casually.</p> + +<p>“Not to hurt you,” returned his brother shortly.</p> + +<p>Nothing seemed changed, although everything seemed +different. He looked upon the old, familiar things, but +with other eyes. There were, of course, changes, alterations, +yet so slight, in a way so odd and curious, that +they evaded him; not being of the physical order, they +reported to his soul, not to his mind. But his soul, being +troubled, sought to deny the changes; to admit them meant +to admit a change in himself he had determined to conceal +even if he could not entirely deny it.</p> + +<p>“Same old place, Tom,” came one of his rare remarks. +“The years ain’t done much to it.” He looked into his +brother’s face a moment squarely. “Nor to you, either, +Tom,” he added, affection and tenderness just touching +his voice and breaking through a natural reserve that was +almost taciturnity.</p> + +<p>His brother returned the look; and something in that +instant passed between the two men, something of understanding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +that no words had hinted at, much less expressed. +The tie was real, they loved each other, they were loyal, +true, steadfast fellows. In youth they had known no +secrets. The shadow that now passed and vanished left +a vague trouble in both hearts.</p> + +<p>“The forests,” said Tom slowly, “have made a silent +man of you, Jim. You’ll miss them here, I’m thinking.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe,” was the curt reply, “but I guess not.”</p> + +<p>His lips snapped to as though they were of steel and +could never open again, while the tone he used made Tom +realize that the subject was not one his brother cared to +talk about particularly. He was surprised, therefore, when, +after a pause, Jim returned to it of his own accord. He +was sitting a little sideways as he spoke, taking in the +scene with hungry eyes. “It’s a queer thing,” he observed, +“to look round and see nothing but clean empty +land, and not a single tree in sight. You see, it don’t +look natural quite.”</p> + +<p>Again his brother was struck by the tone of voice, but +this time by something else as well he could not name. +Jim was excusing himself, explaining. The manner, too, +arrested him. And thirty years disappeared as though +they had not been, for it was thus Jim acted as a boy when +there was something unpleasant he had to say and wished +to get it over. The tone, the gesture, the manner, all were +there. He was edging up to something he wished to say, +yet dared not utter.</p> + +<p>“You’ve had enough of trees then?” Tom said sympathetically, +trying to help, “and things?”</p> + +<p>The instant the last two words were out he realized +that they had been drawn from him instinctively, and that +it was the anxiety of deep affection which had prompted +them. He had guessed without knowing he had guessed, +or rather, without intention or attempt to guess. Jim had +a secret. Love’s clairvoyance had discovered it, though not +yet its hidden terms.</p> + +<p>“I have——” began the other, then paused, evidently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +to choose his words with care. “I’ve had enough of trees.” +He was about to speak of something that his brother had +unwittingly touched upon in his chance phrase, but instead +of finding the words he sought, he gave a sudden +start, his breath caught sharply. “What’s that?” he exclaimed, +jerking his body round so abruptly that Tom automatically +pulled the reins. “What is it?”</p> + +<p>“A dog barking,” Tom answered, much surprised. “A +farm dog barking. Why? What did you think it was?” +he asked, as he flicked the horse to go on again. “You +made me jump,” he added, with a laugh. “You’re used to +huskies, ain’t you?”</p> + +<p>“It sounded so—not like a dog, I mean,” came the slow +explanation. “It’s long since I heard a sheep-dog bark, I +suppose it startled me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s a dog all right,” Tom assured him comfortingly, +for his heart told him infallibly the kind of tone to +use. And presently, too, he changed the subject in his +blunt, honest fashion, knowing that, also, was the right +and kindly thing to do. He pointed out the old farms +as they drove along, his brother silent again, sitting stiff +and rigid at his side. “And it’s good to have you back, +Jim, from those outlandish places. There are not too +many of the family left now—just you and I, as a matter +of fact.”</p> + +<p>“Just you and I,” the other repeated gruffly, but in +a sweetened tone that proved he appreciated the ready +sympathy and tact. “We’ll stick together, Tom, eh? +Blood’s thicker than water, ain’t it? I’ve learnt that +much, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>The voice had something gentle and appealing in it, +something his brother heard now for the first time. An +elbow nudged into his side, and Tom knew the gesture +was not solely a sign of affection, but grew partly also +from the comfort born of physical contact when the heart +is anxious. The touch, like the last words, conveyed an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +appeal for help. Tom was so surprised he couldn’t believe +it quite.</p> + +<p>Scared! Jim scared! The thought puzzled and afflicted +him who knew his brother’s character inside out, +his courage, his presence of mind in danger, his resolution. +Jim frightened seemed an impossibility, a contradiction +in terms; he was the kind of man who did not +know the meaning of fear, who shrank from nothing, +whose spirits rose highest when things appeared most hopeless. +It must, indeed, be an uncommon, even a terrible +danger that could shake such nerves; yet Tom saw the +signs and read them clearly. Explain them he could not, +nor did he try. All he knew with certainty was that his +brother, sitting now beside him in the cart, hid a secret +terror in his heart. Sooner or later, in his own good time, +he would share it with him.</p> + +<p>He ascribed it, this simple Orkney farmer, to those +thirty years of loneliness and exile in wild desolate places, +without companionship, without the society of women, with +only Indians, husky dogs, a few trappers or fur-dealers like +himself, but none of the wholesome, natural influences +that sweeten life within reach. Thirty years was a long, +long time. He began planning schemes to help. Jim +must see people as much as possible, and his mind ran +quickly over the men and women available. In women +the neighbourhood was not rich, but there were several +men of the right sort who might be useful, good fellows +all. There was John Rossiter, another old Hudson Bay +man, who had been factor at Cartwright, Labrador, for +many years, and had returned long ago to spend his last +days in civilization. There was Sandy McKay, also back +from a long spell of rubber-planting in Malay.... Tom +was still busy making plans when they reached the old +farm and presently sat down to their first meal together +since that early breakfast thirty years ago before Jim +caught the steamer that bore him off to exile—an exile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +that now returned him with nerves unstrung and a secret +terror hidden in his heart.</p> + +<p>“I’ll ask no questions,” he decided. “Jim will tell +me in his own good time. And meanwhile, I’ll get him +to see as many folks as possible.” He meant it too; yet +not only for his brother’s sake. Jim’s terror was so vivid +it had touched his own heart too.</p> + +<p>“Ah, a man can open his lungs here and breathe!” exclaimed +Jim, as the two came out after supper and stood +before the house, gazing across the open country. He drew +a deep breath as though to prove his assertion, exhaling +with slow satisfaction again. “It’s good to see a clear +horizon and to know there’s all that water between—between +me and where I’ve been.” He turned his face +to watch the plover in the sky, then looked towards the +distant shore-line where the sea was just visible in the +long evening light. “There can’t be too much water for +me,” he added, half to himself. “I guess they can’t cross +water—not that much water at any rate.”</p> + +<p>Tom stared, wondering uneasily what to make of it.</p> + +<p>“At the trees again, Jim?” he said laughingly. He +had overheard the last words, though spoken low, and +thought it best not to ignore them altogether. To be +natural was the right way, he believed, natural and cheery. +To make a joke of anything unpleasant, he felt, was to +make it less serious. “I’ve never seen a tree come across +the Atlantic yet, except as a mast—dead,” he added.</p> + +<p>“I wasn’t thinking of the trees just then,” was the +blunt reply, “but of—something else. The damned trees +are nothing, though I hate the sight of ’em. Not of much +account, anyway”—as though he compared them mentally +with another thing. He puffed at his pipe, a moment.</p> + +<p>“They certainly can’t move,” put in his brother, “nor +swim either.”</p> + +<p>“Nor another thing,” said Jim, his voice thick suddenly, +but not with smoke, and his speech confused, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +the idea in his mind was certainly clear as daylight. +“Things can’t hide behind ’em—can they?”</p> + +<p>“Not much cover hereabouts, I admit,” laughed Tom, +though the look in his brother’s eyes made his laughter as +short as it sounded unnatural.</p> + +<p>“That’s so,” agreed the other. “But what I meant was”—he +threw out his chest, looked about him with an air of +intense relief, drew in another deep breath, and again +exhaled with satisfaction—“if there are no trees, there’s no +hiding.”</p> + +<p>It was the expression on the rugged, weathered face +that sent the blood in a sudden gulping rush from his +brother’s heart. He had seen men frightened, seen men +afraid before they were actually frightened; he had also +seen men stiff with terror in the face both of natural and +so-called supernatural things; but never in his life before +had he seen the look of unearthly dread that now turned +his brother’s face as white as chalk and yet put the glow +of fire in two haunted burning eyes.</p> + +<p>Across the darkening landscape the sound of distant +barking had floated to them on the evening wind.</p> + +<p>“It’s only a farm-dog barking.” Yet it was Jim’s +deep, quiet voice that said it, one hand upon his brother’s +arm.</p> + +<p>“That’s all,” replied Tom, ashamed that he had betrayed +himself, and realizing with a shock of surprise +that it was Jim who now played the rôle of comforter—a +startling change in their relations. “Why, what did you +think it was?”</p> + +<p>He tried hard to speak naturally and easily, but his +voice shook. So deep was the brothers’ love and intimacy +that they could not help but share.</p> + +<p>Jim lowered his great head. “I thought,” he whispered, +his grey beard touching the other’s cheek, “maybe +it was the wolves”—an agony of terror made both voice +and body tremble—“the Wolves of God!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>The interval of thirty years had been bridged easily +enough; it was the secret that left the open gap neither +of them cared or dared to cross. Jim’s reason for hesitation +lay within reach of guesswork, but Tom’s silence +was more complicated.</p> + +<p>With strong, simple men, strangers to affectation or +pretence, reserve is a real, almost a sacred thing. Jim +offered nothing more; Tom asked no single question. In +the latter’s mind lay, for one thing, a singular intuitive +certainty: that if he knew the truth he would lose his +brother. How, why, wherefore, he had no notion; whether +by death, or because, having told an awful thing, Jim +would hide—physically or mentally—he knew not, nor +even asked himself. No subtlety lay in Tom, the Orkney +farmer. He merely felt that a knowledge of the truth involved +separation which was death.</p> + +<p>Day and night, however, that extraordinary phrase +which, at its first hearing, had frozen his blood, ran on +beating in his mind. With it came always the original, +nameless horror that had held him motionless where he +stood, his brother’s bearded lips against his ear: <em>The +Wolves of God</em>. In some dim way, he sometimes felt—tried +to persuade himself, rather—the horror did not belong +to the phrase alone, but was a sympathetic echo of +what Jim felt himself. It had entered his own mind and +heart. They had always shared in this same strange, intimate +way. The deep brotherly tie accounted for it. Of +the possible transference of thought and emotion he knew +nothing, but this was what he meant perhaps.</p> + +<p>At the same time he fought and strove to keep it out, +not because it brought uneasy and distressing feelings +to him, but because he did not wish to pry, to ascertain, +to discover his brother’s secret as by some kind of subterfuge +that seemed too near to eavesdropping almost. Also, +he wished most earnestly to protect him. Meanwhile, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +spite of himself, or perhaps because of himself, he watched +his brother as a wild animal watches its young. Jim was +the only tie he had on earth. He loved him with a +brother’s love, and Jim, similarly, he knew, loved him. +His job was difficult. Love alone could guide him.</p> + +<p>He gave openings, but he never questioned:</p> + +<p>“Your letter did surprise me, Jim. I was never so +delighted in my life. You had still two years to run.”</p> + +<p>“I’d had enough,” was the short reply. “God, man, it +was good to get home again!”</p> + +<p>This, and the blunt talk that followed their first meeting, +was all Tom had to go upon, while those eyes that +refused to shut watched ceaselessly always. There was +improvement, unless, which never occurred to Tom, it was +self-control; there was no more talk of trees and water, +the barking of the dogs passed unnoticed, no reference +to the loneliness of the backwoods life passed his lips; +he spent his days fishing, shooting, helping with the work +of the farm, his evenings smoking over a glass—he was +more than temperate—and talking over the days of long +ago.</p> + +<p>The signs of uneasiness still were there, but they were +negative, far more suggestive, therefore, than if open and +direct. He desired no company, for instance—an unnatural +thing, thought Tom, after so many years of loneliness.</p> + +<p>It was this and the awkward fact that he had given +up two years before his time was finished, renouncing, +therefore, a comfortable pension—it was these two big +details that stuck with such unkind persistence in his +brother’s thoughts. Behind both, moreover, ran ever the +strange whispered phrase. What the words meant, or +whence they were derived, Tom had no possible inkling. +Like the wicked refrain of some forbidden song, they +haunted him day and night, even his sleep not free from +them entirely. All of which, to the simple Orkney farmer, +was so new an experience that he knew not how to deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +with it at all. Too strong to be flustered, he was at any +rate bewildered. And it was for Jim, his brother, he +suffered most.</p> + +<p>What perplexed him chiefly, however, was the attitude +his brother showed towards old John Rossiter. He +could almost have imagined that the two men had met +and known each other out in Canada, though Rossiter +showed him how impossible that was, both in point of +time and of geography as well. He had brought them +together within the first few days, and Jim, silent, gloomy, +morose, even surly, had eyed him like an enemy. Old +Rossiter, the milk of human kindness as thick in his veins +as cream, had taken no offence. Grizzled veteran of the +wilds, he had served his full term with the Company and +now enjoyed his well-earned pension. He was full of +stories, reminiscences, adventures of every sort and kind; +he knew men and values, had seen strange things that +only the true wilderness delivers, and he loved nothing +better than to tell them over a glass. He talked with Jim +so genially and affably that little response was called for +luckily, for Jim was glum and unresponsive almost to +rudeness. Old Rossiter noticed nothing. What Tom noticed +was, chiefly perhaps, his brother’s acute uneasiness. +Between his desire to help, his attachment to Rossiter, +and his keen personal distress, he knew not what to do or +say. The situation was becoming too much for him.</p> + +<p>The two families, besides—Peace and Rossiter—had +been neighbours for generations, had intermarried freely, +and were related in various degrees. He was too fond of +his brother to feel ashamed, but he was glad when the +visit was over and they were out of their host’s house. +Jim had even declined to drink with him.</p> + +<p>“They’re good fellows on the island,” said Tom on +their way home, “but not specially entertaining, perhaps. +We all stick together though. You can trust ’em mostly.”</p> + +<p>“I never was a talker, Tom,” came the gruff reply. +“You know that.” And Tom, understanding more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +he understood, accepted the apology and made generous +allowances.</p> + +<p>“John likes to talk,” he helped him. “He appreciates +a good listener.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the kind of talk I’m finished with,” was the +rejoinder. “The Company and their goings-on don’t interest +me any more. I’ve had enough.”</p> + +<p>Tom noticed other things as well with those affectionate +eyes of his that did not want to see yet would not +close. As the days drew in, for instance, Jim seemed +reluctant to leave the house towards evening. Once the +full light of day had passed, he kept indoors. He was +eager and ready enough to shoot in the early morning, +no matter at what hour he had to get up, but he refused +point blank to go with his brother to the lake for an +evening flight. No excuse was offered; he simply declined +to go.</p> + +<p>The gap between them thus widened and deepened, +while yet in another sense it grew less formidable. Both +knew, that is, that a secret lay between them for the +first time in their lives, yet both knew also that at the +right and proper moment it would be revealed. Jim only +waited till the proper moment came. And Tom understood. +His deep, simple love was equal to all emergencies. +He respected his brother’s reserve. The obvious +desire of John Rossiter to talk and ask questions, for +instance, he resisted staunchly as far as he was able. Only +when he could help and protect his brother did he yield a +little. The talk was brief, even monosyllabic; neither +the old Hudson Bay fellow nor the Orkney farmer ran to +many words:</p> + +<p>“He ain’t right with himself,” offered John, taking +his pipe out of his mouth and leaning forward. “That’s +what I don’t like to see.” He put a skinny hand on Tom’s +knee, and looked earnestly into his face as he said it.</p> + +<p>“Jim!” replied the other. “Jim ill, you mean!” It +sounded ridiculous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p> + +<p>“His mind is sick.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand,” Tom said, though the truth bit +like rough-edged steel into the brother’s heart.</p> + +<p>“His soul, then, if you like that better.”</p> + +<p>Tom fought with himself a moment, then asked him to +be more explicit.</p> + +<p>“More’n I can say,” rejoined the laconic old backwoodsman. +“I don’t know myself. The woods heal some +men and make others sick.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe, John, maybe.” Tom fought back his resentment. +“You’ve lived, like him, in lonely places. You +ought to know.” His mouth shut with a snap, as though +he had said too much. Loyalty to his suffering brother +caught him strongly. Already his heart ached for Jim. +He felt angry with Rossiter for his divination, but perceived, +too, that the old fellow meant well and was trying +to help him. If he lost Jim, he lost the world—his all.</p> + +<p>A considerable pause followed, during which both men +puffed their pipes with reckless energy. Both, that is, +were a bit excited. Yet both had their code, a code they +would not exceed for worlds.</p> + +<p>“Jim,” added Tom presently, making an effort to meet +the sympathy half way, “ain’t quite up to the mark, I’ll +admit that.”</p> + +<p>There was another long pause, while Rossiter kept his +eyes on his companion steadily, though without a trace of +expression in them—a habit that the woods had taught +him.</p> + +<p>“Jim,” he said at length, with an obvious effort, “is +skeered. And it’s the soul in him that’s skeered.”</p> + +<p>Tom wavered dreadfully then. He saw that old Rossiter, +experienced backwoodsman and taught by the Company +as he was, knew where the secret lay, if he did not +yet know its exact terms. It was easy enough to put the +question, yet he hesitated, because loyalty forbade.</p> + +<p>“It’s a dirty outfit somewheres,” the old man mumbled +to himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> + +<p>Tom sprang to his feet, “If you talk that way,” he +exclaimed angrily, “you’re no friend of mine—or his.” +His anger gained upon him as he said it. “Say that +again,” he cried, “and I’ll knock your teeth——”</p> + +<p>He sat back, stunned a moment.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, John,” he faltered, shamed yet still angry. +“It’s pain to me, it’s pain. Jim,” he went on, after a +long breath and a pull at his glass, “Jim <em>is</em> scared, I know +it.” He waited a moment, hunting for the words that he +could use without disloyalty. “But it’s nothing he’s done +himself,” he said, “nothing to his discredit. I know <em>that</em>.”</p> + +<p>Old Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“No offence,” he said quietly.</p> + +<p>“Tell me what you know,” cried Tom suddenly, standing +up again.</p> + +<p>The old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He +laid his pipe aside.</p> + +<p>“D’ye really want to hear?” he asked in a lowered +voice. “Because, if you don’t—why, say so right now. +I’m all for justice,” he added, “and always was.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” said Tom, his heart in his mouth. “Maybe, +if I knew—I might help him.” The old man’s words +woke fear in him. He well knew his passionate, remorseless +sense of justice.</p> + +<p>“Help him,” repeated the other. “For a man skeered +in his soul there ain’t no help. But—if you want to hear—I’ll +tell you.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” cried Tom. “I <em>will</em> help him,” while rising +anger fought back rising fear.</p> + +<p>John took another pull at his glass.</p> + +<p>“Jest between you and me like.”</p> + +<p>“Between you and me,” said Tom. “Get on with it.”</p> + +<p>There was a deep silence in the little room. Only the +sound of the sea came in, the wind behind it.</p> + +<p>“The Wolves,” whispered old Rossiter. “The Wolves +of God.”</p> + +<p>Tom sat still in his chair, as though struck in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +face. He shivered. He kept silent and the silence seemed +to him long and curious. His heart was throbbing, the +blood in his veins played strange tricks. All he remembered +was that old Rossiter had gone on talking. The +voice, however, sounded far away and distant. It was +all unreal, he felt, as he went homewards across the bleak, +wind-swept upland, the sound of the sea for ever in his +ears....</p> + +<p>Yes, old John Rossiter, damned be his soul, had gone +on talking. He had said wild, incredible things. Damned +be his soul! His teeth should be smashed for that. It +was outrageous, it was cowardly, it was not true.</p> + +<p>“Jim,” he thought, “my brother, Jim!” as he ploughed +his way wearily against the wind. “I’ll teach him. I’ll +teach him to spread such wicked tales!” He referred to +Rossiter. “God blast these fellows! They come home +from their outlandish places and think they can say anything! +I’ll knock his yellow dog’s teeth...!”</p> + +<p>While, inside, his heart went quailing, crying for help, +afraid.</p> + +<p>He tried hard to remember exactly what old John had +said. Round Garden Lake—that’s where Jim was located +in his lonely Post—there was a tribe of Redskins. They +were of unusual type. Malefactors among them—thieves, +criminals, murderers—were not punished. They were +merely turned out by the Tribe to die.</p> + +<p>But how?</p> + +<p>The Wolves of God took care of them. What were +the Wolves of God?</p> + +<p>A pack of wolves the Redskins held in awe, a sacred +pack, a spirit pack—God curse the man! Absurd, outlandish +nonsense! Superstitious humbug! A pack of +wolves that punished malefactors, killing but never eating +them. “Torn but not eaten,” the words came back to +him, “white men as well as red. They could even cross +the sea....”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>“He ought to be strung up for telling such wild yarns. +By God—I’ll teach him!”</p> + +<p>“Jim! My brother, Jim! It’s monstrous.”</p> + +<p>But the old man, in his passionate cold justice, had +said a yet more terrible thing, a thing that Tom would +never forget, as he never could forgive it: “You mustn’t +keep him here; you must send him away. We cannot have +him on the island.” And for that, though he could scarcely +believe his ears, wondering afterwards whether he heard +aright, for that, the proper answer to which was a blow +in the mouth, Tom knew that his old friendship and affection +had turned to bitter hatred.</p> + +<p>“If I don’t kill him, for that cursed lie, may God—and +Jim—forgive me!”</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>It was a few days later that the storm caught the +islands, making them tremble in their sea-born bed. The +wind tearing over the treeless expanse was terrible, the +lightning lit the skies. No such rain had ever been known. +The building shook and trembled. It almost seemed the +sea had burst her limits, and the waves poured in. Its +fury and the noises that the wind made affected both the +brothers, but Jim disliked the uproar most. It made him +gloomy, silent, morose. It made him—Tom perceived it +at once—uneasy. “Scared in his soul”—the ugly phrase +came back to him.</p> + +<p>“God save anyone who’s out to-night,” said Jim anxiously, +as the old farm rattled about his head. Whereupon +the door opened as of itself. There was no knock. It flew +wide, as if the wind had burst it. Two drenched and +beaten figures showed in the gap against the lurid sky—old +John Rossiter and Sandy. They laid their fowling pieces +down and took off their capes; they had been up at the lake +for the evening flight and six birds were in the game bag. +So suddenly had the storm come up that they had been +caught before they could get home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> + +<p>And, while Tom welcomed them, looked after their +creature wants, and made them feel at home as in duty +bound, no visit, he felt at the same time, could have been +less opportune. Sandy did not matter—Sandy never did +matter anywhere, his personality being negligible—but +John Rossiter was the last man Tom wished to see just +then. He hated the man; hated that sense of implacable +justice that he knew was in him; with the slightest excuse +he would have turned him out and sent him on to his own +home, storm or no storm. But Rossiter provided no excuse; +he was all gratitude and easy politeness, more pleasant +and friendly to Jim even than to his brother. Tom +set out the whisky and sugar, sliced the lemon, put the +kettle on, and furnished dry coats while the soaked garments +hung up before the roaring fire that Orkney makes +customary even when days are warm.</p> + +<p>“It might be the equinoctials,” observed Sandy, “if it +wasn’t late October.” He shivered, for the tropics had +thinned his blood.</p> + +<p>“This ain’t no ordinary storm,” put in Rossiter, drying +his drenched boots. “It reminds me a bit”—he jerked +his head to the window that gave seawards, the rush of +rain against the panes half drowning his voice—“reminds +me a bit of yonder.” He looked up, as though to find +someone to agree with him, only one such person being +in the room.</p> + +<p>“Sure, it ain’t,” agreed Jim at once, but speaking +slowly, “no ordinary storm.” His voice was quiet as a +child’s. Tom, stooping over the kettle, felt something +cold go trickling down his back. “It’s from acrost the +Atlantic too.”</p> + +<p>“All our big storms come from the sea,” offered Sandy, +saying just what Sandy was expected to say. His lank +red hair lay matted on his forehead, making him look like +an unhappy collie dog.</p> + +<p>“There’s no hospitality,” Rossiter changed the talk, +“like an islander’s,” as Tom mixed and filled the glasses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +“He don’t even ask ‘Say when?’” He chuckled in his +beard and turned to Sandy, well pleased with the compliment +to his host. “Now, in Malay,” he added dryly, +“it’s probably different, I guess.” And the two men, one +from Labrador, the other from the tropics, fell to bantering +one another with heavy humour, while Tom made +things comfortable and Jim stood silent with his back to +the fire. At each blow of the wind that shook the building, +a suitable remark was made, generally by Sandy: +“Did you hear that now?” “Ninety miles an hour at +least.” “Good thing you build solid in this country!” +while Rossiter occasionally repeated that it was an “uncommon +storm” and that “it reminded” him of the +northern tempests he had known “out yonder.”</p> + +<p>Tom said little, one thought and one thought only in +his heart—the wish that the storm would abate and his +guests depart. He felt uneasy about Jim. He hated Rossiter. +In the kitchen he had steadied himself already with +a good stiff drink, and was now half-way through a second; +the feeling was in him that he would need their help +before the evening was out. Jim, he noticed, had left his +glass untouched. His attention, clearly, went to the wind +and the outer night; he added little to the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Hark!” cried Sandy’s shrill voice. “Did you hear +that? That wasn’t wind, I’ll swear.” He sat up, looking +for all the world like a dog pricking its ears to something +no one else could hear.</p> + +<p>“The sea coming over the dunes,” said Rossiter. +“There’ll be an awful tide to-night and a terrible sea off +the Swarf. Moon at the full, too.” He cocked his head +sideways to listen. The roaring was tremendous, waves +and wind combining with a result that almost shook the +ground. Rain hit the glass with incessant volleys like +duck shot.</p> + +<p>It was then that Jim spoke, having said no word for +a long time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> + +<p>“It’s good there’s no trees,” he mentioned quietly. +“I’m glad of that.”</p> + +<p>“There’d be fearful damage, wouldn’t there?” remarked +Sandy. “They might fall on the house too.”</p> + +<p>But it was the tone Jim used that made Rossiter turn +stiffly in his chair, looking first at the speaker, then at +his brother. Tom caught both glances and saw the hard +keen glitter in the eyes. This kind of talk, he decided, +had got to stop, yet how to stop it he hardly knew, for +his were not subtle methods, and rudeness to his guests +ran too strong against the island customs. He refilled +the glasses, thinking in his blunt fashion how best to +achieve his object, when Sandy helped the situation without +knowing it.</p> + +<p>“That’s my first,” he observed, and all burst out laughing. +For Sandy’s tenth glass was equally his “first,” and +he absorbed his liquor like a sponge, yet showed no effects +of it until the moment when he would suddenly collapse +and sink helpless to the ground. The glass in question, +however, was only his third, the final moment still far +away.</p> + +<p>“Three in one and one in three,” said Rossiter, amid +the general laughter, while Sandy, grave as a judge, half +emptied it at a single gulp. Good-natured, obtuse as a +cart-horse, the tropics, it seemed, had first worn out his +nerves, then removed them entirely from his body. “That’s +Malay theology, I guess,” finished Rossiter. And the +laugh broke out again. Whereupon, setting his glass down, +Sandy offered his usual explanation that the hot lands had +thinned his blood, that he felt the cold in these “arctic +islands,” and that alcohol was a necessity of life with him. +Tom, grateful for the unexpected help, encouraged him to +talk, and Sandy, accustomed to neglect as a rule, responded +readily. Having saved the situation, however, he now +unwittingly led it back into the danger zone.</p> + +<p>“A night for tales, eh?” he remarked, as the wind +came howling with a burst of strangest noises against the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +house. “Down there in the States,” he went on, “they’d +say the evil spirits were out. They’re a superstitious +crowd, the natives. I remember once——” And he told +a tale, half foolish, half interesting, of a mysterious track +he had seen when following buffalo in the jungle. It ran +close to the spoor of a wounded buffalo for miles, a track +unlike that of any known animal, and the natives, though +unable to name it, regarded it with awe. It was a good +sign, a kill was certain. They said it was a spirit track.</p> + +<p>“You got your buffalo?” asked Tom.</p> + +<p>“Found him two miles away, lying dead. The mysterious +spoor came to an end close beside the carcass. It +didn’t continue.”</p> + +<p>“And that reminds me——” began old Rossiter, ignoring +Tom’s attempt to introduce another subject. He told +them of the haunted island at Eagle River, and a tale of +the man who would not stay buried on another island +off the coast. From that he went on to describe the strange +man-beast that hides in the deep forests of Labrador, manifesting +but rarely, and dangerous to men who stray too +far from camp, men with a passion for wild life over-strong +in their blood—the great mythical Wendigo. And +while he talked, Tom noticed that Sandy used each pause +as a good moment for a drink, but that Jim’s glass still +remained untouched.</p> + +<p>The atmosphere of incredible things, thus, grew in the +little room, much as it gathers among the shadows round +a forest camp-fire when men who have seen strange places +of the world give tongue about them, knowing they will +not be laughed at—an atmosphere, once established, it is +vain to fight against. The ingrained superstition that +hides in every mother’s son comes up at such times to +breathe. It came up now. Sandy, closer by several glasses +to the moment, Tom saw, when he would be suddenly +drunk, gave birth again, a tale this time of a Scottish +planter who had brutally dismissed a native servant for no +other reason than that he disliked him. The man disappeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +completely, but the villagers hinted that he would—soon +indeed that he had—come back, though “not quite +as he went.” The planter armed, knowing that vengeance +might be violent. A black panther, meanwhile, was seen +prowling about the bungalow. One night a noise outside +his door on the veranda roused him. Just in time to see +the black brute leaping over the railings into the compound, +he fired, and the beast fell with a savage growl +of pain. Help arrived and more shots were fired into +the animal, as it lay, mortally wounded already, lashing +its tail upon the grass. The lanterns, however, showed +that instead of a panther, it was the servant they had shot +to shreds.</p> + +<p>Sandy told the story well, a certain odd conviction in +his tone and manner, neither of them at all to the liking +of his host. Uneasiness and annoyance had been growing +in Tom for some time already, his inability to control the +situation adding to his anger. Emotion was accumulating +in him dangerously; it was directed chiefly against +Rossiter, who, though saying nothing definite, somehow +deliberately encouraged both talk and atmosphere. Given +the conditions, it was natural enough the talk should take +the turn it did take, but what made Tom more and more +angry was that, if Rossiter had not been present, he could +have stopped it easily enough. It was the presence of the +old Hudson Bay man that prevented his taking decided +action. He was afraid of Rossiter, afraid of putting his +back up. That was the truth. His recognition of it made +him furious.</p> + +<p>“Tell us another, Sandy McKay,” said the veteran. +“There’s a lot in such tales. They’re found the world over—men +turning into animals and the like.”</p> + +<p>And Sandy, yet nearer to his moment of collapse, but +still showing no effects, obeyed willingly. He noticed +nothing; the whisky was good, his tales were appreciated, +and that sufficed him. He thanked Tom, who just then +refilled his glass, and went on with his tale. But Tom,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +hatred and fury in his heart, had reached the point where +he could no longer contain himself, and Rossiter’s last +words inflamed him. He went over, under cover of a +tremendous clap of wind, to fill the old man’s glass. The +latter refused, covering the tumbler with his big, lean +hand. Tom stood over him a moment, lowering his face. +“You keep still,” he whispered ferociously, but so that no +one else heard it. He glared into his eyes with an intensity +that held danger, and Rossiter, without answering, +flung back that glare with equal, but with a calmer, anger.</p> + +<p>The wind, meanwhile, had a trick of veering, and each +time it shifted, Jim shifted his seat too. Apparently, he +preferred to face the sound, rather than have his back +to it.</p> + +<p>“Your turn now for a tale,” said Rossiter with purpose, +when Sandy finished. He looked across at him, just +as Jim, hearing the burst of wind at the walls behind him, +was in the act of moving his chair again. The same moment +the attack rattled the door and windows facing him. +Jim, without answering, stood for a moment still as death, +not knowing which way to turn.</p> + +<p>“It’s beatin’ up from all sides,” remarked Rossiter, +“like it was goin’ round the building.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment’s pause, the four men listening +with awe to the roar and power of the terrific wind. Tom +listened too, but at the same time watched, wondering +vaguely why he didn’t cross the room and crash his fist +into the old man’s chattering mouth. Jim put out his +hand and took his glass, but did not raise it to his lips. +And a lull came abruptly in the storm, the wind sinking +into a moment’s dreadful silence. Tom and Rossiter +turned their heads in the same instant and stared into +each other’s eyes. For Tom the instant seemed enormously +prolonged. He realized the challenge in the other +and that his rudeness had roused it into action. It had +become a contest of wills—Justice battling against Love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + +<p>Jim’s glass had now reached his lips, and the chattering +of his teeth against its rim was audible.</p> + +<p>But the lull passed quickly and the wind began again, +though so gently at first, it had the sound of innumerable +swift footsteps treading lightly, of countless hands fingering +the doors and windows, but then suddenly with a +mighty shout as it swept against the walls, rushed across +the roof and descended like a battering-ram against the +farther side.</p> + +<p>“God, did you hear that?” cried Sandy. “It’s trying +to get in!” and having said it, he sank in a heap beside +his chair, all of a sudden completely drunk. “It’s wolves +or panthersh,” he mumbled in his stupor on the floor, +“but whatsh’s happened to Malay?” It was the last thing +he said before unconsciousness took him, and apparently +he was insensible to the kick on the head from a heavy +farmer’s boot. For Jim’s glass had fallen with a crash and +the second kick was stopped midway. Tom stood spell-bound, +unable to move or speak, as he watched his brother +suddenly cross the room and open a window into the very +teeth of the gale.</p> + +<p>“Let be! Let be!” came the voice of Rossiter, an +authority in it, a curious gentleness too, both of them +new. He had risen, his lips were still moving, but the +words that issued from them were inaudible, as the wind +and rain leaped with a galloping violence into the room, +smashing the glass to atoms and dashing a dozen loose +objects helter-skelter on to the floor.</p> + +<p>“I saw it!” cried Jim, in a voice that rose above the +din and clamour of the elements. He turned and faced +the others, but it was at Rossiter he looked. “I saw the +leader.” He shouted to make himself heard, although the +tone was quiet. “A splash of white on his great chest. +I saw them all!”</p> + +<p>At the words, and at the expression in Jim’s eyes, old +Rossiter, white to the lips, dropped back into his chair as +if a blow had struck him. Tom, petrified, felt his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +heart stop. For through the broken window, above yet +within the wind, came the sound of a wolf-pack running, +howling in deep, full-throated chorus, mad for blood. It +passed like a whirlwind and was gone. And, of the three +men so close together, one sitting and two standing, Jim +alone was in that terrible moment wholly master of himself.</p> + +<p>Before the others could move or speak, he turned and +looked full into the eyes of each in succession. His speech +went back to his wilderness days:</p> + +<p>“I done it,” he said calmly. “I killed him—and I got +ter go.”</p> + +<p>With a look of mystical horror on his face, he took +one stride, flung the door wide, and vanished into the +darkness.</p> + +<p>So quick were both words and action, that Tom’s +paralysis passed only as the draught from the broken window +banged the door behind him. He seemed to leap +across the room, old Rossiter, tears on his cheeks and +his lips mumbling foolish words, so close upon his heels +that the backward blow of fury Tom aimed at his face +caught him only in the neck and sent him reeling sideways +to the floor instead of flat upon his back.</p> + +<p>“Murderer! My brother’s death upon you!” he shouted +as he tore the door open again and plunged out into the +night.</p> + +<p>And the odd thing that happened then, the thing that +touched old John Rossiter’s reason, leaving him from that +moment till his death a foolish man of uncertain mind +and memory, happened when he and the unconscious, +drink-sodden Sandy lay alone together on the stone floor +of that farm-house room.</p> + +<p>Rossiter, dazed by the blow and his fall, but in full +possession of his senses, and the anger gone out of him +owing to what he had brought about, this same John Rossiter +sat up and saw Sandy also sitting up and staring at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +him hard. And Sandy was sober as a judge, his eyes and +speech both clear, even his face unflushed.</p> + +<p>“John Rossiter,” he said, “it was not God who appointed +you executioner. It was the devil.” And his +eyes, thought Rossiter, were like the eyes of an angel.</p> + +<p>“Sandy McKay,” he stammered, his teeth chattering +and breath failing him. “Sandy McKay!” It was all +the words that he could find. But Sandy, already sunk +back into his stupor again, was stretched drunk and incapable +upon the farm-house floor, and remained in that +condition till the dawn.</p> + +<p>Jim’s body lay hidden among the dunes for many +months and in spite of the most careful and prolonged +searching. It was another storm that laid it bare. The +sand had covered it. The clothes were gone, and the +flesh, torn but not eaten, was naked to the December sun +and wind.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>II<br /> +<br /> +CHINESE MAGIC</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Dr. Owen Francis</span> felt a sudden wave of pleasure +and admiration sweep over him as he saw her enter +the room. He was in the act of going out; in fact, he +had already said good-bye to his hostess, glad to make his +escape from the chattering throng, when the tall and graceful +young woman glided past him. Her carriage was superb; +she had black eyes with a twinkling happiness in +them; her mouth was exquisite. Round her neck, in spite +of the warm afternoon, she wore a soft thing of fur or +feathers; and as she brushed by to shake the hand he +had just shaken himself, the tail of this touched his very +cheek. Their eyes met fair and square. He felt as though +her eyes also touched him.</p> + +<p>Changing his mind, he lingered another ten minutes, +chatting with various ladies he did not in the least remember, +but who remembered him. He did not, of course, +desire to exchange banalities with these other ladies, yet +did so gallantly enough. If they found him absent-minded +they excused him since he was the famous mental specialist +whom everybody was proud to know. And all the time +his eyes never left the tall graceful figure that allured him +almost to the point of casting a spell upon him.</p> + +<p>His first impression deepened as he watched. He was +aware of excitement, curiosity, longing; there was a touch +even of exaltation in him; yet he took no steps to seek the +introduction which was easily enough procurable. He +checked himself, if with an effort. Several times their eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +met across the crowded room; he dared to believe—he felt +instinctively—that his interest was returned. Indeed, it +was more than instinct, for she was certainly aware of his +presence, and he even caught her indicating him to a +woman she spoke with, and evidently asking who he was. +Once he half bowed, and once, in spite of himself, he went +so far as to smile, and there came, he was sure, a faint, +delicious brightening of the eyes in answer. There was, he +fancied, a look of yearning in the face. The young woman +charmed him inexpressibly; the very way she moved delighted +him. Yet at last he slipped out of the room without +a word, without an introduction, without even knowing +her name. He chose his moment when her back was +turned. It was characteristic of him.</p> + +<p>For Owen Francis had ever regarded marriage, for +himself at least, as a disaster that could be avoided. He +was in love with his work, and his work was necessary to +humanity. Others might perpetuate the race, but he must +heal it. He had come to regard love as the bait wherewith +Nature lays her trap to fulfill her own ends. A man +in love was a man enjoying a delusion, a deluded man. +In his case, and he was nearing forty-five, the theory had +worked admirably, and the dangerous exception that proved +it had as yet not troubled him.</p> + +<p>“It’s come at last—I do believe,” he thought to himself, +as he walked home, a new tumultuous emotion in his +blood; “the exception, quite possibly, has come at last. +I wonder....”</p> + +<p>And it seemed he said it to the tall graceful figure by +his side, who turned up dark eyes smilingly to meet his +own, and whose lips repeated softly his last two words “I +wonder....”</p> + +<p>The experience, being new to him, was baffling. A +part of his nature, long dormant, received the authentic +thrill that pertains actually to youth. He was a man of +chaste, abstemious custom. The reaction was vehement. +That dormant part of him became obstreperous. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +thought of his age, his appearance, his prospects; he +looked thirty-eight, he was not unhandsome, his position +was secure, even remarkable. That gorgeous young +woman—he called her gorgeous—haunted him. Never +could he forget that face, those eyes. It was extraordinary—he +had left her there unspoken to, unknown, when +an introduction would have been the simplest thing in the +world.</p> + +<p>“But it still is,” he replied. And the reflection filled +his being with a flood of joy.</p> + +<p>He checked himself again. Not so easily is established +habit routed. He felt instinctively that, at last, he +had met his mate; if he followed it up he was a man in +love, a lost man enjoying a delusion, a deluded man. But +the way she had looked at him! That air of intuitive +invitation which not even the sweetest modesty could conceal! +He felt an immense confidence in himself; also he +felt oddly sure of her.</p> + +<p>The presence of that following figure, already precious, +came with him into his house, even into his study at the +back where he sat over a number of letters by the open +window. The pathetic little London garden showed its +pitiful patch. The lilac had faded, but a smell of roses +entered. The sun was just behind the buildings opposite, +and the garden lay soft and warm in summer shadows.</p> + +<p>He read and tossed aside the letters; one only interested +him, from Edward Farque, whose journey to China +had interrupted a friendship of long standing. Edward +Farque’s work on eastern art and philosophy, on Chinese +painting and Chinese thought in particular, had made its +mark. He was an authority. He was to be back about this +time, and his friend smiled with pleasure. “Dear old unpractical +dreamer, as I used to call him,” he mused. “He’s +a success, anyhow!” And as he mused, the presence that +sat beside him came a little closer, yet at the same time +faded. Not that he forgot her—that was impossible—but +that just before opening the letter from his friend, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +had come to a decision. He had definitely made up his +mind to seek acquaintance. The reality replaced the remembered +substitute.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>“As the newspapers may have warned you,” ran the +familiar and kinky writing, “I am back in England after +what the scribes term my ten years of exile in Cathay. +I have taken a little house in Hampstead for six months, +and am just settling in. Come to us to-morrow night and +let me prove it to you. Come to dinner. We shall have +much to say; we both are ten years wiser. You know +how glad I shall be to see my old-time critic and disparager, +but let me add frankly that I want to ask you +a few professional, or, rather, technical, questions. So +prepare yourself to come as doctor and as friend. I am +writing, as the papers said truthfully, a treatise on Chinese +thought. But—don’t shy!—it is about Chinese Magic +that I want your technical advice [the last two words were +substituted for “professional wisdom,” which had been +crossed out] and the benefit of your vast experience. So +come, old friend, come quickly, and come hungry! I’ll +feed your body as you shall feed my mind.—Yours,<br /> + +<span class="sign">“Edward Farque.”</span><br /></p> + +<p>“P.S.—‘The coming of a friend from a far-off land—is +not this true joy?’”</p> +</div> + +<p>Dr. Francis laid down the letter with a pleased anticipatory +chuckle, and it was the touch in the final sentence +that amused him. In spite of being an authority, Farque +was clearly the same fanciful, poetic dreamer as of old. +He quoted Confucius as in other days. The firm but +kinky writing had not altered either. The only sign of +novelty he noticed was the use of scented paper, for a +faint and pungent aroma clung to the big quarto sheet.</p> + +<p>“A Chinese habit, doubtless,” he decided, sniffing it +with a puzzled air of disapproval. Yet it had nothing in +common with the scented sachets some ladies use too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +lavishly, so that even the air of the street is polluted by +their passing for a dozen yards. He was familiar with +every kind of perfumed note-paper used in London, Paris, +and Constantinople. This one was difficult. It was delicate +and penetrating for all its faintness, pleasurable too. +He rather liked it, and while annoyed that he could not +name it, he sniffed at the letter several times, as though +it were a flower.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go,” he decided at once, and wrote an acceptance +then and there. He went out and posted it. He meant +to prolong his walk into the Park, taking his chief preoccupation, +the face, the eyes, the figure, with him. Already +he was composing the note of inquiry to Mrs. Malleson, +his hostess of the tea-party, the note whose willing +answer should give him the name, the address, the means +of introduction he had now determined to secure. He +visualized that note of inquiry, seeing it in his mind’s +eye; only, for some odd reason, he saw the kinky writing of +Farque instead of his own more elegant script. Association +of ideas and emotions readily explained this. Two +new and unexpected interests had entered his life on the +same day, and within half an hour of each other. What +he could not so readily explain, however, was that two +words in his friend’s ridiculous letter, and in that kinky +writing, stood out sharply from the rest. As he slipped his +envelope into the mouth of the red pillar-box they shone +vividly in his mind. These two words were “Chinese +Magic.”</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>It was the warmth of his friend’s invitation as much +as his own state of inward excitement that decided him +suddenly to anticipate his visit by twenty-four hours. It +would clear his judgment and help his mind, if he spent +the evening at Hampstead rather than alone with his own +thoughts. “A dose of China,” he thought, with a smile, +“will do me good. Edward won’t mind. I’ll telephone.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> + +<p>He left the Park soon after six o’clock and acted upon +his impulse. The connexion was bad, the wire buzzed and +popped and crackled; talk was difficult; he did not hear +properly. The Professor had not yet come in, apparently. +Francis said he would come up anyhow on the chance.</p> + +<p>“Velly pleased,” said the voice in his ear, as he rang +off.</p> + +<p>Going into his study, he drafted the note that should +result in the introduction that was now, it appeared, the +chief object of his life. The way this woman with the +black, twinkling eyes obsessed him was—he admitted it +with joy—extraordinary. The draft he put in his pocket, +intending to re-write it next morning, and all the way up +to Hampstead Heath the gracious figure glided silently +beside him, the eyes were ever present, his cheek still +glowed where the feather boa had touched his skin. Edward +Farque remained in the background. In fact, it +was on the very door-step, having rung the bell, that +Francis realized he must pull himself together. “I’ve +come to see old Farque,” he reminded himself, with a +smile. “I’ve got to be interested in him and his, and, +probably, for an hour or two, to talk Chinese——” when +the door opened noiselessly, and he saw facing him, with +a grin of celestial welcome on his yellow face, a China-man.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said, with a start. He had not expected a +Chinese servant.</p> + +<p>“Velly pleased,” the man bowed him in.</p> + +<p>Dr. Francis stared round him with astonishment he +could not conceal. A great golden idol faced him in the +hall, its gleaming visage blazing out of a sort of miniature +golden palanquin, with a grin, half dignified, half cruel. +Fully double human size, it blocked the way, looking so +life-like that it might have moved to meet him without too +great a shock to what seemed possible. It rested on a +throne with four massive legs, carved, the doctor saw, +with serpents, dragons, and mythical monsters generally.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +Round it on every side were other things in keeping. +Name them he could not, describe them he did not try. +He summed them up in one word—China: pictures, +weapons, cloths and tapestries, bells, gongs, and figures of +every sort and kind imaginable.</p> + +<p>Being ignorant of Chinese matters, Dr. Francis stood +and looked about him in a mental state of some confusion. +He had the feeling that he had entered a Chinese +temple, for there was a faint smell of incense hanging +about the house that was, to say the least, un-English. +Nothing English, in fact, was visible at all. The matting +on the floor, the swinging curtains of bamboo beads that +replaced the customary doors, the silk draperies and pictured +cushions, the bronze and ivory, the screens hung with +fantastic embroideries, everything was Chinese. Hampstead +vanished from his thoughts. The very lamps were +in keeping, the ancient lacquered furniture as well. The +value of what he saw, an expert could have told him, was +considerable.</p> + +<p>“You likee?” queried the voice at his side.</p> + +<p>He had forgotten the servant. He turned sharply.</p> + +<p>“Very much; it’s wonderfully done,” he said. “Makes +you feel at home, John, eh?” he added tactfully, with a +smile, and was going to ask how long all this preparation +had taken, when a voice sounded on the stairs beyond. It +was a voice he knew, a note of hearty welcome in its deep +notes.</p> + +<p>“The coming of a friend from a far-off land, even from +Harley Street—is not this true joy?” he heard, and the +next minute was shaking the hand of his old and valued +friend. The intimacy between them had always been of +the truest.</p> + +<p>“I almost expected a pigtail,” observed Francis, looking +him affectionately up and down, “but, really—why, +you’ve hardly changed at all!”</p> + +<p>“Outwardly, not as much, perhaps, as Time expects,” +was the happy reply, “but inwardly——!” He scanned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +appreciatively the burly figure of the doctor in his turn. +“And I can say the same of you,” he declared, still holding +his hand tight. “This is a real pleasure, Owen,” he +went on in his deep voice, “to see you again is a joy +to me. Old friends meeting again—there’s nothing like +it in life, I believe, nothing.” He gave the hand another +squeeze before he let it go. “And we,” he added, leading +the way into a room across the hall, “neither of us is +a fugitive from life. We take what we can, I mean.”</p> + +<p>The doctor smiled as he noted the un-English turn of +language, and together they entered a sitting-room that +was, again, more like some inner chamber of a Chinese +temple than a back room in a rented Hampstead house.</p> + +<p>“I only knew ten minutes ago that you were coming, +my dear fellow,” the scholar was saying, as his friend +gazed round him with increased astonishment, “or I would +have prepared more suitably for your reception. I was out +till late. All this”—he waved his hand—“surprises you, +of course, but the fact is I have been home some days +already, and most of what you see was arranged for me +in advance of my arrival. Hence its apparent completion. +I say ‘apparent,’ because, actually, it is far from faithfully +carried out. Yet to exceed,” he added, “is as bad as +to fall short.”</p> + +<p>The doctor watched him while he listened to a somewhat +lengthy explanation of the various articles surrounding +them. The speaker—he confirmed his first impression—had +changed little during the long interval; the same +enthusiasm was in him as before, the same fire and dreaminess +alternately in the fine grey eyes, the same humour +and passion about the mouth, the same free gestures, and +the same big voice. Only the lines had deepened on the +forehead, and on the fine face the air of thoughtfulness +was also deeper. It was Edward Farque as of old, scholar, +poet, dreamer and enthusiast, despiser of western civilization, +contemptuous of money, generous and upright, a type +of value, an individual.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You’ve done well, done splendidly, Edward, old +man,” said his friend presently, after hearing of Chinese +wonders that took him somewhat beyond his depth perhaps. +“No one is more pleased than I. I’ve watched your +books. You haven’t regretted England, I’ll be bound?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>“The philosopher has no country, in any case,” was +the reply, steadily given. “But out there, I confess, I’ve +found my home.” He leaned forward, a deeper earnestness +in his tone and expression. And into his face, as he +spoke, came a glow of happiness. “My heart,” he said, +“is in China.”</p> + +<p>“I see it is, I see it is,” put in the other, conscious that +he could not honestly share his friend’s enthusiasm. “And +you’re fortunate to be free to live where your treasure is,” +he added after a moment’s pause. “You must be a happy +man. Your passion amounts to nostalgia, I suspect. Already +yearning to get back there, probably?”</p> + +<p>Farque gazed at him for some seconds with shining +eyes. “You remember the Persian saying, I’m sure,” he +said. “‘You see a man drink, but you do not see his +thirst.’ Well,” he added, laughing happily, “you may see +me off in six months’ time, but you will not see my happiness.”</p> + +<p>While he went on talking, the doctor glanced round +the room, marvelling still at the exquisite taste of everything, +the neat arrangement, the perfect matching of form +and colour. A woman might have done this thing, occurred +to him, as the haunting figure shifted deliciously +into the foreground of his mind again. The thought of her +had been momentarily replaced by all he heard and saw. +She now returned, filling him with joy, anticipation and +enthusiasm. Presently, when it was his turn to talk, he +would tell his friend about this new, unimagined happiness +that had burst upon him like a sunrise. Presently, +but not just yet. He remembered, too, with a passing +twinge of possible boredom to come, that there must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +some delay before his own heart could unburden itself in +its turn. Farque wanted to ask some professional questions, +of course. He had for the moment forgotten that +part of the letter in his general interest and astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Happiness, yes....” he murmured, aware that his +thoughts had wandered, and catching at the last word he +remembered hearing. “As you said just now in your own +queer way—you haven’t changed a bit, let me tell you, +in your picturesqueness of quotation, Edward—one must +not be fugitive from life; one must seize happiness when +and where it offers.”</p> + +<p>He said it lightly enough, hugging internally his own +sweet secret; but he was a little surprised at the earnestness +of his friend’s rejoinder: “Both of us, I see,” came +the deep voice, backed by the flash of the far-seeing grey +eyes, “have made some progress in the doctrine of life +and death.” He paused, gazing at the other with sight +that was obviously turned inwards upon his own thoughts. +“Beauty,” he went on presently, his tone even more serious, +“has been my lure; yours, Reality....”</p> + +<p>“You don’t flatter either of us, Edward. That’s too +exclusive a statement,” put in the doctor. He was becoming +every minute more and more interested in the workings +of his friend’s mind. Something about the signs +offered eluded his understanding. “Explain yourself, old +scholar-poet. I’m a dull, practical mind, remember, and +can’t keep pace with Chinese subtleties.”</p> + +<p>“<em>You’ve</em> left out Beauty,” was the quiet rejoinder, +“while <em>I</em> left out Reality. That’s neither Chinese nor +subtle. It is simply true.”</p> + +<p>“A bit wholesale, isn’t it?” laughed Francis. “A big +generalization, rather.”</p> + +<p>A bright light seemed to illuminate the scholar’s face. +It was as though an inner lamp was suddenly lit. At the +same moment the sound of a soft gong floated in from +the hall outside, so soft that the actual strokes were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +distinguishable in the wave of musical vibration that +reached the ear.</p> + +<p>Farque rose to lead the way in to dinner.</p> + +<p>“What if I——” he whispered, “have combined the +two?” And upon his face was a look of joy that reached +down into the other’s own full heart with its unexpectedness +and wonder. It was the last remark in the world +he had looked for. He wondered for a moment whether +he interpreted it correctly.</p> + +<p>“By Jove...!” he exclaimed. “Edward, what d’you +mean?”</p> + +<p>“You shall hear—after dinner,” said Farque, his voice +mysterious, his eyes still shining with his inner joy. “I +told you I have some questions to ask you—professionally.” +And they took their seats round an ancient, marvellous +table, lit by two swinging lamps of soft green jade, +while the Chinese servant waited on them with the silent +movements and deft neatness of his imperturbable celestial +race.</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>To say that he was bored during the meal were an +over-statement of Dr. Francis’s mental condition, but to +say that he was half-bored seemed the literal truth; for +one-half of him, while he ate his steak and savoury and +watched Farque manipulating <i lang="zh" xml:lang="zh">chou chop suey</i> and <i lang="zh" xml:lang="zh">chou +om dong</i> most cleverly with chop-sticks, was too pre-occupied +with his own romance to allow the other half to give +its full attention to the conversation.</p> + +<p>He had entered the room, however, with a distinct +quickening of what may be termed his instinctive and infallible +sense of diagnosis. That last remark of his friend’s +had stimulated him. He was aware of surprise, curiosity, +and impatience. Willy-nilly, he began automatically to +study him with a profounder interest. Something, he gathered, +was not quite as it should be in Edward Farque’s +mental composition. There was what might be called an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +elusive emotional disturbance. He began to wonder and +to watch.</p> + +<p>They talked, naturally, of China and of things Chinese, +for the scholar responded to little else, and Francis listened +with what sympathy and patience he could muster. Of art +and beauty he had hitherto known little, his mind was +practical and utilitarian. He now learned that all art was +derived from China, where a high, fine, subtle culture had +reigned since time immemorial. Older than Egypt was +their wisdom. When the western races were eating one +another, before Greece was even heard of, the Chinese had +reached a level of knowledge and achievement that few +realized. Never had they, even in earliest times, been deluded +by anthropomorphic conceptions of the Deity, but +perceived in everything the expressions of a single whole +whose giant activities they reverently worshipped. Their +contempt for the western scurry after knowledge, wealth, +machinery, was justified, if Farque was worthy of belief. +He seemed saturated with Chinese thought, art, philosophy, +and his natural bias towards the celestial race had +hardened into an attitude to life that had now become +ineradicable.</p> + +<p>“They deal, as it were, in essences,” he declared; +“they discern the essence of everything, leaving out the +superfluous, the unessential, the trivial. Their pictures +alone prove it. Come with me,” he concluded, “and see +the ‘Earthly Paradise,’ now in the British Museum. It +is like Botticelli, but better than anything Botticelli ever +did. It was painted”—he paused for emphasis—“600 +years B.C.”</p> + +<p>The wonder of this quiet, ancient civilization, a sense +of its depth, its wisdom, grew upon his listener as the +enthusiastic poet described its charm and influence upon +himself. He willingly allowed the enchantment of the +other’s Paradise to steal upon his own awakened heart. +There was a good deal Francis might have offered by way +of criticism and objection, but he preferred on the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +to keep his own views to himself, and to let his friend +wander unhindered through the mazes of his passionate +evocation. All men, he well knew, needed a dream to +carry them through life’s disappointments, a dream that +they could enter at will and find peace, contentment, happiness. +Farque’s dream was China. Why not? It was +as good as another, and a man like Farque was entitled +to what dream he pleased.</p> + +<p>“And their women?” he inquired at last, letting both +halves of his mind speak together for the first time.</p> + +<p>But he was not prepared for the expression that leaped +upon his friend’s face at the simple question. Nor for +his method of reply. It was no reply, in point of fact. +It was simply an attack upon all other types of woman, +and upon the white, the English, in particular—their emptiness, +their triviality, their want of intuitive imagination, +of spiritual grace, of everything, in a word, that should +constitute woman a meet companion for man, and a little +higher than the angels into the bargain. The doctor +listened spellbound. Too humorous to be shocked, he was, +at any rate, disturbed by what he heard, displeased a little, +too. It threatened too directly his own new tender dream.</p> + +<p>Only with the utmost self-restraint did he keep his +temper under, and prevent hot words he would have regretted +later from tearing his friend’s absurd claim into +ragged shreds. He was wounded personally as well. Never +now could he bring himself to tell his own secret to him. +The outburst chilled and disappointed him. But it had +another effect—it cooled his judgment. His sense of diagnosis +quickened. He divined an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">idée fixe</i>, a mania possibly. +His interest deepened abruptly. He watched. He +began to look about him with more wary eyes, and a sense +of uneasiness, once the anger passed, stirred in his friendly +and affectionate heart.</p> + +<p>They had been sitting alone over their port for some +considerable time, the servant having long since left the +room. The doctor had sought to change the subject many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +times without much success, when suddenly Farque +changed it for him.</p> + +<p>“Now,” he announced, “I’ll tell you something,” and +Francis guessed that the professional questions were on +the way at last. “We must pity the living, remember, and +part with the dead. Have you forgotten old Shan-Yu?”</p> + +<p>The forgotten name came back to him, the picturesque +East End dealer of many years ago. “The old merchant +who taught you your first Chinese? I do recall him dimly; +now you mention it. You made quite a friend of him, +didn’t you? He thought very highly of you—ah, it comes +back to me now—he offered something or other very wonderful +in his gratitude, unless my memory fails me?”</p> + +<p>“His most valuable possession,” Farque went on, a +strange look deepening on his face, an expression of +mysterious rapture, as it were, and one that Francis recognized +and swiftly pigeon-holed in his now attentive mind.</p> + +<p>“Which was?” he asked sympathetically. “You told +me once, but so long ago that really it’s slipped my mind. +Something magical, wasn’t it?” He watched closely for +his friend’s reply.</p> + +<p>Farque lowered his voice to a whisper almost devotional:</p> + +<p>“The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,” he murmured, +with an expression in his eyes as though the mere +recollection gave him joy. “‘Burn it,’ he told me, ‘in a +brazier; then inhale. You will enter the Valley of a +Thousand Temples wherein lies the Garden of Happiness, +and there you will meet your Love. You will have seven +years of happiness with your Love before the Waters of +Separation flow between you. I give this to you who +alone of men here have appreciated the wisdom of my land. +Follow my body towards the Sunrise. You, an eastern +soul in a barbarian body, will meet your Destiny.’”</p> + +<p>The doctor’s attention, such is the power of self-interest, +quickened amazingly as he heard. His own romance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +flamed up with power. His friend—it dawned upon him +suddenly—loved a woman.</p> + +<p>“Come,” said Farque, rising quietly, “we will go into +the other room, and I will show you what I have shown to +but one other in the world before. You are a doctor,” he +continued, as he led the way to the silk-covered divan +where golden dragons swallowed crimson suns, and +wonderful jade horses hovered near. “You understand +the mind and nerves. States of consciousness you also +can explain, and the effect of drugs is, doubtless, known +to you.” He swung to the heavy curtains that took the +place of door, handed a lacquered box of cigarettes to his +friend, and lit one himself. “Perfumes, too,” he added, +“you probably have studied, with their extraordinary evocative +power.” He stood in the middle of the room, the +green light falling on his interesting and thoughtful face, +and for a passing second Francis, watching keenly, +observed a change flit over it and vanish. The eyes grew +narrow and slid tilted upwards, the skin wore a shade of +yellow underneath the green from the lamp of jade, the +nose slipped back a little, the cheek-bones forward.</p> + +<p>“Perfumes,” said the doctor, “no. Of perfumes I +know nothing, beyond their interesting effect upon the +memory. I cannot help you there. But, you, I suspect,” +and he looked up with an inviting sympathy that concealed +the close observation underneath, “you yourself, I +feel sure, can tell me something of value about them?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” was the calm reply, “perhaps, for I have +smelt the perfume of the Garden of Happiness, and I have +been in the Valley of a Thousand Temples.” He spoke +with a glow of joy and reverence almost devotional.</p> + +<p>The doctor waited in some suspense, while his friend +moved towards an inlaid cabinet across the room. More +than broad-minded, he was that much rarer thing, an +open-minded man, ready at a moment’s notice to discard +all preconceived ideas, provided new knowledge that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +necessitated the holocaust were shown to him. At present, +none the less, he held very definite views of his own. +“Please ask me any questions you like,” he added. “All +I know is entirely yours, as always.” He was aware of +suppressed excitement in his friend that betrayed itself in +every word and look and gesture, an excitement intense, +and not as yet explained by anything he had seen or heard.</p> + +<p>The scholar, meanwhile, had opened a drawer in the +cabinet and taken from it a neat little packet tied up with +purple silk. He held it with tender, almost loving care, as +he came and sat down on the divan beside his friend.</p> + +<p>“This,” he said, in a tone, again, of something between +reverence and worship, “contains what I have to +show you first.” He slowly unrolled it, disclosing a yet +smaller silken bag within, coloured a deep rich orange. +There were two vertical columns of writing on it, painted +in Chinese characters. The doctor leaned forward to examine +them. His friend translated:</p> + +<p>“The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,” he read +aloud, tracing the letters of the first column with his +finger. “The Destroyer of Honourable Homes,” he finished, +passing to the second, and then proceeded to unwrap +the little silken bag. Before it was actually open, +however, and the pale shredded material resembling +coloured chaff visible to the eyes, the doctor’s nostrils had +recognized the strange aroma he had first noticed about +his friend’s letter received earlier in the day. The same +soft, penetrating odour, sharply piercing, sweet and delicate, +rose to his brain. It stirred at once a deep emotional +pleasure in him. Having come to him first when he was +aglow with his own unexpected romance, his mind and +heart full of the woman he had just left, that delicious, +torturing state revived in him quite naturally. The evocative +power of perfume with regard to memory is compelling. +A livelier sympathy towards his friend, and towards +what he was about to hear, awoke in him spontaneously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> + +<p>He did not mention the letter, however. He merely +leaned over to smell the fragrant perfume more easily.</p> + +<p>Farque drew back the open packet instantly, at the +same time holding out a warning hand. “Careful,” he +said gravely, “be careful, my old friend—unless you desire +to share the rapture and the risk that have been mine. +To enjoy its full effect, true, this dust must be burned in a +brazier and its smoke inhaled; but even sniffed, as you +now would sniff it, and you are in danger——”</p> + +<p>“Of what?” asked Francis, impressed by the other’s +extraordinary intensity of voice and manner.</p> + +<p>“Of Heaven; but, possibly, of Heaven before your +time.”</p> + + +<h3>4</h3> + +<p>The tale that Farque unfolded then had certainly a +strange celestial flavour, a glory not of this dull world; +and as his friend listened, his interest deepened with every +minute, while his bewilderment increased. He watched +closely, expert that he was, for clues that might guide his +deductions aright, but for all his keen observation and +experience he could detect no inconsistency, no weakness, +nothing that betrayed the smallest mental aberration. The +origin and nature of what he already decided was an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">idée +fixe</i>, a mania, evaded him entirely. This evasion piqued +and vexed him; he had heard a thousand tales of similar +type before; that this one in particular should baffle his +unusual skill touched his pride. Yet he faced the position +honestly, he confessed himself baffled until the end of the +evening. When he went away, however, he went away +satisfied, even forgetful—because a new problem of yet +more poignant interest had replaced the first.</p> + +<p>“It was after three years out there,” said Farque, “that +a sense of my loneliness first came upon me. It came upon +me bitterly. My work had not then been recognized; obstacles +and difficulties had increased; I felt a failure; I had +accomplished nothing. And it seemed to me I had misjudged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +my capacities, taken a wrong direction, and wasted +my life accordingly. For my move to China, remember, +was a radical move, and my boats were burnt behind me. +This sense of loneliness was really devastating.”</p> + +<p>Francis, already fidgeting, put up his hand.</p> + +<p>“One question, if I may,” he said, “and I’ll not interrupt +again.”</p> + +<p>“By all means,” said the other patiently, “what is it?”</p> + +<p>“Were you—we are such old friends”—he apologized—“were +you still celibate as ever?”</p> + +<p>Farque looked surprised, then smiled. “My habits had +not changed,” he replied, “I was, as always, celibate.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” murmured the doctor, and settled down to listen.</p> + +<p>“And I think now,” his friend went on, “that it was +the lack of companionship that first turned my thoughts +towards conscious disappointment. However that may be, +it was one evening, as I walked homewards to my little +house, that I caught my imagination lingering upon English +memories, though chiefly, I admit, upon my old +Chinese tutor, the dead Shan-Yu.</p> + +<p>“It was dusk, the stars were coming out in the pale +evening air, and the orchards, as I passed them, stood +like wavering ghosts of unbelievable beauty. The effect +of thousands upon thousands of these trees, flooding the +twilight of a spring evening with their sea of blossom, is +almost unearthly. They seem transparencies, their colour +hangs sheets upon the very sky. I crossed a small wooden +bridge that joined two of these orchards above a stream, +and in the dark water I watched a moment the mingled +reflection of stars and flowering branches on the quiet surface. +It seemed too exquisite to belong to earth, this +fairy garden of stars and blossoms, shining faintly in the +crystal depths, and my thought, as I gazed, dived suddenly +down the little avenue that memory opened into former +days. I remembered Shan-Yu’s present, given to me when +he died. His very words came back to me: The Garden +of Happiness in the Valley of the Thousand Temples,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +with its promise of love, of seven years of happiness, and +the prophecy that I should follow his body towards the +Sunrise and meet my destiny.</p> + +<p>“This memory I took home with me into my lonely +little one-storey house upon the hill. My servants did not +sleep there. There was no one near. I sat by the open +window with my thoughts, and you may easily guess that +before very long I had unearthed the long-forgotten packet +from among my things, spread a portion of its contents +on a metal tray above a lighted brazier, and was comfortably +seated before it, inhaling the light blue smoke with +its exquisite and fragrant perfume.</p> + +<p>“A light air entered through the window, the distant +orchards below me trembled, rose and floated through the +dusk, and I found myself, almost at once, in a pavilion of +flowers; a blue river lay shining in the sun before me, as +it wandered through a lovely valley where I saw groves +of flowering trees among a thousand scattered temples. +Drenched in light and colour, the Valley lay dreaming +amid a peaceful loveliness that woke what seemed impossible, +unrealizable, longings in my heart. I yearned towards +its groves and temples, I would bathe my soul in +that flood of tender light, and my body in the blue coolness +of that winding river. In a thousand temples must I worship. +Yet these impossible yearnings instantly were satisfied. +I found myself there at once ... and the time that +passed over my head you may reckon in centuries, if not +in ages. I was in the Garden of Happiness and its marvellous +perfume banished time and sorrow, there was no +end to chill the soul, nor any beginning, which is its foolish +counterpart.</p> + +<p>“Nor was there loneliness.” The speaker clasped his +thin hands, and closed his eyes a moment in what was +evidently an ecstasy of the sweetest memory man may ever +know. A slight trembling ran through his frame, communicating +itself to his friend upon the divan beside him—this +understanding, listening, sympathetic friend, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +eyes had never once yet withdrawn their attentive gaze +from the narrator’s face.</p> + +<p>“I was not alone,” the scholar resumed, opening his +eyes again, and smiling out of some deep inner joy. “Shan-Yu +came down the steps of the first temple and took my +hand, while the great golden figures in the dim interior +turned their splendid shining heads to watch. Then, +breathing the soul of his ancient wisdom in my ear, he led +me through all the perfumed ways of that enchanted garden, +worshipping with me at a hundred deathless shrines, +led me, I tell you, to the sound of soft gongs and gentle +bells, by fragrant groves and sparkling streams, mid a +million gorgeous flowers, until, beneath that unsetting sun, +we reached the heart of the Valley, where the source of the +river gushed forth beneath the lighted mountains. He +stopped and pointed across the narrow waters. I saw the +woman——”</p> + +<p>“<em>The</em> woman,” his listener murmured beneath his +breath, though Farque seemed unaware of interruption.</p> + +<p>“She smiled at me and held her hands out, and while +she did so, even before I could express my joy and wonder +in response, Shan-Yu, I saw, had crossed the narrow +stream and stood beside her. I made to follow then, my +heart burning with inexpressible delight. But Shan-Yu +held up his hand, as they began to move down the flowered +bank together, making a sign that I should keep pace with +them, though on my own side.</p> + +<p>“Thus, side by side, yet with the blue sparkling stream +between us, we followed back along its winding course, +through the heart of that enchanted valley, my hands +stretched out towards the radiant figure of my Love, and +hers stretched out towards me. They did not touch, but +our eyes, our smiles, our thoughts, these met and mingled +in a sweet union of unimagined bliss, so that the absence +of physical contact was unnoticed and laid no injury on +our marvellous joy. It was a spirit union, and our kiss a +spirit kiss. Therein lay the subtlety and glory of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +Chinese wonder, for it was our <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">essences</i> that met, and for +such union there is no satiety and, equally, no possible +end. The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness is an +essence. We were in Eternity.</p> + +<p>“The stream, meanwhile, widened between us, and as +it widened, my Love grew farther from me in space, +smaller, less visibly defined, yet ever essentially more perfect, +and never once with a sense of distance that made +our union less divinely close. Across the widening reaches +of blue, sunlit water I still knew her smile, her eyes, the +gestures of her radiant being; I saw her exquisite reflection +in the stream; and, mid the music of those soft gongs +and gentle bells, the voice of Shan-Yu came like a melody +to my ears:</p> + +<p>“‘You have followed me into the sunrise, and have +found your destiny. Behold now your Love. In this Valley +of a Thousand Temples you have known the Garden +of Happiness, and its Perfume your soul now inhales.’</p> + +<p>“‘I am bathed,’ I answered, ‘in a happiness divine. It +is forever.’</p> + +<p>“‘The Waters of Separation,’ his answer floated like +a bell, ‘lie widening between you.’</p> + +<p>“I moved nearer to the bank, impelled by the pain in +his words to take my Love and hold her to my breast.</p> + +<p>“‘But I would cross to her,’ I cried, and saw that, as +I moved, Shan-Yu and my Love came likewise closer to the +water’s edge across the widening river. They both obeyed, +I was aware, my slightest wish.</p> + +<p>“‘Seven years of Happiness you may know,’ sang his +gentle tones across the brimming flood, ‘if you would +cross to her. Yet the Destroyer of Honourable Homes lies +in the shadows that you must cast outside.’</p> + +<p>“I heard his words, I noticed for the first time that in +the blaze of this radiant sunshine we cast no shadows on +the sea of flowers at our feet, and—I stretched out my +arms towards my Love across the river.</p> + +<p>“‘I accept my destiny,’ I cried, ‘I will have my seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +years of bliss,’ and stepped forward into the running flood. +As the cool water took my feet, my Love’s hands stretched +out both to hold me and to bid me stay. There was acceptance +in her gesture, but there was warning too.</p> + +<p>“I did not falter. I advanced until the water bathed +my knees, and my Love, too, came to meet me, the stream +already to her waist, while our arms stretched forth above +the running flood towards each other.</p> + +<p>“The change came suddenly. Shan-Yu first faded behind +her advancing figure into air; there stole a chill upon +the sunlight; a cool mist rose from the water, hiding the +Garden and the hills beyond; our fingers touched, I gazed +into her eyes, our lips lay level with the water—and the +room was dark and cold about me. The brazier stood +extinguished at my side. The dust had burnt out, and no +smoke rose. I slowly left my chair and closed the window, +for the air was chill.”</p> + + +<h3>5</h3> + +<p>It was difficult at first to return to Hampstead and the +details of ordinary life about him. Francis looked round +him slowly, freeing himself gradually from the spell his +friend’s words had laid even upon his analytical temperament. +The transition was helped, however, by the details +that everywhere met his eye. The Chinese atmosphere +remained. More, its effect had gained, if anything. The +embroideries of yellow gold, the pictures, the lacquered +stools and inlaid cabinets, above all, the exquisite figures +in green jade upon the shelf beside him, all this, in the +shimmering pale olive light the lamps shed everywhere, +helped his puzzled mind to bridge the gulf from the Garden +of Happiness into the decorated villa upon Hampstead +Heath.</p> + +<p>There was silence between the two men for several +minutes. Far was it from the doctor’s desire to injure his +old friend’s delightful fantasy. For he called it fantasy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +although something in him trembled. He remained, therefore, +silent. Truth to tell, perhaps, he knew not exactly +what to say.</p> + +<p>Farque broke the silence himself. He had not moved +since the story ended; he sat motionless, his hands tightly +clasped, his eyes alight with the memory of his strange +imagined joy, his face rapt and almost luminous, as though +he still wandered through the groves of the Enchanted +Garden and inhaled the perfume of its perfect happiness +in the Valley of the Thousand Temples.</p> + +<p>“It was two days later,” he went on suddenly in his +quiet voice, “only two days afterwards, that I met her.”</p> + +<p>“You met her? You met the woman of your dream?” +Francis’s eyes opened very wide.</p> + +<p>“In that little harbour town,” repeated Farque calmly, +“I met her in the flesh. She had just landed in a steamer +from up the coast. The details are of no particular interest. +She knew me, of course, at once. And, naturally, I +knew her.”</p> + +<p>The doctor’s tongue refused to act as he heard. It +dawned upon him suddenly that his friend was married. +He remembered the woman’s touch about the house; he +recalled, too, for the first time that the letter of invitation +to dinner had said “come to <em>us</em>.” He was full of a bewildered +astonishment.</p> + +<p>The reaction upon himself was odd, perhaps, yet wholly +natural. His heart warmed towards his imaginative +friend. He could now tell him his own new strange +romance. The woman who haunted him crept back into +the room and sat between them. He found his tongue.</p> + +<p>“You married her, Edward?” he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“She is my wife,” was the reply, in a gentle, happy +voice.</p> + +<p>“A Ch——” he could not bring himself to say the +word. “A foreigner?”</p> + +<p>“My wife is a Chinese woman,” Farque helped him +easily, with a delighted smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + +<p>So great was the other’s absorption in the actual moment, +that he had not heard the step in the passage that +his host had heard. The latter stood up suddenly.</p> + +<p>“I hear her now,” he said. “I’m glad she’s come +back before you left.” He stepped towards the door.</p> + +<p>But before he reached it, the door was opened and in +came the woman herself. Francis tried to rise, but something +had happened to him. His heart missed a beat. +Something, it seemed, broke in him. He faced a tall, +graceful young English woman with black eyes of sparkling +happiness, the woman of his own romance. She still wore +the feather boa round her neck. She was no more Chinese +than he was.</p> + +<p>“My wife,” he heard Farque introducing them, as he +struggled to his feet, searching feverishly for words of +congratulation, normal, everyday words he ought to use, +“I’m so pleased, oh, so pleased,” Farque was saying—he +heard the sound from a distance, his sight was blurred +as well—“my two best friends in the world, my English +comrade and my Chinese wife.” His voice was absolutely +sincere with conviction and belief.</p> + +<p>“But we have already met,” came the woman’s delightful +voice, her eyes full upon his face with smiling pleasure, +“I saw you at Mrs. Malleson’s tea only this afternoon.”</p> + +<p>And Francis remembered suddenly that the Mallesons +were old acquaintances of Farque’s as well as of himself. +“And I even dared to ask who you were,” the voice went +on, floating from some other space, it seemed, to his ears, +“I had you pointed out to me. I had heard of you from +Edward, of course. But you vanished before I could be +introduced.”</p> + +<p>The doctor mumbled something or other polite and, he +hoped, adequate. But the truth had flashed upon him with +remorseless suddenness. She had “heard of” him—the +famous mental specialist. Her interest in him was cruelly +explained, cruelly both for himself and for his friend. +Farque’s delusion lay clear before his eyes. An awakening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +to reality might involve dislocation of the mind. <em>She</em>, +too, moreover, knew the truth. She was involved as well. +And her interest in himself was—consultation.</p> + +<p>“Seven years we’ve been married, just seven years to-day,” +Farque was saying thoughtfully, as he looked at +them. “Curious, rather, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Very,” said Francis, turning his regard from the +black eyes to the grey.</p> + +<p>Thus it was that Owen Francis left the house a little +later with a mind in a measure satisfied, yet in a measure +forgetful too—forgetful of his own deep problem, because +another of even greater interest had replaced it.</p> + +<p>“Why undeceive him?” ran his thought. “He need +never know. It’s harmless anyhow—I can tell her that.”</p> + +<p>But, side by side with this reflection, ran another that +was oddly haunting, considering his type of mind: +“Destroyer of Honourable Homes,” was the form of words +it took. And with a sigh he added “Chinese Magic.”</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>III<br /> +<br /> +RUNNING WOLF</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> man who enjoys an adventure outside the general +experience of the race, and imparts it to others, must +not be surprised if he is taken for either a liar or a fool, +as Malcolm Hyde, hotel clerk on a holiday, discovered in +due course. Nor is “enjoy” the right word to use in +describing his emotions; the word he chose was probably +“survive.”</p> + +<p>When he first set eyes on Medicine Lake he was struck +by its still, sparkling beauty, lying there in the vast Canadian +backwoods; next, by its extreme loneliness; and, +lastly—a good deal later, this—by its combination of +beauty, loneliness, and singular atmosphere, due to the +fact that it was the scene of his adventure.</p> + +<p>“It’s fairly stiff with big fish,” said Morton of the +Montreal Sporting Club. “Spend your holiday there—up +Mattawa way, some fifteen miles west of Stony Creek. +You’ll have it all to yourself except for an old Indian who’s +got a shack there. Camp on the east side—if you’ll take +a tip from me.” He then talked for half an hour about +the wonderful sport; yet he was not otherwise very communicative, +and did not suffer questions gladly, Hyde +noticed. Nor had he stayed there very long himself. If +it was such a paradise as Morton, its discoverer and the +most experienced rod in the province, claimed, why had +he himself spent only three days there?</p> + +<p>“Ran short of grub,” was the explanation offered; but +to another friend he had mentioned briefly, “flies,” and to +a third, so Hyde learned later, he gave the excuse that his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +half-breed “took sick,” necessitating a quick return to +civilization.</p> + +<p>Hyde, however, cared little for the explanations; his +interest in these came later. “Stiff with fish” was the +phrase he liked. He took the Canadian Pacific train to +Mattawa, laid in his outfit at Stony Creek, and set off +thence for the fifteen-mile canoe-trip without a care in +the world.</p> + +<p>Travelling light, the portages did not trouble him; the +water was swift and easy, the rapids negotiable; everything +came his way, as the saying is. Occasionally he saw +big fish making for the deeper pools, and was sorely +tempted to stop; but he resisted. He pushed on between +the immense world of forests that stretched for hundreds +of miles, known to deer, bear, moose, and wolf, but strange +to any echo of human tread, a deserted and primeval wilderness. +The autumn day was calm, the water sang and +sparkled, the blue sky hung cloudless over all, ablaze with +light. Toward evening he passed an old beaver-dam, +rounded a little point, and had his first sight of Medicine +Lake. He lifted his dripping paddle; the canoe shot with +silent glide into calm water. He gave an exclamation of +delight, for the loveliness caught his breath away.</p> + +<p>Though primarily a sportsman, he was not insensible +to beauty. The lake formed a crescent, perhaps four miles +long, its width between a mile and half a mile. The +slanting gold of sunset flooded it. No wind stirred its +crystal surface. Here it had lain since the redskin’s god +first made it; here it would lie until he dried it up again. +Towering spruce and hemlock trooped to its very edge, +majestic cedars leaned down as if to drink, crimson +sumachs shone in fiery patches, and maples gleamed orange +and red beyond belief. The air was like wine, with the +silence of a dream.</p> + +<p>It was here the red men formerly “made medicine,” +with all the wild ritual and tribal ceremony of an ancient +day. But it was of Morton, rather than of Indians, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +Hyde thought. If this lonely, hidden paradise was really +stiff with big fish, he owed a lot to Morton for the information. +Peace invaded him, but the excitement of the hunter +lay below.</p> + +<p>He looked about him with quick, practised eye for a +camping-place before the sun sank below the forests and +the half-lights came. The Indian’s shack, lying in full +sunshine on the eastern shore, he found at once; but the +trees lay too thick about it for comfort, nor did he wish +to be so close to its inhabitant. Upon the opposite side, +however, an ideal clearing offered. This lay already in +shadow, the huge forest darkening it toward evening; but +the open space attracted. He paddled over quickly and +examined it. The ground was hard and dry, he found, +and a little brook ran tinkling down one side of it into +the lake. This outfall, too, would be a good fishing spot. +Also it was sheltered. A few low willows marked the +mouth.</p> + +<p>An experienced camper soon makes up his mind. It +was a perfect site, and some charred logs, with traces of +former fires, proved that he was not the first to think so. +Hyde was delighted. Then, suddenly, disappointment +came to tinge his pleasure. His kit was landed, and +preparations for putting up the tent were begun, when he +recalled a detail that excitement had so far kept in the +background of his mind—Morton’s advice. But not Morton’s +only, for the storekeeper at Stony Creek had reinforced +it. The big fellow with straggling moustache and +stooping shoulders, dressed in shirt and trousers, had +handed him out a final sentence with the bacon, flour, condensed +milk, and sugar. He had repeated Morton’s half-forgotten +words:</p> + +<p>“Put yer tent on the east shore. I should,” he had +said at parting.</p> + +<p>He remembered Morton, too, apparently. “A shortish +fellow, brown as an Indian and fairly smelling of the +woods. Travelling with Jake, the half-breed.” That<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +assuredly was Morton. “Didn’t stay long, now, did he?” +he added in a reflective tone.</p> + +<p>“Going Windy Lake way, are yer? Or Ten Mile Water, +maybe?” he had first inquired of Hyde.</p> + +<p>“Medicine Lake.”</p> + +<p>“Is that so?” the man said, as though he doubted it +for some obscure reason. He pulled at his ragged moustache +a moment. “Is that so, now?” he repeated. And +the final words followed him down-stream after a considerable +pause—the advice about the best shore on which +to put his tent.</p> + +<p>All this now suddenly flashed back upon Hyde’s mind +with a tinge of disappointment and annoyance, for when +two experienced men agreed, their opinion was not to be +lightly disregarded. He wished he had asked the storekeeper +for more details. He looked about him, he reflected, +he hesitated. His ideal camping-ground lay certainly +on the forbidden shore. What in the world, he +pondered, could be the objection to it?</p> + +<p>But the light was fading; he must decide quickly one +way or the other. After staring at his unpacked dunnage +and the tent, already half erected, he made up his mind +with a muttered expression that consigned both Morton +and the storekeeper to less pleasant places. “They must +have <em>some</em> reason,” he growled to himself; “fellows like +that usually know what they’re talking about. I guess I’d +better shift over to the other side—for to-night, at any +rate.”</p> + +<p>He glanced across the water before actually reloading. +No smoke rose from the Indian’s shack. He had seen no +sign of a canoe. The man, he decided, was away. Reluctantly, +then, he left the good camping-ground and +paddled across the lake, and half an hour later his tent was +up, firewood collected, and two small trout were already +caught for supper. But the bigger fish, he knew, lay waiting +for him on the other side by the little outfall, and +he fell asleep at length on his bed of balsam boughs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +annoyed and disappointed, yet wondering how a mere sentence +could have persuaded him so easily against his own +better judgment. He slept like the dead; the sun was well +up before he stirred.</p> + +<p>But his morning mood was a very different one. The +brilliant light, the peace, the intoxicating air, all this was +too exhilarating for the mind to harbour foolish fancies, +and he marvelled that he could have been so weak the night +before. No hesitation lay in him anywhere. He struck +camp immediately after breakfast, paddled back across the +strip of shining water, and quickly settled in upon the +forbidden shore, as he now called it, with a contemptuous +grin. And the more he saw of the spot, the better he +liked it. There was plenty of wood, running water to +drink, an open space about the tent, and there were no flies. +The fishing, moreover, was magnificent. Morton’s description +was fully justified, and “stiff with big fish” for once +was not an exaggeration.</p> + +<p>The useless hours of the early afternoon he passed +dozing in the sun, or wandering through the underbrush +beyond the camp. He found no sign of anything unusual. +He bathed in a cool, deep pool; he revelled in the lonely +little paradise. Lonely it certainly was, but the loneliness +was part of its charm; the stillness, the peace, the +isolation of this beautiful backwoods lake delighted him. +The silence was divine. He was entirely satisfied.</p> + +<p>After a brew of tea, he strolled toward evening along +the shore, looking for the first sign of a rising fish. A +faint ripple on the water, with the lengthening shadows, +made good conditions. <em>Plop</em> followed <em>plop</em>, as the big +fellows rose, snatched at their food, and vanished into the +depths. He hurried back. Ten minutes later he had +taken his rods and was gliding cautiously in the canoe +through the quiet water.</p> + +<p>So good was the sport, indeed, and so quickly did the +big trout pile up in the bottom of the canoe that, despite +the growing lateness, he found it hard to tear himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +away. “One more,” he said, “and then I really will go.” +He landed that “one more,” and was in act of taking it +off the hook, when the deep silence of the evening was +curiously disturbed. He became abruptly aware that +someone watched him. A pair of eyes, it seemed, were +fixed upon him from some point in the surrounding +shadows.</p> + +<p>Thus, at least, he interpreted the odd disturbance in +his happy mood; for thus he felt it. The feeling stole +over him without the slightest warning. He was not alone. +The slippery big trout dropped from his fingers. He sat +motionless, and stared about him.</p> + +<p>Nothing stirred; the ripple on the lake had died away; +there was no wind; the forest lay a single purple mass +of shadow; the yellow sky, fast fading, threw reflections +that troubled the eye and made distances uncertain. But +there was no sound, no movement; he saw no figure anywhere. +Yet he knew that someone watched him, and a +wave of quite unreasoning terror gripped him. The nose +of the canoe was against the bank. In a moment, and +instinctively, he shoved it off and paddled into deeper +water. The watcher, it came to him also instinctively, was +quite close to him upon that bank. But where? And +who? Was it the Indian?</p> + +<p>Here, in deeper water, and some twenty yards from +the shore, he paused and strained both sight and hearing +to find some possible clue. He felt half ashamed, now +that the first strange feeling passed a little. But the certainty +remained. Absurd as it was, he felt positive that +someone watched him with concentrated and intent regard. +Every fibre in his being told him so; and though he could +discover no figure, no new outline on the shore, he could +even have sworn in which clump of willow bushes the +hidden person crouched and stared. His attention seemed +drawn to that particular clump.</p> + +<p>The water dripped slowly from his paddle, now lying +across the thwarts. There was no other sound. The canvas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +of his tent gleamed dimly. A star or two were out. +He waited. Nothing happened.</p> + +<p>Then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling passed, +and he knew that the person who had been watching him +intently had gone. It was as if a current had been turned +off; the normal world flowed back; the landscape emptied +as if someone had left a room. The disagreeable feeling +left him at the same time, so that he instantly turned the +canoe in to the shore again, landed, and, paddle in hand, +went over to examine the clump of willows he had singled +out as the place of concealment. There was no one there, +of course, nor any trace of recent human occupancy. No +leaves, no branches stirred, nor was a single twig displaced; +his keen and practised sight detected no sign of +tracks upon the ground. Yet, for all that, he felt positive +that a little time ago someone had crouched among +these very leaves and watched him. He remained absolutely +convinced of it. The watcher, whether Indian, +hunter, stray lumberman, or wandering half-breed, had +now withdrawn, a search was useless, and dusk was falling. +He returned to his little camp, more disturbed perhaps +than he cared to acknowledge. He cooked his supper, +hung up his catch on a string, so that no prowling animal +could get at it during the night, and prepared to make +himself comfortable until bedtime. Unconsciously, he built +a bigger fire than usual, and found himself peering over +his pipe into the deep shadows beyond the firelight, straining +his ears to catch the slightest sound. He remained +generally on the alert in a way that was new to him.</p> + +<p>A man under such conditions and in such a place need +not know discomfort until the sense of loneliness strikes +him as too vivid a reality. Loneliness in a backwoods +camp brings charm, pleasure, and a happy sense of calm +until, and unless, it comes too near. It should remain an +ingredient only among other conditions; it should not be +directly, vividly noticed. Once it has crept within short +range, however, it may easily cross the narrow line between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +comfort and discomfort, and darkness is an undesirable +time for the transition. A curious dread may easily +follow—the dread lest the loneliness suddenly be disturbed, +and the solitary human feel himself open to attack.</p> + +<p>For Hyde, now, this transition had been already accomplished; +the too intimate sense of his loneliness had +shifted abruptly into the worse condition of no longer +being quite alone. It was an awkward moment, and the +hotel clerk realized his position exactly. He did not quite +like it. He sat there, with his back to the blazing logs, +a very visible object in the light, while all about him the +darkness of the forest lay like an impenetrable wall. He +could not see a foot beyond the small circle of his camp-fire; +the silence about him was like the silence of the dead. +No leaf rustled, no wave lapped; he himself sat motionless +as a log.</p> + +<p>Then again he became suddenly aware that the person +who watched him had returned, and that same intent and +concentrated gaze as before was fixed upon him where he +lay. There was no warning; he heard no stealthy tread +or snapping of dry twigs, yet the owner of those steady +eyes was very close to him, probably not a dozen feet away. +This sense of proximity was overwhelming.</p> + +<p>It is unquestionable that a shiver ran down his spine. +This time, moreover, he felt positive that the man crouched +just beyond the firelight, the distance he himself could +see being nicely calculated, and straight in front of him. +For some minutes he sat without stirring a single muscle, +yet with each muscle ready and alert, straining his eyes +in vain to pierce the darkness, but only succeeding in +dazzling his sight with the reflected light. Then, as he +shifted his position slowly, cautiously, to obtain another +angle of vision, his heart gave two big thumps against his +ribs and the hair seemed to rise on his scalp with the sense +of cold that shot horribly up his spine. In the darkness +facing him he saw two small and greenish circles that +were certainly a pair of eyes, yet not the eyes of Indian,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +hunter, or of any human being. It was a pair of animal +eyes that stared so fixedly at him out of the night. And +this certainly had an immediate and natural effect upon +him.</p> + +<p>For, at the menace of those eyes, the fears of millions +of long dead hunters since the dawn of time woke in him. +Hotel clerk though he was, heredity surged through him +in an automatic wave of instinct. His hand groped for +a weapon. His fingers fell on the iron head of his small +camp axe, and at once he was himself again. Confidence +returned; the vague, superstitious dread was gone. This +was a bear or wolf that smelt his catch and came to steal +it. With beings of that sort he knew instinctively how +to deal, yet admitting, by this very instinct, that his original +dread had been of quite another kind.</p> + +<p>“I’ll damned quick find out what it is,” he exclaimed +aloud, and snatching a burning brand from the fire, he +hurled it with good aim straight at the eyes of the beast +before him.</p> + +<p>The bit of pitch-pine fell in a shower of sparks that lit +the dry grass this side of the animal, flared up a moment, +then died quickly down again. But in that instant of +bright illumination he saw clearly what his unwelcome visitor +was. A big timber wolf sat on its hindquarters, staring +steadily at him through the firelight. He saw its legs +and shoulders, he saw its hair, he saw also the big hemlock +trunks lit up behind it, and the willow scrub on each +side. It formed a vivid, clear-cut picture shown in clear +detail by the momentary blaze. To his amazement, however, +the wolf did not turn and bolt away from the burning +log, but withdrew a few yards only, and sat there +again on its haunches, staring, staring as before. Heavens, +how it stared! He “shoo-ed” it, but without effect; it +did not budge. He did not waste another good log on it, +for his fear was dissipated now; a timber wolf was a timber +wolf, and it might sit there as long as it pleased, provided +it did not try to steal his catch. No alarm was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +him any more. He knew that wolves were harmless in +the summer and autumn, and even when “packed” in the +winter, they would attack a man only when suffering desperate +hunger. So he lay and watched the beast, threw +bits of stick in its direction, even talked to it, wondering +only that it never moved. “You can stay there for ever, +if you like,” he remarked to it aloud, “for you cannot get +at my fish, and the rest of the grub I shall take into the +tent with me!”</p> + +<p>The creature blinked its bright green eyes, but made +no move.</p> + +<p>Why, then, if his fear was gone, did he think of certain +things as he rolled himself in the Hudson Bay +blankets before going to sleep? The immobility of the +animal was strange, its refusal to turn and bolt was still +stranger. Never before had he known a wild creature that +was not afraid of fire. Why did it sit and watch him, as +with purpose in its dreadful eyes? How had he felt its +presence earlier and instantly? A timber wolf, especially +a solitary timber wolf, was a timid thing, yet this one +feared neither man nor fire. Now, as he lay there +wrapped in his blankets inside the cosy tent, it sat outside +beneath the stars, beside the fading embers, the wind chilly +in its fur, the ground cooling beneath its planted paws, +watching him, steadily watching him, perhaps until the +dawn.</p> + +<p>It was unusual, it was strange. Having neither imagination +nor tradition, he called upon no store of racial +visions. Matter of fact, a hotel clerk on a fishing holiday, +he lay there in his blankets, merely wondering and puzzled. +A timber wolf was a timber wolf and nothing more. Yet +this timber wolf—the idea haunted him—was different. In +a word, the deeper part of his original uneasiness remained. +He tossed about, he shivered sometimes in his broken +sleep; he did not go out to see, but he woke early and +unrefreshed.</p> + +<p>Again, with the sunshine and the morning wind, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +the incident of the night before was forgotten, almost +unreal. His hunting zeal was uppermost. The tea and +fish were delicious, his pipe had never tasted so good, the +glory of this lonely lake amid primeval forests went to +his head a little; he was a hunter before the Lord, and +nothing else. He tried the edge of the lake, and in the +excitement of playing a big fish, knew suddenly that <em>it</em>, +the wolf, was there. He paused with the rod, exactly as +if struck. He looked about him, he looked in a definite +direction. The brilliant sunshine made every smallest +detail clear and sharp—boulders of granite, burned stems, +crimson sumach, pebbles along the shore in neat, separate +detail—without revealing where the watcher hid. Then, +his sight wandering farther inshore among the tangled +undergrowth, he suddenly picked up the familiar, half-expected +outline. The wolf was lying behind a granite +boulder, so that only the head, the muzzle, and the eyes +were visible. It merged in its background. Had he not +known it was a wolf, he could never have separated it +from the landscape. The eyes shone in the sunlight.</p> + +<p>There it lay. He looked straight at it. Their eyes, in +fact, actually met full and square. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed +aloud, “why, it’s like looking at a human being!” +From that moment, unwittingly, he established a singular +personal relation with the beast. And what followed +confirmed this undesirable impression, for the animal rose +instantly and came down in leisurely fashion to the shore, +where it stood looking back at him. It stood and stared +into his eyes like some great wild dog, so that he was aware +of a new and almost incredible sensation—that it courted +recognition.</p> + +<p>“Well! well!” he exclaimed again, relieving his feelings +by addressing it aloud, “if this doesn’t beat everything +I ever saw! What d’you want, anyway?”</p> + +<p>He examined it now more carefully. He had never +seen a wolf so big before; it was a tremendous beast, a +nasty customer to tackle, he reflected, if it ever came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +that. It stood there absolutely fearless and full of confidence. +In the clear sunlight he took in every detail of +it—a huge, shaggy, lean-flanked timber wolf, its wicked +eyes staring straight into his own, almost with a kind +of purpose in them. He saw its great jaws, its teeth, and +its tongue, hung out, dropping saliva a little. And yet the +idea of its savagery, its fierceness, was very little in him.</p> + +<p>He was amazed and puzzled beyond belief. He wished +the Indian would come back. He did not understand this +strange behaviour in an animal. Its eyes, the odd expression +in them, gave him a queer, unusual, difficult feeling. +Had his nerves gone wrong, he almost wondered.</p> + +<p>The beast stood on the shore and looked at him. He +wished for the first time that he had brought a rifle. +With a resounding smack he brought his paddle down flat +upon the water, using all his strength, till the echoes rang +as from a pistol-shot that was audible from one end of +the lake to the other. The wolf never stirred. He shouted, +but the beast remained unmoved. He blinked his eyes, +speaking as to a dog, a domestic animal, a creature accustomed +to human ways. It blinked its eyes in return.</p> + +<p>At length, increasing his distance from the shore, he +continued fishing, and the excitement of the marvellous +sport held his attention—his surface attention, at any rate. +At times he almost forgot the attendant beast; yet whenever +he looked up, he saw it there. And worse; when +he slowly paddled home again, he observed it trotting +along the shore as though to keep him company. Crossing +a little bay, he spurted, hoping to reach the other point +before his undesired and undesirable attendant. Instantly +the brute broke into that rapid, tireless lope that, except +on ice, can run down anything on four legs in the woods. +When he reached the distant point, the wolf was waiting +for him. He raised his paddle from the water, pausing +a moment for reflection; for this very close attention—there +were dusk and night yet to come—he certainly did +not relish. His camp was near; he had to land; he felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +uncomfortable even in the sunshine of broad day, when, +to his keen relief, about half a mile from the tent, he saw +the creature suddenly stop and sit down in the open. He +waited a moment, then paddled on. It did not follow. +There was no attempt to move; it merely sat and watched +him. After a few hundred yards, he looked back. It was +still sitting where he left it. And the absurd, yet significant, +feeling came to him that the beast divined his +thought, his anxiety, his dread, and was now showing +him, as well as it could, that it entertained no hostile feeling +and did not meditate attack.</p> + +<p>He turned the canoe toward the shore; he landed; he +cooked his supper in the dusk; the animal made no sign. +Not far away it certainly lay and watched, but it did not +advance. And to Hyde, observant now in a new way, +came one sharp, vivid reminder of the strange atmosphere +into which his commonplace personality had strayed: he +suddenly recalled that his relations with the beast, already +established, had progressed distinctly a stage further. This +startled him, yet without the accompanying alarm he must +certainly have felt twenty-four hours before. He had an +understanding with the wolf. He was aware of friendly +thoughts toward it. He even went so far as to set out a +few big fish on the spot where he had first seen it sitting +the previous night. “If he comes,” he thought, “he is +welcome to them. I’ve got plenty, anyway.” He thought +of it now as “he.”</p> + +<p>Yet the wolf made no appearance until he was in the +act of entering his tent a good deal later. It was close +on ten o’clock, whereas nine was his hour, and late at +that, for turning in. He had, therefore, unconsciously +been waiting for him. Then, as he was closing the flap, +he saw the eyes close to where he had placed the fish. +He waited, hiding himself, and expecting to hear sounds +of munching jaws; but all was silence. Only the eyes +glowed steadily out of the background of pitch darkness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +He closed the flap. He had no slightest fear. In ten +minutes he was sound asleep.</p> + +<p>He could not have slept very long, for when he woke +up he could see the shine of a faint red light through the +canvas, and the fire had not died down completely. He +rose and cautiously peeped out. The air was very cold; +he saw his breath. But he also saw the wolf, for it had +come in, and was sitting by the dying embers, not two +yards away from where he crouched behind the flap. And +this time, at these very close quarters, there was something +in the attitude of the big wild thing that caught his +attention with a vivid thrill of startled surprise and a +sudden shock of cold that held him spellbound. He +stared, unable to believe his eyes; for the wolf’s attitude +conveyed to him something familiar that at first he was +unable to explain. Its pose reached him in the terms of +another thing with which he was entirely at home. What +was it? Did his senses betray him? Was he still asleep +and dreaming?</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, with a start of uncanny recognition, +he knew. Its attitude was that of a dog. Having found +the clue, his mind then made an awful leap. For it was, +after all, no dog its appearance aped, but something nearer +to himself, and more familiar still. Good heavens! It +sat there with the pose, the attitude, the gesture in repose +of something almost human. And then, with a second +shock of biting wonder, it came to him like a revelation. +The wolf sat beside that camp-fire as a man might sit.</p> + +<p>Before he could weigh his extraordinary discovery, before +he could examine it in detail or with care, the animal, +sitting in this ghastly fashion, seemed to feel his +eyes fixed on it. It slowly turned and looked him in the +face, and for the first time Hyde felt a full-blooded, superstitious +fear flood through his entire being. He seemed +transfixed with that nameless terror that is said to attack +human beings who suddenly face the dead, finding themselves +bereft of speech and movement. This moment of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +paralysis certainly occurred. Its passing, however, was as +singular as its advent. For almost at once he was aware +of something beyond and above this mockery of human +attitude and pose, something that ran along unaccustomed +nerves and reached his feeling, even perhaps his heart. +The revulsion was extraordinary, its result still more extraordinary +and unexpected. Yet the fact remains. He was +aware of another thing that had the effect of stilling his +terror as soon as it was born. He was aware of appeal, +silent, half expressed, yet vastly pathetic. He saw in the +savage eyes a beseeching, even a yearning, expression that +changed his mood as by magic from dread to natural +sympathy. The great grey brute, symbol of cruel ferocity, +sat there beside his dying fire and appealed for help.</p> + +<p>This gulf betwixt animal and human seemed in that +instant bridged. It was, of course, incredible. Hyde, +sleep still possibly clinging to his inner being with the +shades and half shapes of dream yet about his soul, +acknowledged, how he knew not, the amazing fact. He +found himself nodding to the brute in half consent, and +instantly, without more ado, the lean grey shape rose +like a wraith and trotted off swiftly, but with stealthy tread, +into the background of the night.</p> + +<p>When Hyde woke in the morning his first impression +was that he must have dreamed the entire incident. His +practical nature asserted itself. There was a bite in the +fresh autumn air; the bright sun allowed no half lights +anywhere; he felt brisk in mind and body. Reviewing +what had happened, he came to the conclusion that it +was utterly vain to speculate; no possible explanation of +the animal’s behaviour occurred to him; he was dealing with +something entirely outside his experience. His fear, however, +had completely left him. The odd sense of friendliness +remained. The beast had a definite purpose, and +he himself was included in that purpose. His sympathy +held good.</p> + +<p>But with the sympathy there was also an intense curiosity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +“If it shows itself again,” he told himself, “I’ll go +up close and find out what it wants.” The fish laid out +the night before had not been touched.</p> + +<p>It must have been a full hour after breakfast when +he next saw the brute; it was standing on the edge of the +clearing, looking at him in the way now become familiar. +Hyde immediately picked up his axe and advanced toward +it boldly, keeping his eyes fixed straight upon its +own. There was nervousness in him, but kept well under; +nothing betrayed it; step by step he drew nearer until some +ten yards separated them. The wolf had not stirred a +muscle as yet. Its jaws hung open, its eyes observed him +intently; it allowed him to approach without a sign of +what its mood might be. Then, with these ten yards between +them, it turned abruptly and moved slowly off, +looking back first over one shoulder and then over the +other, exactly as a dog might do, to see if he was following.</p> + +<p>A singular journey it was they then made together, +animal and man. The trees surrounded them at once, for +they left the lake behind them, entering the tangled bush +beyond. The beast, Hyde noticed, obviously picked the +easiest track for him to follow; for obstacles that meant +nothing to the four-legged expert, yet were difficult for a +man, were carefully avoided with an almost uncanny skill, +while yet the general direction was accurately kept. Occasionally +there were windfalls to be surmounted; but though +the wolf bounded over these with ease, it was always +waiting for the man on the other side after he had laboriously +climbed over. Deeper and deeper into the heart of +the lonely forest they penetrated in this singular fashion, +cutting across the arc of the lake’s crescent, it seemed to +Hyde; for after two miles or so, he recognized the big +rocky bluff that overhung the water at its northern end. +This outstanding bluff he had seen from his camp, one +side of it falling sheer into the water; it was probably the +spot, he imagined, where the Indians held their medicine-making +ceremonies, for it stood out in isolated fashion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +and its top formed a private plateau not easy of access. +And it was here, close to a big spruce at the foot of the +bluff upon the forest side, that the wolf stopped suddenly +and for the first time since its appearance gave audible +expression to its feelings. It sat down on its haunches, +lifted its muzzle with open jaws, and gave vent to a +subdued and long-drawn howl that was more like the wail +of a dog than the fierce barking cry associated with a +wolf.</p> + +<p>By this time Hyde had lost not only fear, but caution +too; nor, oddly enough, did this warning howl revive a +sign of unwelcome emotion in him. In that curious sound +he detected the same message that the eyes conveyed—appeal +for help. He paused, nevertheless, a little startled, +and while the wolf sat waiting for him, he looked about +him quickly. There was young timber here; it had once +been a small clearing, evidently. Axe and fire had done +their work, but there was evidence to an experienced eye +that it was Indians and not white men who had once been +busy here. Some part of the medicine ritual, doubtless, +took place in the little clearing, thought the man, as he +advanced again towards his patient leader. The end of +their queer journey, he felt, was close at hand.</p> + +<p>He had not taken two steps before the animal got up +and moved very slowly in the direction of some low bushes +that formed a clump just beyond. It entered these, first +looking back to make sure that its companion watched. +The bushes hid it; a moment later it emerged again. +Twice it performed this pantomime, each time, as it reappeared, +standing still and staring at the man with as +distinct an expression of appeal in the eyes as an animal +may compass, probably. Its excitement, meanwhile, certainly +increased, and this excitement was, with equal certainty, +communicated to the man. Hyde made up his +mind quickly. Gripping his axe tightly, and ready to use +it at the first hint of malice, he moved slowly nearer to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +the bushes, wondering with something of a tremor what +would happen.</p> + +<p>If he expected to be startled, his expectation was at +once fulfilled; but it was the behaviour of the beast that +made him jump. It positively frisked about him like a +happy dog. It frisked for joy. Its excitement was intense, +yet from its open mouth no sound was audible. With a +sudden leap, then, it bounded past him into the clump +of bushes, against whose very edge he stood, and began +scraping vigorously at the ground. Hyde stood and +stared, amazement and interest now banishing all his nervousness, +even when the beast, in its violent scraping, actually +touched his body with its own. He had, perhaps, the +feeling that he was in a dream, one of those fantastic +dreams in which things may happen without involving an +adequate surprise; for otherwise the manner of scraping +and scratching at the ground must have seemed an impossible +phenomenon. No wolf, no dog certainly, used its +paws in the way those paws were working. Hyde had the +odd, distressing sensation that it was hands, not paws, he +watched. And yet, somehow, the natural, adequate surprise +he should have felt was absent. The strange action +seemed not entirely unnatural. In his heart some deep +hidden spring of sympathy and pity stirred instead. He +was aware of pathos.</p> + +<p>The wolf stopped in its task and looked up into his +face. Hyde acted without hesitation then. Afterwards he +was wholly at a loss to explain his own conduct. It seemed +he knew what to do, divined what was asked, expected of +him. Between his mind and the dumb desire yearning +through the savage animal there was intelligent and intelligible +communication. He cut a stake and sharpened +it, for the stones would blunt his axe-edge. He entered +the clump of bushes to complete the digging his four-legged +companion had begun. And while he worked, +though he did not forget the close proximity of the wolf, +he paid no attention to it; often his back was turned as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +stooped over the laborious clearing away of the hard earth; +no uneasiness or sense of danger was in him any more. +The wolf sat outside the clump and watched the operations. +Its concentrated attention, its patience, its intense +eagerness, the gentleness and docility of the grey, fierce, +and probably hungry brute, its obvious pleasure and satisfaction, +too, at having won the human to its mysterious +purpose—these were colours in the strange picture that +Hyde thought of later when dealing with the human herd +in his hotel again. At the moment he was aware chiefly +of pathos and affection. The whole business was, of +course, not to be believed, but that discovery came later, +too, when telling it to others.</p> + +<p>The digging continued for fully half an hour before +his labour was rewarded by the discovery of a small +whitish object. He picked it up and examined it—the +finger-bone of a man. Other discoveries then followed +quickly and in quantity. The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cache</i> was laid bare. He +collected nearly the complete skeleton. The skull, however, +he found last, and might not have found at all but +for the guidance of his strangely alert companion. It lay +some few yards away from the central hole now dug, and +the wolf stood nuzzling the ground with its nose before +Hyde understood that he was meant to dig exactly in that +spot for it. Between the beast’s very paws his stake +struck hard upon it. He scraped the earth from the bone +and examined it carefully. It was perfect, save for the +fact that some wild animal had gnawed it, the teeth-marks +being still plainly visible. Close beside it lay the rusty +iron head of a tomahawk. This and the smallness of the +bones confirmed him in his judgment that it was the skeleton +not of a white man, but of an Indian.</p> + +<p>During the excitement of the discovery of the bones +one by one, and finally of the skull, but, more especially, +during the period of intense interest while Hyde was +examining them, he had paid little, if any, attention to the +wolf. He was aware that it sat and watched him, never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +moving its keen eyes for a single moment from the actual +operations, but of sign or movement it made none at all. +He knew that it was pleased and satisfied, he knew also +that he had now fulfilled its purpose in a great measure. +The further intuition that now came to him, derived, he +felt positive, from his companion’s dumb desire, was perhaps +the cream of the entire experience to him. Gathering +the bones together in his coat, he carried them, together +with the tomahawk, to the foot of the big spruce +where the animal had first stopped. His leg actually +touched the creature’s muzzle as he passed. It turned its +head to watch, but did not follow, nor did it move a +muscle while he prepared the platform of boughs upon +which he then laid the poor worn bones of an Indian who +had been killed, doubtless, in sudden attack or ambush, +and to whose remains had been denied the last grace of +proper tribal burial. He wrapped the bones in bark; he +laid the tomahawk beside the skull; he lit the circular fire +round the pyre, and the blue smoke rose upward into the +clear bright sunshine of the Canadian autumn morning till +it was lost among the mighty trees far overhead.</p> + +<p>In the moment before actually lighting the little fire +he had turned to note what his companion did. It sat +five yards away, he saw, gazing intently, and one of its +front paws was raised a little from the ground. It made +no sign of any kind. He finished the work, becoming so +absorbed in it that he had eyes for nothing but the tending +and guarding of his careful ceremonial fire. It was +only when the platform of boughs collapsed, laying their +charred burden gently on the fragrant earth among the +soft wood ashes, that he turned again, as though to show +the wolf what he had done, and seek, perhaps, some look +of satisfaction in its curiously expressive eyes. But the +place he searched was empty. The wolf had gone.</p> + +<p>He did not see it again; it gave no sign of its presence +anywhere; he was not watched. He fished as before, wandered +through the bush about his camp, sat smoking round<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +his fire after dark, and slept peacefully in his cosy little +tent. He was not disturbed. No howl was ever audible +in the distant forest, no twig snapped beneath a stealthy +tread, he saw no eyes. The wolf that behaved like a man +had gone for ever.</p> + +<p>It was the day before he left that Hyde, noticing smoke +rising from the shack across the lake, paddled over to +exchange a word or two with the Indian, who had evidently +now returned. The Redskin came down to meet +him as he landed, but it was soon plain that he spoke very +little English. He emitted the familiar grunts at first; +then bit by bit Hyde stirred his limited vocabulary into +action. The net result, however, was slight enough, though +it was certainly direct:</p> + +<p>“You camp there?” the man asked, pointing to the +other side.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Wolf come?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“You see wolf?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>The Indian stared at him fixedly a moment, a keen, +wondering look upon his coppery, creased face.</p> + +<p>“You ’fraid wolf?” he asked after a moment’s pause.</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Hyde, truthfully. He knew it was useless +to ask questions of his own, though he was eager for +information. The other would have told him nothing. It +was sheer luck that the man had touched on the subject at +all, and Hyde realized that his own best rôle was merely to +answer, but to ask no questions. Then, suddenly, the +Indian became comparatively voluble. There was awe in +his voice and manner.</p> + +<p>“Him no wolf. Him big medicine wolf. Him spirit +wolf.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon he drank the tea the other had brewed for +him, closed his lips tightly, and said no more. His outline +was discernible on the shore, rigid and motionless, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +hour later, when Hyde’s canoe turned the corner of the +lake three miles away, and landed to make the portages up +the first rapid of his homeward stream.</p> + +<p>It was Morton who, after some persuasion, supplied +further details of what he called the legend. Some hundred +years before, the tribe that lived in the territory +beyond the lake began their annual medicine-making ceremonies +on the big rocky bluff at the northern end; but +no medicine could be made. The spirits, declared the chief +medicine man, would not answer. They were offended. +An investigation followed. It was discovered that a young +brave had recently killed a wolf, a thing strictly forbidden, +since the wolf was the totem animal of the tribe. To +make matters worse, the name of the guilty man was +Running Wolf. The offence being unpardonable, the man +was cursed and driven from the tribe:</p> + +<p>“Go out. Wander alone among the woods, and if we +see you we slay you. Your bones shall be scattered in the +forest, and your spirit shall not enter the Happy Hunting +Grounds till one of another race shall find and bury them.”</p> + +<p>“Which meant,” explained Morton laconically, his only +comment on the story, “probably for ever.”</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>IV<br /> +<br /> +FIRST HATE</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">They</span> had been shooting all day; the weather had been +perfect and the powder straight, so that when they +assembled in the smoking-room after dinner they were +well pleased with themselves. From discussing the day’s +sport and the weather outlook, the conversation drifted +to other, though still cognate, fields. Lawson, the crack +shot of the party, mentioned the instinctive recognition +all animals feel for their natural enemies, and gave several +instances in which he had tested it—tame rats with a +ferret, birds with a snake, and so forth.</p> + +<p>“Even after being domesticated for generations,” he +said, “they recognize their natural enemy at once by instinct, +an enemy they can never even have seen before. +It’s infallible. They know instantly.”</p> + +<p>“Undoubtedly,” said a voice from the corner chair; +“and so do we.”</p> + +<p>The speaker was Ericssen, their host, a great hunter +before the Lord, generally uncommunicative but a good +listener, leaving the talk to others. For this latter reason, +as well as for a certain note of challenge in his voice, his +abrupt statement gained attention.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean exactly by ‘so do we’?” asked +three men together, after waiting some seconds to see +whether he meant to elaborate, which he evidently did not.</p> + +<p>“We belong to the animal kingdom, of course,” put +in a fourth, for behind the challenge there obviously lay +a story, though a story that might be difficult to drag out +of him. It was.</p> + +<p>Ericssen, who had leaned forward a moment so that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +his strong, humorous face was in clear light, now sank +back again into his chair, his expression concealed by +the red lampshade at his side. The light played tricks, +obliterating the humorous, almost tender lines, while +emphasizing the strength of the jaw and nose. The red +glare lent to the whole a rather grim expression.</p> + +<p>Lawson, man of authority among them, broke the little +pause.</p> + +<p>“You’re dead right,” he observed, “but how do you +know it?”—for John Ericssen never made a positive statement +without a good reason for it. That good reason, +he felt sure, involved a personal proof, but a story Ericssen +would never tell before a general audience. He would +tell it later, however, when the others had left. “There’s +such a thing as instinctive antipathy, of course,” he added, +with a laugh, looking around him. “That’s what you mean +probably.”</p> + +<p>“I meant exactly what I said,” replied the host bluntly. +“There’s first love. There’s first hate, too.”</p> + +<p>“Hate’s a strong word,” remarked Lawson.</p> + +<p>“So is love,” put in another.</p> + +<p>“Hate’s strongest,” said Ericssen grimly. “In the animal +kingdom, at least,” he added suggestively, and then +kept his lips closed, except to sip his liquor, for the rest +of the evening—until the party at length broke up, leaving +Lawson and one other man, both old trusted friends of +many years’ standing.</p> + +<p>“It’s not a tale I’d tell to everybody,” he began, when +they were alone. “It’s true, for one thing; for another, +you see, some of those good fellows”—he indicated the +empty chairs with an expressive nod of his great head—“some +of ’em knew him. You both knew him too, probably.”</p> + +<p>“The man you hated,” said the understanding Lawson.</p> + +<p>“And who hated me,” came the quiet confirmation. +“My other reason,” he went on, “for keeping quiet was +that the tale involves my wife.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> + +<p>The two listeners said nothing, but each remembered +the curiously long courtship that had been the prelude +to his marriage. No engagement had been announced, +the pair were devoted to one another, there was no known +rival on either side; yet the courtship continued without +coming to its expected conclusion. Many stories were +afloat in consequence. It was a social mystery that +intrigued the gossips.</p> + +<p>“I may tell you two,” Ericssen continued, “the reason +my wife refused for so long to marry me. It is hard to +believe, perhaps, but it is true. Another man wished to +make her his wife, and she would not consent to marry +me until that other man was dead. Quixotic, absurd, unreasonable? +If you like. I’ll tell you what she said.” +He looked up with a significant expression in his face +which proved that he, at least, did not now judge her +reason foolish. “‘Because it would be murder,’ she told +me. ‘Another man who wants to marry me would kill +you.’”</p> + +<p>“She had some proof for the assertion, no doubt?” +suggested Lawson.</p> + +<p>“None whatever,” was the reply. “Merely her woman’s +instinct. Moreover, <em>I</em> did not know who the other man +was, nor would she ever tell me.”</p> + +<p>“Otherwise you might have murdered him instead?” +said Baynes, the second listener.</p> + +<p>“I did,” said Ericssen grimly. “But without knowing +he was the man.” He sipped his whisky and relit his pipe. +The others waited.</p> + +<p>“Our marriage took place two months later—just after +Hazel’s disappearance.”</p> + +<p>“Hazel?” exclaimed Lawson and Baynes in a single +breath. “Hazel! Member of the Hunters!” His mysterious +disappearance had been a nine days’ wonder some ten +years ago. It had never been explained. They had all +been members of the Hunters’ Club together.</p> + +<p>“That’s the chap,” Ericssen said. “Now I’ll tell you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +the tale, if you care to hear it.” They settled back in +their chairs to listen, and Ericssen, who had evidently +never told the affair to another living soul except his own +wife, doubtless, seemed glad this time to tell it to two +men.</p> + +<p>“It began some dozen years ago when my brother Jack +and I came home from a shooting trip in China. I’ve +often told you about our adventures there, and you see +the heads hanging up here in the smoking-room—some of +’em.” He glanced round proudly at the walls. “We were +glad to be in town again after two years’ roughing it, +and we looked forward to our first good dinner at the +club, to make up for the rotten cooking we had endured +so long. We had ordered that dinner in anticipatory detail +many a time together. Well, we had it and enjoyed it up +to a point—the point of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrée</i>, to be exact.</p> + +<p>“Up to that point it was delicious, and we let ourselves +go, I can tell you. We had ordered the very wine we +had planned months before when we were snow-bound and +half starving in the mountains.” He smacked his lips as +he mentioned it. “I was just starting on a beautifully +cooked grouse,” he went on, “when a figure went by our +table, and Jack looked up and nodded. The two exchanged +a brief word of greeting and explanation, and the other +man passed on. Evidently they knew each other just +enough to make a word or two necessary, but enough.</p> + +<p>“‘Who’s that?’ I asked.</p> + +<p>“‘A new member, named Hazel,’ Jack told me. ‘A +great shot.’ He knew him slightly, he explained; he had +once been a client of his—Jack was a barrister, you remember—and +had defended him in some financial case or +other. Rather an unpleasant case, he added. Jack did +not ‘care about’ the fellow, he told me, as he went on +with his tender wing of grouse.”</p> + +<p>Ericssen paused to relight his pipe a moment.</p> + +<p>“Not care about him!” he continued. “It didn’t surprise +me, for my own feeling, the instant I set eyes on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +the fellow, was one of violent, instinctive dislike that +amounted to loathing. Loathing! No. I’ll give it the +right word—hatred. I simply couldn’t help myself; I +hated the man from the very first go off. A wave of +repulsion swept over me as I followed him down the room +a moment with my eyes, till he took his seat at a distant +table and was out of sight. Ugh! He was a big, fat-faced +man, with an eyeglass glued into one of his pale-blue +cod-like eyes—out of condition, ugly as a toad, with +a smug expression of intense self-satisfaction on his jowl +that made me long to——</p> + +<p>“I leave it to you to guess what I would have liked +to do to him. But the instinctive loathing he inspired +in me had another aspect, too. Jack had not introduced +us during the momentary pause beside our table, but as +I looked up I caught the fellow’s eye on mine—he was +glaring at me instead of at Jack, to whom he was talking—with +an expression of malignant dislike, as keen evidently +as my own. That’s the other aspect I meant. He +hated me as violently as I hated him. We were instinctive +enemies, just as the rat and ferret are instinctive enemies. +Each recognized a mortal foe. It was a case—I swear it—of +whoever got first chance.”</p> + +<p>“Bad as that!” exclaimed Baynes. “I knew him by +sight. He wasn’t pretty, I’ll admit.”</p> + +<p>“I knew him to nod to,” Lawson mentioned. “I never +heard anything particular against him.” He shrugged +his shoulders.</p> + +<p>Ericssen went on. “It was not his character or qualities +I hated,” he said. “I didn’t even know them. That’s +the whole point. There’s no reason you fellows should +have disliked him. <em>My</em> hatred—our mutual hatred—was +instinctive, as instinctive as first love. A man knows his +natural mate; also he knows his natural enemy. I did, +at any rate, both with him and with my wife. Given the +chance, Hazel would have done me in; just as surely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +given the chance, I would have done him in. No blame +to either of us, what’s more, in my opinion.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve felt dislike, but never hatred like that,” Baynes +mentioned. “I came across it in a book once, though. +The writer did not mention the instinctive fear of the +human animal for its natural enemy, or anything of that +sort. He thought it was a continuance of a bitter feud +begun in an earlier existence. He called it memory.”</p> + +<p>“Possibly,” said Ericssen briefly. “My mind is not +speculative. But I’m glad you spoke of fear. I left that +out. The truth is, I feared the fellow, too, in a way; +and had we ever met face to face in some wild country +without witnesses I should have felt justified in drawing +on him at sight, and he would have felt the same. Murder? +If you like. I should call it self-defence. Anyhow, the +fellow polluted the room for me. He spoilt the enjoyment +of that dinner we had ordered months before in +China.”</p> + +<p>“But you saw him again, of course, later?”</p> + +<p>“Lots of times. Not that night, because we went on +to a theatre. But in the club we were always running +across one another—in the houses of friends at lunch or +dinner; at race meetings; all over the place; in fact, I +even had some trouble to avoid being introduced to him. +And every time we met our eyes betrayed us. He felt in +his heart what I felt in mine. Ugh! He was as loathsome +to me as leprosy, and as dangerous. Odd, isn’t it? +The most intense feeling, except love, I’ve ever known. +I remember”—he laughed gruffly—“I used to feel quite +sorry for him. If he felt what I felt, and I’m convinced +he did, he must have suffered. His one object—to get +me out of the way for good—was so impossible. Then +Fate played a hand in the game. I’ll tell you how.</p> + +<p>“My brother died a year or two later, and I went +abroad to try and forget it. I went salmon fishing in +Canada. But, though the sport was good, it was not +like the old times with Jack. The camp never felt the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +same without him. I missed him badly. But I forgot +Hazel for the time; hating did not seem worth while, +somehow.</p> + +<p>“When the best of the fishing was over on the Atlantic +side, I took a run back to Vancouver and fished there for +a bit. I went up the Campbell River, which was not so +crowded then as it is now, and had some rattling sport. +Then I grew tired of the rod and decided to go after +wapiti for a change. I came back to Victoria and learned +what I could about the best places, and decided finally to +go up the west coast of the island. By luck I happened +to pick up a good guide, who was in the town at the +moment on business, and we started off together in one +of the little Canadian Pacific Railway boats that ply along +that coast.</p> + +<p>“Outfitting two days later at a small place the steamer +stopped at, the guide said we needed another man to help +pack our kit over portages, and so forth, but the only +fellow available was a Siwash of whom he disapproved. +My guide would not have him at any price; he was lazy, +a drunkard, a liar, and even worse, for on one occasion +he came back without the sportsman he had taken up +country on a shooting trip, and his story was not convincing, +to say the least. These disappearances are always +awkward, of course, as you both know. We preferred, +anyhow, to go without the Siwash, and off we started.</p> + +<p>“At first our luck was bad. I saw many wapiti, but +no good heads; only after a fortnight’s hunting did I +manage to get a decent head, though even that was not so +good as I should have liked.</p> + +<p>“We were then near the head waters of a little river +that ran down into the Inlet; heavy rains had made the +river rise; running downstream was a risky job, what +with old log-jams shifting and new ones forming; and, +after many narrow escapes, we upset one afternoon and +had the misfortune to lose a lot of our kit, amongst it +most of our cartridges. We could only muster a few between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +us. The guide had a dozen; I had two—just +enough, we considered, to take us out all right. Still, it +was an infernal nuisance. We camped at once to dry out +our soaked things in front of a big fire, and while this +laundry work was going on, the guide suggested my filling +in the time by taking a look at the next little valley, which +ran parallel to ours. He had seen some good heads over +there a few weeks ago. Possibly I might come upon the +herd. I started at once, taking my two cartridges with +me.</p> + +<p>“It was the devil of a job getting over the divide, for +it was a badly bushed-up place, and where there were no +bushes there were boulders and fallen trees, and the going +was slow and tiring. But I got across at last and came +out upon another stream at the bottom of the new valley. +Signs of wapiti were plentiful, though I never came up +with a single beast all the afternoon. Blacktail deer were +everywhere, but the wapiti remained invisible. Providence, +or whatever you like to call that which there is +no escaping in our lives, made me save my two cartridges.”</p> + +<p>Ericssen stopped a minute then. It was not to light +his pipe or sip his whisky. Nor was it because the remainder +of his story failed in the recollection of any vivid +detail. He paused a moment to think.</p> + +<p>“Tell us the lot,” pleaded Lawson. “Don’t leave out +anything.”</p> + +<p>Ericssen looked up. His friend’s remark had helped +him to make up his mind apparently. He <em>had</em> hesitated +about something or other, but the hesitation passed. He +glanced at both his listeners.</p> + +<p>“Right,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything. I’m not +imaginative, as you know, and my amount of superstition, +I should judge, is microscopic.” He took a longer breath, +then lowered his voice a trifle. “Anyhow,” he went on, +“it’s true, so I don’t see why I should feel shy about +admitting it—but as I stood there in that lonely valley, +where only the noises of wind and water were audible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +and no human being, except my guide, some miles away, +was within reach, a curious feeling came over me I find +difficult to describe. I felt”—obviously he made an effort +to get the word out—“I felt creepy.”</p> + +<p>“You,” murmured Lawson, with an incredulous smile—“you +creepy?” he repeated under his breath.</p> + +<p>“I felt creepy and afraid,” continued the other, with +conviction. “I had the sensation of being seen by someone—as +if someone, I mean, was watching me. It was +so unlikely that anyone was near me in that God-forsaken +bit of wilderness, that I simply couldn’t believe it at first. +But the feeling persisted. I felt absolutely positive somebody +was not far away among the red maples, behind a +boulder, across the little stream, perhaps, somewhere, at +any rate, so near that I was plainly visible to him. It was +not an animal. It was human. Also, it was hostile.</p> + +<p>“I was in danger.</p> + +<p>“You may laugh, both of you, but I assure you the +feeling was so positive that I crouched down instinctively +to hide myself behind a rock. My first thought, that the +guide had followed me for some reason or other, I at +once discarded. It was not the guide. It was an enemy.</p> + +<p>“No, no, I thought of no one in particular. No name, +no face occurred to me. Merely that an enemy was on my +trail, that he saw me, and I did not see him, and that he +was near enough to me to—well, to take instant action. +This deep instinctive feeling of danger, of fear, of anything +you like to call it, was simply overwhelming.</p> + +<p>“Another curious detail I must also mention. About +half an hour before, having given up all hope of seeing +wapiti, I had decided to kill a blacktail deer for meat. +A good shot offered itself, not thirty yards away. I aimed. +But just as I was going to pull the trigger a queer emotion +touched me, and I lowered the rifle. It was exactly +as though a voice said, ‘Don’t!’ I heard no voice, mind +you; it was an emotion only, a feeling, a sudden inexplicable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +change of mind—a warning, if you like. I didn’t fire, +anyhow.</p> + +<p>“But now, as I crouched behind that rock, I remembered +this curious little incident, and was glad I had not +used up my last two cartridges. More than that I cannot +tell you. Things of that kind are new to me. They’re +difficult enough to tell, let alone to explain. But they were +<em>real</em>.</p> + +<p>“I crouched there, wondering what on earth was happening +to me, and, feeling a bit of a fool, if you want to +know, when suddenly, over the top of the boulder, I saw +something moving. It was a man’s hat. I peered cautiously. +Some sixty yards away the bushes parted, and +two men came out on to the river’s bank, and I knew +them both. One was the Siwash I had seen at the store. +The other was Hazel. Before I had time to think I cocked +my rifle.”</p> + +<p>“Hazel. Good Lord!” exclaimed the listeners.</p> + +<p>“For a moment I was too surprised to do anything but +cock that rifle. I waited, for what puzzled me was that, +after all, Hazel had <em>not</em> seen me. It was only the feeling +of his beastly proximity that had made me feel I was seen +and watched by him. There was something else, too, that +made me pause before—er—doing anything. Two other +things, in fact. One was that I was so intensely interested +in watching the fellow’s actions. Obviously he had +the same uneasy sensation that I had. He shared with +me the nasty feeling that danger was about. His rifle, +I saw, was cocked and ready; he kept looking behind +him, over his shoulder, peering this way and that, and +sometimes addressing a remark to the Siwash at his side. +I caught the laughter of the latter. The Siwash evidently +did not think there was danger anywhere. It was, of +course, unlikely enough——”</p> + +<p>“And the other thing that stopped you?” urged Lawson, +impatiently interrupting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> + +<p>Ericssen turned with a look of grim humour on his +face.</p> + +<p>“Some confounded or perverted sense of chivalry in +me, I suppose,” he said, “that made it impossible to shoot +him down in cold blood, or, rather, without letting him +have a chance. For my blood, as a matter of fact, was +far from cold at the moment. Perhaps, too, I wanted the +added satisfaction of letting him know who fired the shot +that was to end his vile existence.”</p> + +<p>He laughed again. “It was rat and ferret in the +human kingdom,” he went on, “but I wanted my rat to +have a chance, I suppose. Anyhow, though I had a perfect +shot in front of me at easy distance, I did not fire. +Instead I got up, holding my cocked rifle ready, finger +on trigger, and came out of my hiding place. I called to +him. ‘Hazel, you beast! So there you are—at last!’</p> + +<p>“He turned, but turned away from me, offering his +horrid back. The direction of the voice he misjudged. +He pointed down stream, and the Siwash turned to look. +Neither of them had seen me yet. There was a big log-jam +below them. The roar of the water in their ears +concealed my footsteps. I was, perhaps, twenty paces +from them when Hazel, with a jerk of his whole body, +abruptly turned clean round and faced me. We stared +into each other’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“The amazement on his face changed instantly to +hatred and resolve. He acted with incredible rapidity. +I think the unexpected suddenness of his turn made me +lose a precious second or two. Anyhow he was ahead of +me. He flung his rifle to his shoulder. ‘You devil!’ I +heard his voice. ‘I’ve got you at last!’ His rifle cracked, +for he let drive the same instant. The hair stirred just +above my ear.</p> + +<p>“He had missed!</p> + +<p>“Before he could draw back his bolt for another shot +I had acted.</p> + +<p>“‘You’re not fit to live!’ I shouted, as my bullet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +crashed into his temple. I had the satisfaction, too, of +knowing that he heard my words. I saw the swift expression +of frustrated loathing in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“He fell like an ox, his face splashing in the stream. +I shoved the body out. I saw it sucked beneath the log-jam +instantly. It disappeared. There could be no inquest +on him, I reflected comfortably. Hazel was gone—gone +from this earth, from my life, our mutual hatred over at +last.”</p> + +<p>The speaker paused a moment. “Odd,” he continued +presently—“very odd indeed.” He turned to the others. +“I felt quite sorry for him suddenly. I suppose,” he +added, “the philosophers are right when they gas about +hate being very close to love.”</p> + +<p>His friends contributed no remark.</p> + +<p>“Then I came away,” he resumed shortly. “My wife—well, +you know the rest, don’t you? I told her the whole +thing. She—she said nothing. But she married me, you +see.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment’s silence. Baynes was the first +to break it. “But—the Siwash?” he asked. “The +witness?”</p> + +<p>Lawson turned upon him with something of contemptuous +impatience.</p> + +<p>“He told you he had <em>two</em> cartridges.”</p> + +<p>Ericssen, smiling grimly, said nothing at all.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>V<br /> +<br /> +THE TARN OF SACRIFICE</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">John Holt</span>, a vague excitement in him, stood at the +door of the little inn, listening to the landlord’s directions +as to the best way of reaching Scarsdale. He was on +a walking tour through the Lake District, exploring the +smaller dales that lie away from the beaten track and are +accessible only on foot.</p> + +<p>The landlord, a hard-featured north countryman, half +innkeeper, half sheep farmer, pointed up the valley. His +deep voice had a friendly burr in it.</p> + +<p>“You go straight on till you reach the head,” he +said, “then take to the fell. Follow the ‘sheep-trod’ past +the Crag. Directly you’re over the top you’ll strike the +road.”</p> + +<p>“A road up there!” exclaimed his customer incredulously.</p> + +<p>“Aye,” was the steady reply. “The old Roman road. +The same road,” he added, “the savages came down when +they burst through the Wall and burnt everything right +up to Lancaster——”</p> + +<p>“They were held—weren’t they—at Lancaster?” asked +the other, yet not knowing quite why he asked it.</p> + +<p>“I don’t rightly know,” came the answer slowly. +“Some say they were. But the old town has been that +built over since, it’s hard to tell.” He paused a moment. +“At Ambleside,” he went on presently, “you can still see +the marks of the burning, and at the little fort on the +way to Ravenglass.”</p> + +<p>Holt strained his eyes into the sunlit distance, for he +would soon have to walk that road and he was anxious to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +be off. But the landlord was communicative and interesting. +“You can’t miss it,” he told him. “It runs +straight as a spear along the fell top till it meets the Wall. +You must hold to it for about eight miles. Then you’ll +come to the Standing Stone on the left of the track——”</p> + +<p>“The Standing Stone, yes?” broke in the other a little +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“You’ll see the Stone right enough. It was where the +Romans came. Then bear to the left down another ‘trod’ +that comes into the road there. They say it was the war-trail +of the folk that set up the Stone.”</p> + +<p>“And what did they use the Stone for?” Holt inquired, +more as though he asked it of himself than of his companion.</p> + +<p>The old man paused to reflect. He spoke at length.</p> + +<p>“I mind an old fellow who seemed to know about such +things called it a Sighting Stone. He reckoned the sun +shone over it at dawn on the longest day right on to the +little holm in Blood Tarn. He said they held sacrifices in +a stone circle there.” He stopped a moment to puff at his +black pipe. “Maybe he was right. I have seen stones +lying about that may well be that.”</p> + +<p>The man was pleased and willing to talk to so good +a listener. Either he had not noticed the curious gesture +the other made, or he read it as a sign of eagerness to +start. The sun was warm, but a sharp wind from the +bare hills went between them with a sighing sound. Holt +buttoned his coat about him. “An odd name for a mountain +lake—Blood Tarn,” he remarked, watching the landlord’s +face expectantly.</p> + +<p>“Aye, but a good one,” was the measured reply. “When +I was a boy the old folk had a tale that the savages flung +three Roman captives from that crag into the water. +There’s a book been written about it; they say it was a +sacrifice, but most likely they were tired of dragging them +along, <em>I</em> say. Anyway, that’s what the writer said. One, +I mind, now you ask me, was a priest of some heathen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +temple that stood near the Wall, and the other two were +his daughter and her lover.” He guffawed. At least he +made a strange noise in his throat. Evidently, thought +Holt, he was sceptical yet superstitious. “It’s just an old +tale handed down, whatever the learned folk may say,” the +old man added.</p> + +<p>“A lonely place,” began Holt, aware that a fleeting +touch of awe was added suddenly to his interest.</p> + +<p>“Aye,” said the other, “and a bad spot too. Every +year the Crag takes its toll of sheep, and sometimes a man +goes over in the mist. It’s right beside the track and +very slippery. Ninety foot of a drop before you hit the +water. Best keep round the tarn and leave the Crag alone +if there’s any mist about. Fishing? Yes, there’s some +quite fair trout in the tarn, but it’s not much fished. +Happen one of the shepherd lads from Tyson’s farm may +give it a turn with an ‘otter,’” he went on, “once in a +while, but he won’t stay for the evening. He’ll clear out +before sunset.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Superstitious, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a gloomy, chancy spot—and with the dusk falling,” +agreed the innkeeper eventually. “None of our folk +care to be caught up there with night coming on. Most +handy for a shepherd, too—but Tyson can’t get a man +to bide there.” He paused again, then added significantly: +“Strangers don’t seem to mind it though. It’s only our +own folk——”</p> + +<p>“Strangers!” repeated the other sharply, as though +he had been waiting all along for this special bit of information. +“You don’t mean to say there are people living +up there?” A curious thrill ran over him.</p> + +<p>“Aye,” replied the landlord, “but they’re daft folk—a +man and his daughter. They come every spring. It’s +early in the year yet, but I mind Jim Backhouse, one of +Tyson’s men, talking about them last week.” He stopped +to think. “So they’ve come back,” he went on decidedly. +“They get milk from the farm.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> + +<p>“And what on earth are they doing up there?” Holt +asked.</p> + +<p>He asked many other questions as well, but the answers +were poor, the information not forthcoming. The landlord +would talk for hours about the Crag, the tarn, the +legends and the Romans, but concerning the two strangers +he was uncommunicative. Either he knew little, or he +did not want to discuss them; Holt felt it was probably +the former. They were educated town-folk, he gathered +with difficulty, rich apparently, and they spent their time +wandering about the fell, or fishing. The man was often +seen upon the Crag, his girl beside him, bare-legged, +dressed as a peasant. “Happen they come for their health, +happen the father is a learned man studying the Wall”—exact +information was not forthcoming.</p> + +<p>The landlord “minded his own business,” and inhabitants +were too few and far between for gossip. All Holt +could extract amounted to this: the couple had been in a +motor accident some years before, and as a result they +came every spring to spend a month or two in absolute +solitude, away from cities and the excitement of modern +life. They troubled no one and no one troubled them.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I may see them as I go by the tarn,” remarked +the walker finally, making ready to go. He gave +up questioning in despair. The morning hours were +passing.</p> + +<p>“Happen you may,” was the reply, “for your track +goes past their door and leads straight down to Scarsdale. +The other way over the Crag saves half a mile, but it’s +rough going along the scree.” He stopped dead. Then he +added, in reply to Holt’s good-bye: “In my opinion it’s +not worth it,” yet what he meant exactly by “it” was not +quite clear.</p> + +<p class="str">*****</p> + +<p>The walker shouldered his knapsack. Instinctively he +gave the little hitch to settle it on his shoulders—much +as he used to give to his pack in France. The pain that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +shot through him as he did so was another reminder of +France. The bullet he had stopped on the Somme still +made its presence felt at times.... Yet he knew, as +he walked off briskly, that he was one of the lucky ones. +How many of his old pals would never walk again, condemned +to hobble on crutches for the rest of their lives! +How many, again, would never even hobble! More terrible +still, he remembered, were the blind.... The dead, +it seemed to him, had been more fortunate....</p> + +<p>He swung up the narrowing valley at a good pace +and was soon climbing the fell. It proved far steeper +than it had appeared from the door of the inn, and he +was glad enough to reach the top and fling himself down +on the coarse springy turf to admire the view below.</p> + +<p>The spring day was delicious. It stirred his blood. The +world beneath looked young and stainless. Emotion rose +through him in a wave of optimistic happiness. The bare +hills were half hidden by a soft blue haze that made them +look bigger, vaster, less earthly than they really were. +He saw silver streaks in the valleys that he knew were +distant streams and lakes. Birds soared between. The +dazzling air seemed painted with exhilarating light and +colour. The very clouds were floating gossamer that he +could touch. There were bees and dragon-flies and fluttering +thistle-down. Heat vibrated. His body, his physical +sensations, so-called, retired into almost nothing. He +felt himself, like his surroundings, made of air and sunlight. +A delicious sense of resignation poured upon him. +He, too, like his surroundings, was composed of air and +sunshine, of insect wings, of soft, fluttering vibrations that +the gorgeous spring day produced.... It seemed that +he renounced the heavy dues of bodily life, and enjoyed +the delights, momentarily at any rate, of a more ethereal +consciousness.</p> + +<p>Near at hand, the hills were covered with the faded +gold of last year’s bracken, which ran down in a brimming +flood till it was lost in the fresh green of the familiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +woods below. Far in the hazy distance swam the sea of +ash and hazel. The silver birch sprinkled that lower world +with fairy light.</p> + +<p>Yes, it was all natural enough. He could see the road +quite clearly now, only a hundred yards away from where +he lay. How straight it ran along the top of the hill! +The landlord’s expression recurred to him: “Straight as +a spear.” Somehow, the phrase seemed to describe exactly +the Romans and all their works.... The Romans, yes, +and all their works....</p> + +<p>He became aware of a sudden sympathy with these +long dead conquerors of the world. With them, he felt +sure, there had been no useless, foolish talk. They had +known no empty words, no bandying of foolish phrases. +“War to end war,” and “Regeneration of the race”—no +hypocritical nonsense of that sort had troubled their minds +and purposes. They had not attempted to cover up the +horrible in words. With them had been no childish, vain +pretence. They had gone straight to their ends.</p> + +<p>Other thoughts, too, stole over him, as he sat gazing +down upon the track of that ancient road; strange +thoughts, not wholly welcome. New, yet old, emotions +rose in a tide upon him. He began to wonder.... Had +he, after all, become brutalized by the War? He knew +quite well that the little “Christianity” he inherited had +soon fallen from him like a garment in France. In his +attitude to Life and Death he had become, frankly, pagan. +He now realized, abruptly, another thing as well: in +reality he had never been a “Christian” at any time. +Given to him with his mother’s milk, he had never accepted, +felt at home with Christian dogmas. To him they had +always been an alien creed. Christianity met none of his +requirements....</p> + +<p>But what were his “requirements”? He found it difficult +to answer.</p> + +<p>Something, at any rate, different and more primitive, +he thought....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> + +<p>Even up here, alone on the mountain-top, it was hard +to be absolutely frank with himself. With a kind of +savage, honest determination, he bent himself to the task. +It became suddenly important for him. He must know +exactly where he stood. It seemed he had reached a turning +point in his life. The War, in the objective world, +had been one such turning point; now he had reached +another, in the subjective life, and it was more important +than the first.</p> + +<p>As he lay there in the pleasant sunshine, his thoughts +went back to the fighting. A friend, he recalled, had +divided people into those who enjoyed the War and those +who didn’t. He was obliged to admit that he had been +one of the former—he had thoroughly enjoyed it. Brought +up from a youth as an engineer, he had taken to a soldier’s +life as a duck takes to water. There had been plenty of +misery, discomfort, wretchedness; but there had been compensations +that, for him, outweighed them. The fierce +excitement, the primitive, naked passions, the wild fury, +the reckless indifference to pain and death, with the loss +of the normal, cautious, pettifogging little daily self all +these involved, had satisfied him. Even the actual +killing....</p> + +<p>He started. A slight shudder ran down his back as +the cool wind from the open moorlands came sighing +across the soft spring sunshine. Sitting up straight, he +looked behind him a moment, as with an effort to turn +away from something he disliked and dreaded because it +was, he knew, too strong for him. But the same instant +he turned round again. He faced the vile and dreadful +thing in himself he had hitherto sought to deny, evade. +Pretence fell away. He could not disguise from himself, +that he had thoroughly enjoyed the killing; or, at any +rate, had not been shocked by it as by an unnatural and +ghastly duty. The shooting and bombing he performed +with an effort always, but the rarer moments when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +had been able to use the bayonet ... the joy of feeling +the steel go home....</p> + +<p>He started again, hiding his face a moment in his +hands, but he did not try to evade the hideous memories +that surged. At times, he knew, he had gone quite mad +with the lust of slaughter; he had gone on long after he +should have stopped. Once an officer had pulled him up +sharply for it, but the next instant had been killed by a +bullet. He thought he had gone on killing, but he did +not know. It was all a red mist before his eyes and he +could only remember the sticky feeling of the blood on +his hands when he gripped his rifle....</p> + +<p>And now, at this moment of painful honesty with himself, +he realized that his creed, whatever it was, must cover +all that; it must provide some sort of a philosophy for it; +must neither apologize nor ignore it. The heaven that +it promised must be a man’s heaven. The Christian heaven +made no appeal to him, he could not believe in it. The +ritual must be simple and direct. He felt that in some +dim way he understood why those old people had thrown +their captives from the Crag. The sacrifice of an animal +victim that could be eaten afterwards with due ceremonial +did not shock him. Such methods seemed simple, natural, +effective. Yet would it not have been better—the horrid +thought rose unbidden in his inmost mind—better to have +cut their throats with a flint knife ... slowly?</p> + +<p>Horror-stricken, he sprang to his feet. These terrible +thoughts he could not recognize as his own. Had he slept +a moment in the sunlight, dreaming them? Was it some +hideous nightmare flash that touched him as he dozed a +second? Something of fear and awe stole over him. He +stared round for some minutes into the emptiness of the +desolate landscape, then hurriedly ran down to the road, +hoping to exorcize the strange sudden horror by vigorous +movement. Yet when he reached the track he knew that +he had not succeeded. The awful pictures were gone perhaps, +but the mood remained. It was as though some new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +attitude began to take definite form and harden within +him.</p> + +<p>He walked on, trying to pretend to himself that he +was some forgotten legionary marching up with his fellows +to defend the Wall. Half unconsciously he fell into the +steady tramping pace of his old regiment: the words of +the ribald songs they had sung going to the front came +pouring into his mind. Steadily and almost mechanically +he swung along till he saw the Stone as a black speck on +the left of the track, and the instant he saw it there rose +in him the feeling that he stood upon the edge of an +adventure that he feared yet longed for. He approached +the great granite monolith with a curious thrill of anticipatory +excitement, born he knew not whence.</p> + +<p>But, of course, there was nothing. Common sense, +still operating strongly, had warned him there would be, +could be, nothing. In the waste the great Stone stood upright, +solitary, forbidding, as it had stood for thousands +of years. It dominated the landscape somewhat ominously. +The sheep and cattle had used it as a rubbing-stone, and +bits of hair and wool clung to its rough, weather-eaten +edges; the feet of generations had worn a cup-shaped hollow +at its base. The wind sighed round it plaintively. +Its bulk glistened as it took the sun.</p> + +<p>A short mile away the Blood Tarn was now plainly +visible; he could see the little holm lying in a direct line +with the Stone, while, overhanging the water as a dark +shadow on one side, rose the cliff-like rock they called “the +Crag.” Of the house the landlord had mentioned, however, +he could see no trace, as he relieved his shoulders +of the knapsack and sat down to enjoy his lunch. The +tarn, he reflected, was certainly a gloomy place; he could +understand that the simple superstitious shepherds did +not dare to live there, for even on this bright spring day +it wore a dismal and forbidding look. With failing light, +when the Crag sprawled its big lengthening shadow across +the water, he could well imagine they would give it the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +widest possible berth. He strolled down to the shore after +lunch, smoking his pipe lazily—then suddenly stood still. +At the far end, hidden hitherto by a fold in the ground, +he saw the little house, a faint column of blue smoke rising +from the chimney, and at the same moment a woman +came out of the low door and began to walk towards the +tarn. She had seen him, she was moving evidently in his +direction; a few minutes later she stopped and stood waiting +on the path—waiting, he well knew, for him.</p> + +<p>And his earlier mood, the mood he dreaded yet had +forced himself to recognize, came back upon him with +sudden redoubled power. As in some vivid dream that +dominates and paralyses the will, or as in the first stages +of an imposed hypnotic spell, all question, hesitation, +refusal sank away. He felt a pleasurable resignation steal +upon him with soft, numbing effect. Denial and criticism +ceased to operate, and common sense died with them. He +yielded his being automatically to the deeps of an adventure +he did not understand. He began to walk towards the +woman.</p> + +<p>It was, he saw as he drew nearer, the figure of a young +girl, nineteen or twenty years of age, who stood there +motionless with her eyes fixed steadily on his own. She +looked as wild and picturesque as the scene that framed +her. Thick black hair hung loose over her back and +shoulders; about her head was bound a green ribbon; her +clothes consisted of a jersey and a very short skirt which +showed her bare legs browned by exposure to the sun and +wind. A pair of rough sandals covered her feet. Whether +the face was beautiful or not he could not tell; he only +knew that it attracted him immensely and with a strength +of appeal that he at once felt curiously irresistible. She +remained motionless against the boulder, staring fixedly +at him till he was close before her. Then she spoke:</p> + +<p>“I am glad that you have come at last,” she said +in a clear, strong voice that yet was soft and even tender. +“We have been expecting you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You have been expecting me!” he repeated, astonished +beyond words, yet finding the language natural, right and +true. A stream of sweet feeling invaded him, his heart +beat faster, he felt happy and at home in some extraordinary +way he could not understand yet did not question.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” she answered, looking straight into his +eyes with welcome unashamed. Her next words thrilled +him to the core of his being. “I have made the room +ready for you.”</p> + +<p>Quick upon her own, however, flashed back the landlord’s +words, while common sense made a last faint effort +in his thought. He was the victim of some absurd mistake +evidently. The lonely life, the forbidding surroundings, +the associations of the desolate hills had affected her +mind. He remembered the accident.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid,” he offered, lamely enough, “there is +some mistake. I am not the friend you were expecting. +I——” He stopped. A thin slight sound as of distant +laughter seemed to echo behind the unconvincing words.</p> + +<p>“There is no mistake,” the girl answered firmly, with +a quiet smile, moving a step nearer to him, so that he +caught the subtle perfume of her vigorous youth. “I saw +you clearly in the Mystery Stone. I recognized you at +once.”</p> + +<p>“The Mystery Stone,” he heard himself saying, bewilderment +increasing, a sense of wild happiness growing +with it.</p> + +<p>Laughing, she took his hand in hers. “Come,” she +said, drawing him along with her, “come home with me. +My father will be waiting for us; he will tell you everything, +and better far than I can.”</p> + +<p>He went with her, feeling that he was made of sunlight +and that he walked on air, for at her touch his own +hand responded as with a sudden fierceness of pleasure +that he failed utterly to understand, yet did not question +for an instant. Wildly, absurdly, madly it flashed across<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +his mind: “This is the woman I shall marry—<em>my</em> +woman. I am her man.”</p> + +<p>They walked in silence for a little, for no words of +any sort offered themselves to his mind, nor did the girl +attempt to speak. The total absence of embarrassment between +them occurred to him once or twice as curious, +though the very idea of embarrassment then disappeared +entirely. It all seemed natural and unforced, the sudden +intercourse as familiar and effortless as though they had +known one another always.</p> + +<p>“The Mystery Stone,” he heard himself saying +presently, as the idea rose again to the surface of his +mind. “I should like to know more about it. Tell me, +dear.”</p> + +<p>“I bought it with the other things,” she replied softly.</p> + +<p>“What other things?”</p> + +<p>She turned and looked up into his face with a slight +expression of surprise; their shoulders touched as they +swung along; her hair blew in the wind across his coat. +“The bronze collar,” she answered in the low voice that +pleased him so, “and this ornament that I wear in my +hair.”</p> + +<p>He glanced down to examine it. Instead of a ribbon, +as he had first supposed, he saw that it was a circlet of +bronze, covered with a beautiful green patina and evidently +very old. In front, above the forehead, was a small disk +bearing an inscription he could not decipher at the +moment. He bent down and kissed her hair, the girl +smiling with happy contentment, but offering no sign of +resistance or annoyance.</p> + +<p>“And,” she added suddenly, “the dagger.”</p> + +<p>Holt started visibly. This time there was a thrill in +her voice that seemed to pierce down straight into his +heart. He said nothing, however. The unexpectedness +of the word she used, together with the note in her voice +that moved him so strangely, had a disconcerting effect +that kept him silent for a time. He did not ask about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +the dagger. Something prevented his curiosity finding +expression in speech, though the word, with the marked +accent she placed upon it, had struck into him like the +shock of sudden steel itself, causing him an indecipherable +emotion of both joy and pain. He asked instead, presently, +another question, and a very commonplace one: he asked +where she and her father had lived before they came to +these lonely hills. And the form of his question—his +voice shook a little as he said it—was, again, an effort +of his normal self to maintain its already precarious +balance.</p> + +<p>The effect of his simple query, the girl’s reply above +all, increased in him the mingled sensations of sweetness +and menace, of joy and dread, that half alarmed, half +satisfied him. For a moment she wore a puzzled expression, +as though making an effort to remember.</p> + +<p>“Down by the sea,” she answered slowly, thoughtfully, +her voice very low. “Somewhere by a big harbour with +great ships coming in and out. It was there we had the +break—the shock—an accident that broke us, shattering +the dream we share To-day.” Her face cleared a little. +“We were in a chariot,” she went on more easily and +rapidly, “and father—my father was injured, so that I +went with him to a palace beyond the Wall till he grew +well.”</p> + +<p>“You were in a chariot?” Holt repeated. “Surely +not.”</p> + +<p>“Did I say chariot?” the girl replied. “How foolish +of me!” She shook her hair back as though the gesture +helped to clear her mind and memory. “That belongs, +of course, to the other dream. No, not a chariot; it was +a car. But it had wheels like a chariot—the old war-chariots. +You know.”</p> + +<p>“Disk-wheels,” thought Holt to himself. He did not +ask about the palace. He asked instead where she had +bought the Mystery Stone, as she called it, and the other +things. Her reply bemused and enticed him farther, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +he could not unravel it. His whole inner attitude was +shifting with uncanny rapidity and completeness. They +walked together, he now realized, with linked arms, moving +slowly in step, their bodies touching. He felt the +blood run hot and almost savage in his veins. He was +aware how amazingly precious she was to him, how deeply, +absolutely necessary to his life and happiness. Her words +went past him in the mountain wind like flying birds.</p> + +<p>“My father was fishing,” she went on, “and I was on +my way to join him, when the old woman called me into +her dwelling and showed me the things. She wished to +give them to me, but I refused the present and paid for +them in gold. I put the fillet on my head to see if it +would fit, and took the Mystery Stone in my hand. Then, +as I looked deep into the stone, this present dream died all +away. It faded out. I saw the older dreams again—<em>our</em> +dreams.”</p> + +<p>“The older dreams!” interrupted Holt. “Ours!” But +instead of saying the words aloud, they issued from his +lips in a quiet whisper, as though control of his voice had +passed a little from him. The sweetness in him became +more wonderful, unmanageable; his astonishment had +vanished; he walked and talked with his old familiar happy +Love, the woman he had sought so long and waited for, the +woman who was his mate, as he was hers, she who alone +could satisfy his inmost soul.</p> + +<p>“The old dream,” she replied, “the very old—the oldest +of all perhaps—when we committed the terrible sacrilege. +I saw the High Priest lying dead—whom my father slew—and +the other whom <em>you</em> destroyed. I saw you prise +out the jewel from the image of the god—with your short +bloody spear. I saw, too, our flight to the galley through +the hot, awful night beneath the stars—and our +escape....”</p> + +<p>Her voice died away and she fell silent.</p> + +<p>“Tell me more,” he whispered, drawing her closer +against his side. “What had <em>you</em> done?” His heart was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +racing now. Some fighting blood surged uppermost. He +felt that he could kill, and the joy of violence and slaughter +rose in him.</p> + +<p>“Have you forgotten so completely?” she asked very +low, as he pressed her more tightly still against his heart. +And almost beneath her breath she whispered into his ear, +which he bent to catch the little sound: “I had broken +my vows with you.”</p> + +<p>“What else, my lovely one—my best beloved—what +more did you see?” he whispered in return, yet wondering +why the fierce pain and anger that he felt behind still +lay hidden from betrayal.</p> + +<p>“Dream after dream, and always we were punished. +But the last time was the clearest, for it was here—here +where we now walk together in the sunlight and the wind—it +was here the savages hurled us from the rock.”</p> + +<p>A shiver ran through him, making him tremble with +an unaccountable touch of cold that communicated itself +to her as well. Her arm went instantly about his shoulder, +as he stooped and kissed her passionately. “Fasten your +coat about you,” she said tenderly, but with troubled +breath, when he released her, “for this wind is chill +although the sun shines brightly. We were glad, you +remember, when they stopped to kill us, for we were tired +and our feet were cut to pieces by the long, rough journey +from the Wall.” Then suddenly her voice grew louder +again and the smile of happy confidence came back into +her eyes. There was the deep earnestness of love in it, of +love that cannot end or die. She looked up into his face. +“But soon now,” she said, “we shall be free. For you +have come, and it is nearly finished—this weary little +present dream.”</p> + +<p>“How,” he asked, “shall we get free?” A red mist +swam momentarily before his eyes.</p> + +<p>“My father,” she replied at once, “will tell you all. +It is quite easy.”</p> + +<p>“Your father, too, remembers?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> + +<p>“The moment the collar touches him,” she said, “he +is a priest again. See! Here he comes forth already to +meet us, and to bid you welcome.”</p> + +<p>Holt looked up, startled. He had hardly noticed, so +absorbed had he been in the words that half intoxicated +him, the distance they had covered. The cottage was now +close at hand, and a tall, powerfully built man, wearing a +shepherd’s rough clothing, stood a few feet in front of +him. His stature, breadth of shoulder and thick black beard +made up a striking figure. The dark eyes, with fire in +them, gazed straight into his own, and a kindly smile +played round the stern and vigorous mouth.</p> + +<p>“Greeting, my son,” said a deep, booming voice, “for +I shall call you my son as I did of old. The bond of the +spirit is stronger than that of the flesh, and with us three +the tie is indeed of triple strength. You come, too, at an +auspicious hour, for the omens are favourable and the time +of our liberation is at hand.” He took the other’s hand +in a grip that might have killed an ox and yet was warm +with gentle kindliness, while Holt, now caught wholly into +the spirit of some deep reality he could not master yet +accepted, saw that the wrist was small, the fingers shapely, +the gesture itself one of dignity and refinement.</p> + +<p>“Greeting, my father,” he replied, as naturally as +though he said more modern words.</p> + +<p>“Come in with me, I pray,” pursued the other, leading +the way, “and let me show you the poor accommodation +we have provided, yet the best that we can offer.”</p> + +<p>He stooped to pass the threshold, and as Holt stooped +likewise the girl took his hand and he knew that his +bewitchment was complete. Entering the low doorway, he +passed through a kitchen, where only the roughest, scantiest +furniture was visible, into another room that was completely +bare. A heap of dried bracken had been spread on +the floor in one corner to form a bed. Beside it lay two +cheap, coloured blankets. There was nothing else.</p> + +<p>“Our place is poor,” said the man, smiling courteously,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +but with that dignity and air of welcome which +made the hovel seem a palace. “Yet it may serve, perhaps, +for the short time that you will need it. Our little +dream here is wellnigh over, now that you have come. The +long weary pilgrimage at last draws to a close.” The girl +had left them alone a moment, and the man stepped +closer to his guest. His face grew solemn, his voice deeper +and more earnest suddenly, the light in his eyes seemed +actually to flame with the enthusiasm of a great belief. +“Why have you tarried thus so long, and where?” he +asked in a lowered tone that vibrated in the little space. +“We have sought you with prayer and fasting, and she has +spent her nights for you in tears. You lost the way, it +must be. The lesser dreams entangled your feet, I see.” +A touch of sadness entered the voice, the eyes held pity in +them. “It is, alas, too easy, I well know,” he murmured. +“It is too easy.”</p> + +<p>“I lost the way,” the other replied. It seemed suddenly +that his heart was filled with fire. “But now,” he +cried aloud, “now that I have found her, I will never, +never let her go again. My feet are steady and my way is +sure.”</p> + +<p>“For ever and ever, my son,” boomed the happy, yet +almost solemn answer, “she is yours. Our freedom is at +hand.”</p> + +<p>He turned and crossed the little kitchen again, making +a sign that his guest should follow him. They stood together +by the door, looking out across the tarn in silence. +The afternoon sunshine fell in a golden blaze across the +bare hills that seemed to smoke with the glory of the fiery +light. But the Crag loomed dark in shadow overhead, +and the little lake lay deep and black beneath it.</p> + +<p>“Acella, Acella!” called the man, the name breaking +upon his companion as with a shock of sweet delicious fire +that filled his entire being, as the girl came the same +instant from behind the cottage. “The Gods call me,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +said her father. “I go now to the hill. Protect our guest +and comfort him in my absence.”</p> + +<p>Without another word, he strode away up the hillside +and presently was visible standing on the summit of the +Crag, his arms stretched out above his head to heaven, +his great head thrown back, his bearded face turned upwards. +An impressive, even a majestic figure he looked, +as his bulk and stature rose in dark silhouette against the +brilliant evening sky. Holt stood motionless, watching +him for several minutes, his heart swelling in his breast, +his pulses thumping before some great nameless pressure +that rose from the depths of his being. That inner attitude +which seemed a new and yet more satisfying attitude +to life than he had known hitherto, had crystallized. +Define it he could not, he only knew that he accepted it as +natural. It satisfied him. The sight of that dignified, +gaunt figure worshipping upon the hill-top enflamed +him....</p> + +<p>“I have brought the stone,” a voice interrupted his +reflections, and turning, he saw the girl beside him. She +held out for his inspection a dark square object that looked +to him at first like a black stone lying against the brown +skin of her hand. “The Mystery Stone,” the girl added, +as their faces bent down together to examine it. “It is +there I see the dreams I told you of.”</p> + +<p>He took it from her and found that it was heavy, composed +apparently of something like black quartz, with a +brilliant polished surface that revealed clear depths within. +Once, evidently, it had been set in a stand or frame, for +the marks where it had been attached still showed, and +it was obviously of great age. He felt confused, the mind +in him troubled yet excited, as he gazed. The effect upon +him was as though a wind rose suddenly and passed across +his inmost subjective life, setting its entire contents in +rushing motion.</p> + +<p>“And here,” the girl said, “is the dagger.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> + +<p>He took from her the short bronze weapon, feeling at +once instinctively its ragged edge, its keen point, sharp +and effective still. The handle had long since rotted +away, but the bronze tongue, and the holes where the +rivets had been, remained, and, as he touched it, the confusion +and trouble in his mind increased to a kind of turmoil, +in which violence, linked to something tameless, wild +and almost savage, was the dominating emotion. He +turned to seize the girl and crush her to him in a passionate +embrace, but she held away, throwing back her lovely head, +her eyes shining, her lips parted, yet one hand stretched +out to stop him.</p> + +<p>“First look into it with me,” she said quietly. “Let us +see together.”</p> + +<p>She sat down on the turf beside the cottage door, and +Holt, obeying, took his place beside her. She remained +very still for some minutes, covering the stone with both +hands as though to warm it. Her lips moved. She seemed +to be repeating some kind of invocation beneath her breath, +though no actual words were audible. Presently her hands +parted. They sat together gazing at the polished surface. +They looked within.</p> + +<p>“There comes a white mist in the heart of the stone,” +the girl whispered. “It will soon open. The pictures +will then grow. Look!” she exclaimed after a brief pause, +“they are forming now.”</p> + +<p>“I see only mist,” her companion murmured, gazing +intently. “Only mist I see.”</p> + +<p>She took his hand and instantly the mist parted. He +found himself peering into another landscape which opened +before his eyes as though it were a photograph. Hills +covered with heather stretched away on every side.</p> + +<p>“Hills, I see,” he whispered. “The ancient hills——”</p> + +<p>“Watch closely,” she replied, holding his hand firmly.</p> + +<p>At first the landscape was devoid of any sign of life; +then suddenly it surged and swarmed with moving figures. +Torrents of men poured over the hill-crests and down their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +heathery sides in columns. He could see them clearly—great +hairy men, clad in skins, with thick shields on their +left arms or slung over their backs, and short stabbing +spears in their hands. Thousands upon thousands poured +over in an endless stream. In the distance he could see +other columns sweeping in a turning movement. A few +of the men rode rough ponies and seemed to be directing +the march, and these, he knew, were the chiefs....</p> + +<p>The scene grew dimmer, faded, died away completely. +Another took its place:</p> + +<p>By the faint light he knew that it was dawn. The +undulating country, less hilly than before, was still wild +and uncultivated. A great wall, with towers at intervals, +stretched away till it was lost in shadowy distance. On +the nearest of these towers he saw a sentinel clad in +armour, gazing out across the rolling country. The +armour gleamed faintly in the pale glimmering light, as +the man suddenly snatched up a bugle and blew upon it. +From a brazier burning beside him he next seized a brand +and fired a great heap of brushwood. The smoke rose in +a dense column into the air almost immediately, and from +all directions, with incredible rapidity, figures came pouring +up to man the wall. Hurriedly they strung their +bows, and laid spare arrows close beside them on the coping. +The light grew brighter. The whole country was +alive with savages; like the waves of the sea they came +rolling in enormous numbers. For several minutes the +wall held. Then, in an impetuous, fearful torrent, they +poured over....</p> + +<p>It faded, died away, was gone again, and a moment +later yet another took its place:</p> + +<p>But this time the landscape was familiar, and he recognized +the tarn. He saw the savages upon the ledge that +flanked the dominating Crag; they had three captives with +them. He saw two men. The other was a woman. But +the woman had fallen exhausted to the ground, and a +chief on a rough pony rode back to see what had delayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +the march. Glancing at the captives, he made a fierce +gesture with his arm towards the water far below. Instantly +the woman was jerked cruelly to her feet and +forced onwards till the summit of the Crag was reached. +A man snatched something from her hand. A second later +she was hurled over the brink.</p> + +<p>The two men were next dragged on to the dizzy spot +where she had stood. Dead with fatigue, bleeding from +numerous wounds, yet at this awful moment they +straightened themselves, casting contemptuous glances at +the fierce savages surrounding them. They were Romans +and would die like Romans. Holt saw their faces clearly +for the first time.</p> + +<p>He sprang up with a cry of anguished fury.</p> + +<p>“The second man!” he exclaimed. “You saw the +second man!”</p> + +<p>The girl, releasing his hand, turned her eyes slowly +up to his, so that he met the flame of her ancient and +undying love shining like stars upon him out of the night +of time.</p> + +<p>“Ever since that moment,” she said in a low voice +that trembled, “I have been looking, waiting for you——”</p> + +<p>He took her in his arms and smothered her words with +kisses, holding her fiercely to him as though he would +never let her go. “I, too,” he said, his whole being burning +with his love, “I have been looking, waiting for you. +Now I have found you. We have found each other...!”</p> + +<p>The dusk fell slowly, imperceptibly. As twilight slowly +draped the gaunt hills, blotting out familiar details, so +the strong dream, veil upon veil, drew closer over the soul +of the wanderer, obliterating finally the last reminder of +To-day. The little wind had dropped and the desolate +moors lay silent, but for the hum of distant water falling +to its valley bed. His life, too, and the life of the girl, +he knew, were similarly falling, falling into some deep +shadowed bed where rest would come at last. No details +troubled him, he asked himself no questions. A profound<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +sense of happy peace numbed every nerve and stilled his +beating heart.</p> + +<p>He felt no fear, no anxiety, no hint of alarm or uneasiness +vexed his singular contentment. He realized one +thing only—that the girl lay in his arms, he held her fast, +her breath mingled with his own. They had found each +other. What else mattered?</p> + +<p>From time to time, as the daylight faded and the sun +went down behind the moors, she spoke. She uttered +words he vaguely heard, listening, though with a certain +curious effort, before he closed the thing she said with +kisses. Even the fierceness of his blood was gone. The +world lay still, life almost ceased to flow. Lapped in the +deeps of his great love, he was redeemed, perhaps, of +violence and savagery....</p> + +<p>“Three dark birds,” she whispered, “pass across the +sky ... they fall beyond the ridge. The omens are +favourable. A hawk now follows them, cleaving the sky +with pointed wings.”</p> + +<p>“A hawk,” he murmured. “The badge of my old +Legion.”</p> + +<p>“My father will perform the sacrifice,” he heard again, +though it seemed a long interval had passed, and the +man’s figure was now invisible on the Crag amid the +gathering darkness. “Already he prepares the fire. Look, +the sacred island is alight. He has the black cock ready +for the knife.”</p> + +<p>Holt roused himself with difficulty, lifting his face +from the garden of her hair. A faint light, he saw, +gleamed fitfully on the holm within the tarn. Her father, +then, had descended from the Crag, and had lit the sacrificial +fire upon the stones. But what did the doings of the +father matter now to him?</p> + +<p>“The dark bird,” he repeated dully, “the black victim +the Gods of the Underworld alone accept. It is good, +Acella, it is good!” He was about to sink back again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +taking her against his breast as before, when she resisted +and sat up suddenly.</p> + +<p>“It is time,” she said aloud. “The hour has come. +My father climbs, and we must join him on the summit. +Come!”</p> + +<p>She took his hand and raised him to his feet, and +together they began the rough ascent towards the Crag. +As they passed along the shore of the Tarn of Blood, he +saw the fire reflected in the ink-black waters; he made +out, too, though dimly, a rough circle of big stones, with +a larger flag-stone lying in the centre. Three small fires +of bracken and wood, placed in a triangle with its apex +towards the Standing Stone on the distant hill, burned +briskly, the crackling material sending out sparks that +pierced the columns of thick smoke. And in this smoke, +peering, shifting, appearing and disappearing, it seemed +he saw great faces moving. The flickering light and twirling +smoke made clear sight difficult. His bliss, his +lethargy were very deep. They left the tarn below them +and hand in hand began to climb the final slope.</p> + +<p>Whether the physical effort of climbing disturbed the +deep pressure of the mood that numbed his senses, or +whether the cold draught of wind they met upon the ridge +restored some vital detail of To-day, Holt does not know. +Something, at any rate, in him wavered suddenly, as +though a centre of gravity had shifted slightly. There +was a perceptible alteration in the balance of thought and +feeling that had held invariable now for many hours. It +seemed to him that something heavy lifted, or rather, began +to lift—a weight, a shadow, something oppressive that +obstructed light. A ray of light, as it were, struggled +through the thick darkness that enveloped him. To him, +as he paused on the ridge to recover his breath, came this +vague suggestion of faint light breaking across the blackness. +It was objective.</p> + +<p>“See,” said the girl in a low voice, “the moon is rising.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +It lights the sacred island. The blood-red waters turn to +silver.”</p> + +<p>He saw, indeed, that a huge three-quarter moon now +drove with almost visible movement above the distant line +of hills; the little tarn gleamed as with silvery armour; +the glow of the sacrificial fires showed red across it. He +looked down with a shudder into the sheer depth that +opened at his feet, then turned to look at his companion. +He started and shrank back. Her face, lit by the moon +and by the fire, shone pale as death; her black hair framed +it with a terrible suggestiveness; the eyes, though brilliant +as ever, had a film upon them. She stood in an attitude +of both ecstasy and resignation, and one outstretched arm +pointed towards the summit where her father stood.</p> + +<p>Her lips parted, a marvellous smile broke over her +features, her voice was suddenly unfamiliar: “He wears +the collar,” she uttered. “Come. Our time is here at last, +and we are ready. See, he waits for us!”</p> + +<p>There rose for the first time struggle and opposition +in him; he resisted the pressure of her hand that had +seized his own and drew him forcibly along. Whence +came the resistance and the opposition he could not tell, +but though he followed her, he was aware that the refusal +in him strengthened. The weight of darkness that oppressed +him shifted a little more, an inner light increased; +The same moment they reached the summit and stood beside—the +priest. There was a curious sound of fluttering. +The figure, he saw, was naked, save for a rough blanket +tied loosely about the waist.</p> + +<p>“The hour has come at last,” cried his deep booming +voice that woke echoes from the dark hills about them. +“We are alone now with our Gods.” And he broke then +into a monotonous rhythmic chanting that rose and fell +upon the wind, yet in a tongue that sounded strange; his +erect figure swayed slightly with its cadences; his black +beard swept his naked chest; and his face, turned skywards, +shone in the mingled light of moon above and fire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +below, yet with an added light as well that burned within +him rather than without. He was a weird, magnificent +figure, a priest of ancient rites invoking his deathless +deities upon the unchanging hills.</p> + +<p>But upon Holt, too, as he stared in awed amazement, +an inner light had broken suddenly. It came as with a +dazzling blaze that at first paralysed thought and action. +His mind cleared, but too abruptly for movement, either +of tongue or hand, to be possible. Then, abruptly, the +inner darkness rolled away completely. The light in the +wild eyes of the great chanting, swaying figure, he now +knew was the light of mania.</p> + +<p>The faint fluttering sound increased, and the voice of +the girl was oddly mingled with it. The priest had ceased +his invocation. Holt, aware that he stood alone, saw the +girl go past him carrying a big black bird that struggled +with vainly beating wings.</p> + +<p>“Behold the sacrifice,” she said, as she knelt before +her father and held up the victim. “May the Gods accept +it as presently They shall accept us too!”</p> + +<p>The great figure stooped and took the offering, and +with one blow of the knife he held, its head was severed +from its body. The blood spattered on the white face of +the kneeling girl. Holt was aware for the first time that +she, too, was now unclothed; but for a loose blanket, her +white body gleamed against the dark heather in the moonlight. +At the same moment she rose to her feet, stood +upright, turned towards him so that he saw the dark hair +streaming across her naked shoulders, and, with a face +of ecstasy, yet ever that strange film upon her eyes, her +voice came to him on the wind:</p> + +<p>“Farewell, yet not farewell! We shall meet, all three, +in the underworld. The Gods accept us!”</p> + +<p>Turning her face away, she stepped towards the ominous +figure behind, and bared her ivory neck and breast +to the knife. The eyes of the maniac were upon her own;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +she was as helpless and obedient as a lamb before his +spell.</p> + +<p>Then Holt’s horrible paralysis, if only just in time, +was lifted. The priest had raised his arm, the bronze +knife with its ragged edge gleamed in the air, with the +other hand he had already gathered up the thick dark +hair, so that the neck lay bare and open to the final blow. +But it was two other details, Holt thinks, that set his +muscles suddenly free, enabling him to act with the swift +judgment which, being wholly unexpected, disconcerted +both maniac and victim and frustrated the awful culmination. +The dark spots of blood upon the face he +loved, and the sudden final fluttering of the dead bird’s +wings upon the ground—these two things, life actually +touching death, released the held-back springs.</p> + +<p>He leaped forward. He received the blow upon his +left arm and hand. It was his right fist that sent the +High Priest to earth with a blow that, luckily, felled him +in the direction away from the dreadful brink, and it was +his right arm and hand, he became aware some time afterwards +only, that were chiefly of use in carrying the fainting +girl and her unconscious father back to the shelter of +the cottage, and to the best help and comfort he could +provide....</p> + +<p>It was several years afterwards, in a very different +setting, that he found himself spelling out slowly to a +little boy the lettering cut into a circlet of bronze the child +found on his study table. To the child he told a fairy +tale, then dismissed him to play with his mother in the +garden. But, when alone, he rubbed away the verdigris +with great care, for the circlet was thin and frail with age, +as he examined again the little picture of a tripod from +which smoke issued, incised neatly in the metal. Below +it, almost as sharp as when the Roman craftsman cut it +first, was the name Acella. He touched the letters tenderly +with his left hand, from which two fingers were missing, +then placed it in a drawer of his desk and turned the key.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> + +<p>“That curious name,” said a low voice behind his +chair. His wife had come in and was looking over his +shoulder. “You love it, and I dread it.” She sat on the +desk beside him, her eyes troubled. “It was the name +father used to call me in his illness.”</p> + +<p>Her husband looked at her with passionate tenderness, +but said no word.</p> + +<p>“And this,” she went on, taking the broken hand in +both her own, “is the price you paid to me for his life. +I often wonder what strange good deity brought you upon +the lonely moor that night, and just in the very nick of +time. You remember...?”</p> + +<p>“The deity who helps true lovers, of course,” he said +with a smile, evading the question. The deeper memory, +he knew, had closed absolutely in her since the moment +of the attempted double crime. He kissed her, murmuring +to himself as he did so, but too low for her to hear, +“Acella! <em>My</em> Acella...!”</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>VI<br /> +<br /> +THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">As</span> they emerged suddenly from the dense forest the +Indian halted, and Grimwood, his employer, stood +beside him, gazing into the beautiful wooded valley that +lay spread below them in the blaze of a golden sunset. +Both men leaned upon their rifles, caught by the enchantment +of the unexpected scene.</p> + +<p>“We camp here,” said Tooshalli abruptly, after a careful +survey. “To-morrow we make a plan.”</p> + +<p>He spoke excellent English. The note of decision, +almost of authority, in his voice was noticeable, but Grimwood +set it down to the natural excitement of the moment. +Every track they had followed during the last two days, +but one track in particular as well, had headed straight +for this remote and hidden valley, and the sport promised +to be unusual.</p> + +<p>“That’s so,” he replied, in the tone of one giving an +order. “You can make camp ready at once.” And he +sat down on a fallen hemlock to take off his moccasin +boots and grease his feet that ached from the arduous +day now drawing to a close. Though under ordinary circumstances +he would have pushed on for another hour or +two, he was not averse to a night here, for exhaustion had +come upon him during the last bit of rough going, his +eye and muscles were no longer steady, and it was doubtful +if he could have shot straight enough to kill. He did +not mean to miss a second time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> + +<p>With his Canadian friend, Iredale, the latter’s half-breed, +and his own Indian, Tooshalli, the party had set +out three weeks ago to find the “wonderful big moose” +the Indians reported were travelling in the Snow River +country. They soon found that the tale was true; tracks +were abundant; they saw fine animals nearly every day, +but though carrying good heads, the hunters expected +better still and left them alone. Pushing up the river +to a chain of small lakes near its source, they then +separated into two parties, each with its nine-foot bark +canoe, and packed in for three days after the yet bigger +animals the Indians agreed would be found in the deeper +woods beyond. Excitement was keen, expectation keener +still. The day before they separated, Iredale shot the +biggest moose of his life, and its head, bigger even than +the grand Alaskan heads, hangs in his house to-day. Grimwood’s +hunting blood was fairly up. His blood was of the +fiery, not to say ferocious, quality. It almost seemed he +liked killing for its own sake.</p> + +<p>Four days after the party broke into two he came +upon a gigantic track, whose measurements and length of +stride keyed every nerve he possessed to its highest tension.</p> + +<p>Tooshalli examined the tracks for some minutes with +care. “It is the biggest moose in the world,” he said at +length, a new expression on his inscrutable red visage.</p> + +<p>Following it all that day, they yet got no sight of +the big fellow that seemed to be frequenting a little marshy +dip of country, too small to be called valley, where willow +and undergrowth abounded. He had not yet scented +his pursuers. They were after him again at dawn. Towards +the evening of the second day Grimwood caught a +sudden glimpse of the monster among a thick clump of +willows, and the sight of the magnificent head that easily +beat all records set his heart beating like a hammer with +excitement. He aimed and fired. But the moose, instead +of crashing, went thundering away through the further +scrub and disappeared, the sound of his plunging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +canter presently dying away. Grimwood had missed, even +if he had wounded.</p> + +<p>They camped, and all next day, leaving the canoe +behind, they followed the huge track, but though finding +signs of blood, these were not plentiful, and the shot had +evidently only grazed the animal. The travelling was of +the hardest. Towards evening, utterly exhausted, the spoor +led them to the ridge they now stood upon, gazing down +into the enchanting valley that opened at their feet. The +giant moose had gone down into this valley. He would +consider himself safe there. Grimwood agreed with the +Indian’s judgment. They would camp for the night and +continue at dawn the wild hunt after “the biggest moose +in the world.”</p> + +<p>Supper was over, the small fire used for cooking dying +down, with Grimwood became first aware that the Indian +was not behaving quite as usual. What particular detail +drew his attention is hard to say. He was a slow-witted, +heavy man, full-blooded, unobservant; a fact had to hurt +him through his comfort, through his pleasure, before he +noticed it. Yet anyone else must have observed the +changed mood of the Redskin long ago. Tooshalli had +made the fire, fried the bacon, served the tea, and was +arranging the blankets, his own and his employer’s, before +the latter remarked upon his—silence. Tooshalli had not +uttered a word for over an hour and a half, since he had +first set eyes upon the new valley, to be exact. And his +employer now noticed the unaccustomed silence, because +after food he liked to listen to wood talk and hunting +lore.</p> + +<p>“Tired out, aren’t you?” said big Grimwood, looking +into the dark face across the firelight. He resented the +absence of conversation, now that he noticed it. He was +over-weary himself, he felt more irritable than usual, +though his temper was always vile.</p> + +<p>“Lost your tongue, eh?” he went on with a growl, as +the Indian returned his stare with solemn, expressionless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +face. That dark inscrutable look got on his nerves a bit. +“Speak up, man!” he exclaimed sharply. “What’s it all +about?”</p> + +<p>The Englishman had at last realized that there was +something to “speak up” about. The discovery, in his +present state, annoyed him further. Tooshalli stared +gravely, but made no reply. The silence was prolonged +almost into minutes. Presently the head turned sideways, +as though the man listened. The other watched him very +closely, anger growing in him.</p> + +<p>But it was the way the Redskin turned his head, keeping +his body rigid, that gave the jerk to Grimwood’s +nerves, providing him with a sensation he had never known +in his life before—it gave him what is generally called +“the goose-flesh.” It seemed to jangle his entire system, +yet at the same time made him cautious. He did not +like it, this combination of emotions puzzled him.</p> + +<p>“Say something, I tell you,” he repeated in a harsher +tone, raising his voice. He sat up, drawing his great body +closer to the fire. “Say something, damn it!”</p> + +<p>His voice fell dead against the surrounding trees, making +the silence of the forest unpleasantly noticeable. Very +still the great woods stood about them; there was no wind, +no stir of branches; only the crackle of a snapping twig +was audible from time to time, as the night-life moved +unwarily sometimes watching the humans round their +little fire. The October air had a frosty touch that nipped.</p> + +<p>The Redskin did not answer. No muscle of his neck +nor of his stiffened body moved. He seemed all ears.</p> + +<p>“Well?” repeated the Englishman, lowering his voice +this time instinctively. “What d’you hear, God damn it!” +The touch of odd nervousness that made his anger grow +betrayed itself in his language.</p> + +<p>Tooshalli slowly turned his head back again to its +normal position, the body rigid as before.</p> + +<p>“I hear nothing, Mr. Grimwood,” he said, gazing with +quiet dignity into his employer’s eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> + +<p>This was too much for the other, a man of savage +temper at the best of times. He was the type of Englishman +who held strong views as to the right way of treating +“inferior” races.</p> + +<p>“That’s a lie, Tooshalli, and I won’t have you lie to +me. Now what was it? Tell me at once!”</p> + +<p>“I hear nothing,” repeated the other. “I only think.”</p> + +<p>“And what is it you’re pleased to think?” Impatience +made a nasty expression round the mouth.</p> + +<p>“I go not,” was the abrupt reply, unalterable decision +in the voice.</p> + +<p>The man’s rejoinder was so unexpected that Grimwood +found nothing to say at first. For a moment he +did not take its meaning; his mind, always slow, was confused +by impatience, also by what he considered the foolishness +of the little scene. Then in a flash he understood; +but he also understood the immovable obstinacy of the race +he had to deal with. Tooshalli was informing him that +he refused to go into the valley where the big moose had +vanished. And his astonishment was so great at first that +he merely sat and stared. No words came to him.</p> + +<p>“It is——” said the Indian, but used a native term.</p> + +<p>“What’s that mean?” Grimwood found his tongue, +but his quiet tone was ominous.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Grimwood, it mean the ‘Valley of the Beasts,’” +was the reply in a tone quieter still.</p> + +<p>The Englishman made a great, a genuine effort at self-control. +He was dealing, he forced himself to remember, +with a superstitious Redskin. He knew the stubbornness +of the type. If the man left him his sport was irretrievably +spoilt, for he could not hunt in this wilderness alone, and +even if he got the coveted head, he could never, never get +it out alone. His native selfishness seconded his effort. +Persuasion, if only he could keep back his rising anger, +was his rôle to play.</p> + +<p>“The Valley of the Beasts,” he said, a smile on his lips +rather than in his darkening eyes; “but that’s just what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +we want. It’s beasts we’re after, isn’t it?” His voice +had a false cheery ring that could not have deceived a +child. “But what d’you mean, anyhow—the Valley of the +Beasts?” He asked it with a dull attempt at sympathy.</p> + +<p>“It belong to Ishtot, Mr. Grimwood.” The man looked +him full in the face, no flinching in the eyes.</p> + +<p>“My—our—big moose is there,” said the other, who +recognized the name of the Indian Hunting God, and +understanding better, felt confident he would soon persuade +his man. Tooshalli, he remembered, too, was +nominally a Christian. “We’ll follow him at dawn and +get the biggest head the world has ever seen. You will +be famous,” he added, his temper better in hand again. +“Your tribe will honour you. And the white hunters will +pay you much money.”</p> + +<p>“He go there to save himself. I go not.”</p> + +<p>The other’s anger revived with a leap at this stupid +obstinacy. But, in spite of it, he noticed the odd choice +of words. He began to realize that nothing now would +move the man. At the same time he also realized that +violence on his part must prove worse than useless. Yet +violence was natural to his “dominant” type. “That brute +Grimwood” was the way most men spoke of him.</p> + +<p>“Back at the settlement you’re a Christian, remember,” +he tried, in his clumsy way, another line. “And +disobedience means hell-fire. You know that!”</p> + +<p>“I a Christian—at the post,” was the reply, “but out +here the Red God rule. Ishtot keep that valley for himself. +No Indian hunt there.” It was as though a granite +boulder spoke.</p> + +<p>The savage temper of the Englishman, enforced by the +long difficult suppression, rose wickedly into sudden flame. +He stood up, kicking his blankets aside. He strode across +the dying fire to the Indian’s side. Tooshalli also rose. +They faced each other, two humans alone in the wilderness, +watched by countless invisible forest eyes.</p> + +<p>Tooshalli stood motionless, yet as though he expected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +violence from the foolish, ignorant white-face. “You go +alone, Mr. Grimwood.” There was no fear in him.</p> + +<p>Grimwood choked with rage. His words came forth +with difficulty, though he roared them into the silence of +the forest:</p> + +<p>“I pay you, don’t I? You’ll do what <em>I</em> say, not what +<em>you</em> say!” His voice woke the echoes.</p> + +<p>The Indian, arms hanging by his side, gave the old +reply.</p> + +<p>“I go not,” he repeated firmly.</p> + +<p>It stung the other into uncontrollable fury.</p> + +<p>The beast then came uppermost; it came out. “You’ve +said that once too often, Tooshalli!” and he struck him +brutally in the face. The Indian fell, rose to his knees +again, collapsed sideways beside the fire, then struggled +back into a sitting position. He never once took his eyes +from the white man’s face.</p> + +<p>Beside himself with anger, Grimwood stood over him. +“Is that enough? Will you obey me now?” he shouted.</p> + +<p>“I go not,” came the thick reply, blood streaming +from his mouth. The eyes had no flinching in them. +“That valley Ishtot keep. Ishtot see us now. <em>He see you.</em>” +The last words he uttered with strange, almost uncanny +emphasis.</p> + +<p>Grimwood, arm raised, fist clenched, about to repeat +his terrible assault, paused suddenly. His arm sank to +his side. What exactly stopped him he could never say. +For one thing, he feared his own anger, feared that if +he let himself go he would not stop till he had killed—committed +murder. He knew his own fearful temper and +stood afraid of it. Yet it was not only that. The calm +firmness of the Redskin, his courage under pain, and +something in the fixed and burning eyes arrested him. +Was it also something in the words he had used—“Ishtot +see <em>you</em>”—that stung him into a queer caution midway +in his violence?</p> + +<p>He could not say. He only knew that a momentary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +sense of awe came over him. He became unpleasantly +aware of the enveloping forest, so still, listening in a +kind of impenetrable, remorseless silence. This lonely +wilderness, looking silently upon what might easily prove +murder, laid a faint, inexplicable chill upon his raging +blood. The hand dropped slowly to his side again, the +fist unclenched itself, his breath came more evenly.</p> + +<p>“Look you here,” he said, adopting without knowing +it the local way of speech. “I ain’t a bad man, though +your going-on do make a man damned tired. I’ll give +you another chance.” His voice was sullen, but a new +note in it surprised even himself. “I’ll do that. You +can have the night to think it over, Tooshalli—see? Talk +it over with your——”</p> + +<p>He did not finish the sentence. Somehow the name +of the Redskin God refused to pass his lips. He turned +away, flung himself into his blankets, and in less than +ten minutes, exhausted as much by his anger as by the +day’s hard going, he was sound asleep.</p> + +<p>The Indian, crouching beside the dying fire, had said +nothing.</p> + +<p>Night held the woods, the sky was thick with stars, +the life of the forest went about its business quietly, with +that wondrous skill which millions of years have perfected. +The Redskin, so close to this skill that he instinctively +used and borrowed from it, was silent, alert and wise, his +outline as inconspicuous as though he merged, like his +four-footed teachers, into the mass of the surrounding +bush.</p> + +<p>He moved perhaps, yet nothing knew he moved. His +wisdom, derived from that eternal, ancient mother who +from infinite experience makes no mistakes, did not fail +him. His soft tread made no sound; his breathing, as +his weight, was calculated. The stars observed him, but +they did not tell; the light air knew his whereabouts, yet +without betrayal....</p> + +<p>The chill dawn gleamed at length between the trees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +lighting the pale ashes of an extinguished fire, also of a +bulky, obvious form beneath a blanket. The form moved +clumsily. The cold was penetrating.</p> + +<p>And that bulky form now moved because a dream had +come to trouble it. A dark figure stole across its confused +field of vision. The form started, but it did not wake. +The figure spoke: “Take this,” it whispered, handing +a little stick, curiously carved. “It is the totem of great +Ishtot. In the valley all memory of the White Gods will +leave you. Call upon Ishtot.... Call on Him if you dare”; +and the dark figure glided away out of the dream and out +of all remembrance....</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>The first thing Grimwood noticed when he woke was +that Tooshalli was not there. No fire burned, no tea was +ready. He felt exceedingly annoyed. He glared about +him, then got up with a curse to make the fire. His +mind seemed confused and troubled. At first he only +realized one thing clearly—his guide had left him in the +night.</p> + +<p>It was very cold. He lit the wood with difficulty and +made his tea, and the actual world came gradually back +to him. The Red Indian had gone; perhaps the blow, +perhaps the superstitious terror, perhaps both, had driven +him away. He was alone, that was the outstanding fact. +For anything beyond outstanding facts, Grimwood felt +little interest. Imaginative speculation was beyond his +compass. Close to the brute creation, it seemed, his nature +lay.</p> + +<p>It was while packing his blankets—he did it automatically, +a dull, vicious resentment in him—that his +fingers struck a bit of wood that he was about to throw +away when its unusual shape caught his attention suddenly. +His odd dream came back then. But was it a +dream? The bit of wood was undoubtedly a totem stick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +He examined it. He paid it more attention than he meant +to, wished to. Yes, it was unquestionably a totem stick. +The dream, then, was not a dream. Tooshalli had quit, +but, following with Redskin faithfulness some code of his +own, had left him the means of safety. He chuckled +sourly, but thrust the stick inside his belt. “One never +knows,” he mumbled to himself.</p> + +<p>He faced the situation squarely. He was alone in the +wilderness. His capable, experienced woodsman had deserted +him. The situation was serious. What should he +do? A weakling would certainly retrace his steps, following +the track they had made, afraid to be left alone in this +vast hinterland of pathless forest. But Grimwood was +of another build. Alarmed he might be, but he would +not give in. He had the defects of his own qualities. The +brutality of his nature argued force. He was determined +and a sportsman. He would go on. And ten minutes +after breakfast, having first made a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cache</i> of what provisions +were left over, he was on his way—down across the +ridge and into the mysterious valley, the Valley of the +Beasts.</p> + +<p>It looked, in the morning sunlight, entrancing. The +trees closed in behind him, but he did not notice. It led +him on....</p> + +<p>He followed the track of the gigantic moose he meant +to kill, and the sweet, delicious sunshine helped him. The +air was like wine, the seductive spoor of the great beast, +with here and there a faint splash of blood on leaves or +ground, lay forever just before his eyes. He found the +valley, though the actual word did not occur to him, enticing; +more and more he noticed the beauty, the desolate +grandeur of the mighty spruce and hemlock, the splendour +of the granite bluffs which in places rose above the +forest and caught the sun.... The valley was deeper, +vaster than he had imagined. He felt safe, at home in it, +though, again these actual terms did not occur to him.... Here +he could hide for ever and find peace.... He became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +aware of a new quality in the deep loneliness. The +scenery for the first time in his life appealed to him, and +the form of the appeal was curious—he felt the comfort +of it.</p> + +<p>For a man of his habit, this was odd, yet the new +sensations stole over him so gently, their approach so +gradual, that they were first recognized by his consciousness +indirectly. They had already established themselves +in him before he noticed them; and the indirectness took +this form—that the passion of the chase gave place to +an interest in the valley itself. The lust of the hunt, the +fierce desire to find and kill, the keen wish, in a word, +to see his quarry within range, to aim, to fire, to witness +the natural consummation of the long expedition—these +had all become measurably less, while the effect of the +valley upon him had increased in strength. There was a +welcome about it that he did not understand.</p> + +<p>The change was singular, yet, oddly enough, it did +not occur to him as singular; it was unnatural, yet it +did not strike him so. To a dull mind of his unobservant, +unanalytical type, a change had to be marked and dramatic +before he noticed it; something in the nature of a shock +must accompany it for him to recognize it had happened. +And there had been no shock. The spoor of the great +moose was much cleaner, now that he caught up with the +animal that made it; the blood more frequent; he had +noticed the spot where it had rested, its huge body leaving +a marked imprint on the soft ground; where it had +reached up to eat the leaves of saplings here and there +was also visible; he had come undoubtedly very near to it, +and any minute now might see its great bulk within range +of an easy shot. Yet his ardour had somehow lessened.</p> + +<p>He first realized this change in himself when it suddenly +occurred to him that the animal itself had grown +less cautious. It must scent him easily now, since a moose, +its sight being indifferent, depends chiefly for its safety +upon its unusually keen sense of smell, and the wind came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +from behind him. This now struck him as decidedly uncommon: +the moose itself was obviously careless of his +close approach. It felt no fear.</p> + +<p>It was this inexplicable alteration in the animal’s behaviour +that made him recognize, at last, the alteration +in his own. He had followed it now for a couple of hours +and had descended some eight hundred to a thousand feet; +the trees were thinner and more sparsely placed; there +were open, park-like places where silver birch, sumach +and maple splashed their blazing colours; and a crystal +stream, broken by many waterfalls, foamed past towards +the bed of the great valley, yet another thousand feet +below. By a quiet pool against some over-arching rocks, +the moose had evidently paused to drink, paused at its +leisure, moreover. Grimwood, rising from a close examination +of the direction the creature had taken after drinking—the +hoof-marks were fresh and very distinct in the +marshy ground about the pool—looked suddenly straight +into the great creature’s eyes. It was not twenty yards +from where he stood, yet he had been standing on that +spot for at least ten minutes, caught by the wonder and +loneliness of the scene. The moose, therefore, had been +close beside him all this time. It had been calmly drinking, +undisturbed by his presence, unafraid.</p> + +<p>The shock came now, the shock that woke his heavy +nature into realization. For some seconds, probably for +minutes, he stood rooted to the ground, motionless, hardly +breathing. He stared as though he saw a vision. The +animal’s head was lowered, but turned obliquely somewhat, +so that the eyes, placed sideways in its great head, +could see him properly; its immense proboscis hung as +though stuffed upon an English wall; he saw the fore-feet +planted wide apart, the slope of the enormous +shoulders dropping back towards the fine hind-quarters +and lean flanks. It was a magnificent bull. The horns +and head justified his wildest expectations, they were +superb, a record specimen, and a phrase—where had he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +heard it?—ran vaguely, as from far distance, through his +mind: “the biggest moose in the world.”</p> + +<p>There was the extraordinary fact, however, that he +did not shoot; nor feel the wish to shoot. The familiar +instinct, so strong hitherto in his blood, made no sign; +the desire to kill apparently had left him. To raise his +rifle, aim and fire had become suddenly an absolute impossibility.</p> + +<p>He did not move. The animal and the human stared +into each other’s eyes for a length of time whose interval +he could not measure. Then came a soft noise close beside +him: the rifle had slipped from his grasp and fallen +with a thud into the mossy earth at his feet. And the +moose, for the first time now, was moving. With slow, +easy stride, its great weight causing a squelching sound +as the feet drew out of the moist ground, it came towards +him, the bulk of the shoulders giving it an appearance +of swaying like a ship at sea. It reached his side, it +almost touched him, the magnificent head bent low, the +spread of the gigantic horns lay beneath his very eyes. +He could have patted, stroked it. He saw, with a touch +of pity, that blood trickled from a sore in its left shoulder, +matting the thick hair. It sniffed the fallen rifle.</p> + +<p>Then, lifting its head and shoulders again, it sniffed +the air, this time with an audible sound that shook from +Grimwood’s mind the last possibility that he witnessed a +vision or dreamed a dream. One moment it gazed into +his face, its big brown eyes shining and unafraid, then +turned abruptly, and swung away at a speed ever rapidly +increasing across the park-like spaces till it was lost finally +among the dark tangle of undergrowth beyond. And the +Englishman’s muscles turned to paper, his paralysis passed, +his legs refused to support his weight, and he sank heavily +to the ground....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>It seems he slept, slept long and heavily; he sat up, +stretched himself, yawned and rubbed his eyes. The sun +had moved across the sky, for the shadows, he saw, now +ran from west to east, and they were long shadows. He +had slept evidently for hours, and evening was drawing +in. He was aware that he felt hungry. In his pouchlike +pockets, he had dried meat, sugar, matches, tea, and +the little billy that never left him. He would make a fire, +boil some tea and eat.</p> + +<p>But he took no steps to carry out his purpose, he felt +disinclined to move, he sat thinking, thinking.... What +was he thinking about? He did not know, he could not +say exactly; it was more like fugitive pictures that passed +across his mind. Who, and where, was he? This was +the Valley of the Beasts, that he knew; he felt sure of +nothing else. How long had he been here, and where had +he come from, and why? The questions did not linger for +their answers, almost as though his interest in them was +merely automatic. He felt happy, peaceful, unafraid.</p> + +<p>He looked about him, and the spell of this virgin forest +came upon him like a charm; only the sound of falling +water, the murmur of wind sighing among innumerable +branches, broke the enveloping silence. Overhead, beyond +the crests of the towering trees, a cloudless evening sky +was paling into transparent orange, opal, mother of pearl. +He saw buzzards soaring lazily. A scarlet tanager flashed +by. Soon would the owls begin to call and the darkness +fall like a sweet black veil and hide all detail, while the +stars sparkled in their countless thousands....</p> + +<p>A glint of something that shone upon the ground caught +his eye—a smooth, polished strip of rounded metal: his +rifle. And he started to his feet impulsively, yet not +knowing exactly what he meant to do. At the sight of +the weapon, something had leaped to life in him, then +faded out, died down, and was gone again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I’m—I’m——” he began muttering to himself, but +could not finish what he was about to say. His name had +disappeared completely. “I’m in the Valley of the Beasts,” +he repeated in place of what he sought but could not find.</p> + +<p>This fact, that he was in the Valley of the Beasts, +seemed the only positive item of knowledge that he had. +About the name something known and familiar clung, +though the sequence that led up to it he could not trace. +Presently, nevertheless, he rose to his feet, advanced a +few steps, stooped and picked up the shining metal thing, +his rifle. He examined it a moment, a feeling of dread +and loathing rising in him, a sensation of almost horror +that made him tremble, then, with a convulsive movement +that betrayed an intense reaction of some sort he could not +comprehend, he flung the thing far from him into the +foaming torrent. He saw the splash it made, he also saw +that same instant a large grizzly bear swing heavily along +the bank not a dozen yards from where he stood. It, too, +heard the splash, for it started, turned, paused a second, +then changed its direction and came towards him. It +came up close. Its fur brushed his body. It examined +him leisurely, as the moose had done, sniffed, half rose +upon its terrible hind legs, opened its mouth so that red +tongue and gleaming teeth were plainly visible, then +flopped back upon all fours again with a deep growling +that yet had no anger in it, and swung off at a quick trot +back to the bank of the torrent. He had felt its hot +breath upon his face, but he had felt no fear. The monster +was puzzled but not hostile. It disappeared.</p> + +<p>“They know not——” he sought for the word “man,” +but could not find it. “They have never been hunted.”</p> + +<p>The words ran through his mind, if perhaps he was not +entirely certain of their meaning; they rose, as it were, +automatically; a familiar sound lay in them somewhere. +At the same time there rose feelings in him that were +equally, though in another way, familiar and quite natural,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +feelings he had once known intimately but long since laid +aside.</p> + +<p>What were they? What was their origin? They +seemed distant as the stars, yet were actually in his body, +in his blood and nerves, part and parcel of his flesh. Long, +long ago.... Oh, how long, how long?</p> + +<p>Thinking was difficult; feeling was what he most easily +and naturally managed. He could not think for long; feeling +rose up and drowned the effort quickly.</p> + +<p>That huge and awful bear—not a nerve, not a muscle +quivered in him as its acrid smell rose to his nostrils, its +fur brushed down his legs. Yet he was aware that somewhere +there was danger, though not here. Somewhere +there was attack, hostility, wicked and calculated plans +against him—as against that splendid, roaming animal +that had sniffed, examined, then gone its own way, satisfied. +Yes, active attack, hostility and careful, cruel plans +against his safety, but—not here. Here he was safe, +secure, at peace; here he was happy; here he could roam +at will, no eye cast sideways into forest depths, no ear +pricked high to catch sounds not explained, no nostrils +quivering to scent alarm. He felt this, but he did not +think it. He felt hungry, thirsty too.</p> + +<p>Something prompted him now at last to act. His billy +lay at his feet, and he picked it up; the matches—he +carried them in a metal case whose screw top kept out all +moisture—were in his hand. Gathering a few dry twigs, +he stooped to light them, then suddenly drew back with +the first touch of fear he had yet known.</p> + +<p>Fire! What <em>was</em> fire? The idea was repugnant to +him, it was impossible, he was afraid of fire. He flung +the metal case after the rifle and saw it gleam in the last +rays of sunset, then sink with a little splash beneath the +water. Glancing down at his billy, he realized next that +he could not make use of it either, nor of the dark dry +dusty stuff he had meant to boil in water. He felt no +repugnance, certainly no fear, in connexion with these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +things, only he could not handle them, he did not need +them, he had forgotten, yes, “forgotten,” what they meant +exactly. This strange forgetfulness was increasing in him +rapidly, becoming more and more complete with every +minute. Yet his thirst must be quenched.</p> + +<p>The next moment he found himself at the water’s edge; +he stooped to fill his billy; paused, hesitated, examined +the rushing water, then abruptly moved a few feet higher +up the stream, leaving the metal can behind him. His +handling of it had been oddly clumsy, his gestures awkward, +even unnatural. He now flung himself down with +an easy, simple motion of his entire body, lowered his +face to a quiet pool he had found, and drank his fill of the +cool, refreshing liquid. But, though unaware of the fact, +he did not drink. He lapped.</p> + +<p>Then, crouching where he was, he ate the meat and +sugar from his pockets, lapped more water, moved back a +short distance again into the dry ground beneath the trees, +but moved this time without rising to his feet, curled his +body into a comfortable position and closed his eyes again +to sleep.... No single question now raised its head in +him. He felt contentment, satisfaction only....</p> + +<p>He stirred, shook himself, opened half an eye and saw, +as he had felt already in slumber, that he was not alone. +In the park-like spaces in front of him, as in the shadowed +fringe of the trees at his back, there was sound and movement, +the sound of stealthy feet, the movement of innumerable +dark bodies. There was the pad and tread of animals, +the stir of backs, of smooth and shaggy beasts, in countless +numbers. Upon this host fell the light of a half +moon sailing high in a cloudless sky; the gleam of stars, +sparkling in the clear night air like diamonds, shone +reflected in hundreds of ever-shifting eyes, most of them +but a few feet above the ground. The whole valley was +alive.</p> + +<p>He sat upon his haunches, staring, staring, but staring +in wonder, not in fear, though the foremost of the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +host were so near that he could have stretched an arm and +touched them. It was an ever-moving, ever-shifting +throng he gazed at, spell-bound, in the pale light of moon +and stars, now fading slowly towards the approaching +dawn. And the smell of the forest itself was not sweeter +to him in that moment than the mingled perfume, raw, +pungent, acrid, of this furry host of beautiful wild animals +that moved like a sea, with a strange murmuring, too, +like sea, as the myriad feet and bodies passed to and fro +together. Nor was the gleam of the starry, phosphorescent +eyes less pleasantly friendly than those happy lamps that +light home-lost wanderers to cosy rooms and safety. +Through the wild army, in a word, poured to him the deep +comfort of the entire valley, a comfort which held both the +sweetness of invitation and the welcome of some magical +home-coming.</p> + +<p>No thoughts came to him, but feeling rose in a tide of +wonder and acceptance. He was in his rightful place. +His nature had come home. There was this dim, vague +consciousness in him that after long, futile straying in +another place where uncongenial conditions had forced him +to be unnatural and therefore terrible, he had returned +at last where he belonged. Here, in the Valley of the +Beasts, he had found peace, security and happiness. He +would be—he was at last—himself.</p> + +<p>It was a marvellous, even a magical, scene he watched, +his nerves at highest tension yet quite steady, his senses +exquisitely alert, yet no uneasiness in the full, accurate +reports they furnished. Strong as some deep flood-tide, +yet dim, as with untold time and distance, rose over him +the spell of long-forgotten memory of a state where he +was content and happy, where he was natural. The outlines, +as it were, of mighty, primitive pictures, flashed +before him, yet were gone again before the detail was +filled in.</p> + +<p>He watched the great army of the animals, they were +all about him now; he crouched upon his haunches in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +centre of an ever-moving circle of wild forest life. Great +timber wolves he saw pass to and fro, loping past him +with long stride and graceful swing; their red tongues +lolling out; they swarmed in hundreds. Behind, yet +mingling freely with them, rolled the huge grizzlies, not +clumsy as their uncouth bodies promised, but swiftly, +lightly, easily, their half tumbling gait masking agility +and speed. They gambolled, sometimes they rose and stood +half upright, they were comely in their mass and power, +they rolled past him so close that he could touch them. +And the black bear and the brown went with them, bears +beyond counting, monsters and little ones, a splendid multitude. +Beyond them, yet only a little further back, where +the park-like spaces made free movement easier, rose a +sea of horns and antlers like a miniature forest in the +silvery moonlight. The immense tribe of deer gathered in +vast throngs beneath the starlit sky. Moose and caribou, +he saw, the mighty wapiti, and the smaller deer in their +crowding thousands. He heard the sound of meeting +horns, the tread of innumerable hoofs, the occasional pawing +of the ground as the bigger creatures manœuvred for +more space about them. A wolf, he saw, was licking gently +at the shoulder of a great bull-moose that had been injured. +And the tide receded, advanced again, once more +receded, rising and falling like a living sea whose waves +were animal shapes, the inhabitants of the Valley of the +Beasts.</p> + +<p>Beneath the quiet moonlight they swayed to and fro +before him. They watched him, knew him, recognized +him. They made him welcome.</p> + +<p>He was aware, moreover, of a world of smaller life that +formed an under-sea, as it were, numerous under-currents +rather, running in and out between the great upright legs +of the larger creatures. These, though he could not see +them clearly, covered the earth, he was aware, in enormous +numbers, darting hither and thither, now hiding, now reappearing, +too intent upon their busy purposes to pay him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +attention like their huger comrades, yet ever and anon +tumbling against his back, cannoning from his sides, +scampering across his legs even, then gone again with a +scuttering sound of rapid little feet, and rushing back into +the general host beyond. And with this smaller world also +he felt at home.</p> + +<p>How long he sat gazing, happy in himself, secure, satisfied, +contented, natural, he could not say, but it was long +enough for the desire to mingle with what he saw, to know +closer contact, to become one with them all—long enough +for this deep blind desire to assert itself, so that at length +he began to move from his mossy seat towards them, to +move, moreover, as they moved, and not upright on two +feet.</p> + +<p>The moon was lower now, just sinking behind a towering +cedar whose ragged crest broke its light into silvery +spray. The stars were a little paler too. A line of faint +red was visible beyond the heights at the valley’s eastern +end.</p> + +<p>He paused and looked about him, as he advanced +slowly, aware that the host already made an opening in +their ranks and that the bear even nosed the earth in front, +as though to show the way that was easiest for him to +follow. Then, suddenly, a lynx leaped past him into the +low branches of a hemlock, and he lifted his head to admire +its perfect poise. He saw in the same instant the arrival +of the birds, the army of the eagles, hawks and buzzards, +birds of prey—the awakening flight that just precedes the +dawn. He saw the flocks and streaming lines, hiding the +whitening stars a moment as they passed with a prodigious +whirr of wings. There came the hooting of an owl +from the tree immediately overhead where the lynx now +crouched, but not maliciously, along its branch.</p> + +<p>He started. He half rose to an upright position. He +knew not why he did so, knew not exactly why he started. +But in the attempt to find his new, and, as it now seemed, +his unaccustomed balance, one hand fell against his side<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +and came in contact with a hard straight thing that projected +awkwardly from his clothing. He pulled it out, +feeling it all over with his fingers. It was a little stick. +He raised it nearer to his eyes, examined it in the light +of dawn now growing swiftly, remembered, or half remembered +what it was—and stood stock still.</p> + +<p>“The totem stick,” he mumbled to himself, yet audibly, +finding his speech, and finding another thing—a glint of +peering memory—for the first time since entering the +valley.</p> + +<p>A shock like fire ran through his body; he straightened +himself, aware that a moment before he had been crawling +upon his hands and knees; it seemed that something broke +in his brain, lifting a veil, flinging a shutter free. And +Memory peered dreadfully through the widening gap.</p> + +<p>“I’m—I’m Grimwood,” his voice uttered, though below +his breath. “Tooshalli’s left me. I’m alone...!”</p> + +<p>He was aware of a sudden change in the animals surrounding +him. A big, grey wolf sat three feet away, glaring +into his face; at its side an enormous grizzly swayed +itself from one foot to the other; behind it, as if looking +over its shoulder, loomed a gigantic wapiti, its horns +merged in the shadows of the drooping cedar boughs. But +the northern dawn was nearer, the sun already close to the +horizon. He saw details with sharp distinctness now. +The great bear rose, balancing a moment on its massive +hind-quarters, then took a step towards him, its front +paws spread like arms. Its wicked head lolled horribly, +as a huge bull-moose, lowering its horns as if about to +charge, came up with a couple of long strides and joined +it. A sudden excitement ran quivering over the entire +host; the distant ranks moved in a new, unpleasant way; +a thousand heads were lifted, ears were pricked, a forest +of ugly muzzles pointed up to the wind.</p> + +<p>And the Englishman, beside himself suddenly with a +sense of ultimate terror that saw no possible escape, stiffened +and stood rigid. The horror of his position petrified<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +him. Motionless and silent he faced the awful army of +his enemies, while the white light of breaking day added +fresh ghastliness to the scene which was the setting for his +cruel death in the Valley of the Beasts.</p> + +<p>Above him crouched the hideous lynx, ready to spring +the instant he sought safety in the tree; above it again, +he was aware of a thousand talons of steel, fierce hooked +beaks of iron, and the angry beating of prodigious wings.</p> + +<p>He reeled, for the grizzly touched his body with its +outstretched paw; the wolf crouched just before its deadly +spring; in another second he would have been torn to +pieces, crushed, devoured, when terror, operating naturally +as ever, released the muscles of his throat and tongue. +He shouted with what he believed was his last breath on +earth. He called aloud in his frenzy. It was a prayer to +whatever gods there be, it was an anguished cry for help +to heaven.</p> + +<p>“Ishtot! Great Ishtot, help me!” his voice rang out, +while his hand still clutched the forgotten totem stick.</p> + +<p>And the Red Heaven heard him.</p> + +<p>Grimwood that same instant was aware of a presence +that, but for his terror of the beasts, must have frightened +him into sheer unconsciousness. A gigantic Red Indian +stood before him. Yet, while the figure rose close in front +of him, causing the birds to settle and the wild animals +to crouch quietly where they stood, it rose also from a +great distance, for it seemed to fill the entire valley with +its influence, its power, its amazing majesty. In some +way, moreover, that he could not understand, its vast +appearance included the actual valley itself with all its +trees, its running streams, its open spaces and its rocky +bluffs. These marked its outline, as it were, the outline +of a superhuman shape. There was a mighty bow, there +was a quiver of enormous arrows, there was this Redskin +figure to whom they belonged.</p> + +<p>Yet the appearance, the outline, the face and figure too—these +<em>were</em> the valley; and when the voice became audible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +it was the valley itself that uttered the appalling words. +It was the voice of trees and wind, and of running, falling +water that woke the echoes in the Valley of the Beasts, +as, in that same moment, the sun topped the ridge and +filled the scene, the outline of the majestic figure too, with +a flood of dazzling light:</p> + +<p>“You have shed blood in this my valley.... <em>I will +not save</em>...!”</p> + +<p>The figure melted away into the sunlit forest, merging +with the new-born day. But Grimwood saw close against +his face the shining teeth, hot fetid breath passed over +his cheeks, a power enveloped his whole body as though +a mountain crushed him. He closed his eyes. He fell. +A sharp, crackling sound passed through his brain, but +already unconscious, he did not hear it.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>His eyes opened again, and the first thing they took +in was—fire. He shrank back instinctively.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, old man. We’ll bring you round. +Nothing to be frightened about.” He saw the face of Iredale +looking down into his own. Behind Iredale stood +Tooshalli. His face was swollen. Grimwood remembered +the blow. The big man began to cry.</p> + +<p>“Painful still, is it?” Iredale said sympathetically. +“Here, swallow a little more of this. It’ll set you right +in no time.”</p> + +<p>Grimwood gulped down the spirit. He made a violent +effort to control himself, but was unable to keep the tears +back. He felt no pain. It was his heart that ached, +though why or wherefore, he had no idea.</p> + +<p>“I’m all to pieces,” he mumbled, ashamed yet somehow +not ashamed. “My nerves are rotten. What’s happened?” +There was as yet no memory in him.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been hugged by a bear, old man. But no +bones broken. Tooshalli saved you. He fired in the nick +of time—a brave shot, for he might easily have hit you +instead of the brute.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> + +<p>“The other brute,” whispered Grimwood, as the whisky +worked in him and memory came slowly back.</p> + +<p>“Where are we?” he asked presently, looking about +him.</p> + +<p>He saw a lake, canoes drawn up on the shore, two +tents, and figures moving. Iredale explained matters +briefly, then left him to sleep a bit. Tooshalli, it appeared, +travelling without rest, had reached Iredale’s camping +ground twenty-four hours after leaving his employer. He +found it deserted, Iredale and his Indian being on the +hunt. When they returned at nightfall, he had explained +his presence in his brief native fashion: “He struck me +and I quit. He hunt now alone in Ishtot’s Valley of the +Beasts. He is dead, I think. I come to tell you.”</p> + +<p>Iredale and his guide, with Tooshalli as leader, started +off then and there, but Grimwood had covered a considerable +distance, though leaving an easy track to follow. It +was the moose tracks and the blood that chiefly guided +them. They came up with him suddenly enough—in the +grip of an enormous bear.</p> + +<p>It was Tooshalli that fired.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The Indian lives now in easy circumstances, all his +needs cared for, while Grimwood, his benefactor but no +longer his employer, has given up hunting. He is a quiet, +easy-tempered, almost gentle sort of fellow, and people +wonder rather why he hasn’t married. “Just the fellow +to make a good father,” is what they say; “so kind, good-natured +and affectionate.” Among his pipes, in a glass +case over the mantlepiece, hangs a totem stick. He declares +it saved his soul, but what he means by the expression +he has never quite explained.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>VII<br /> +<br /> +THE CALL</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> incident—story it never was, perhaps—began +tamely, almost meanly; it ended upon a note of +strange, unearthly wonder that has haunted him ever since. +In Headley’s memory, at any rate, it stands out as the +loveliest, the most amazing thing he ever witnessed. Other +emotions, too, contributed to the vividness of the picture. +That he had felt jealousy towards his old pal, Arthur +Deane, shocked him in the first place; it seemed impossible +until it actually happened. But that the jealousy +was proved afterwards to have been without a cause shocked +him still more. He felt ashamed and miserable.</p> + +<p>For him, the actual incident began when he received +a note from Mrs. Blondin asking him to the Priory for a +week-end, or for longer, if he could manage it.</p> + +<p>Captain Arthur Deane, she mentioned, was staying +with her at the moment, and a warm welcome awaited +him. Iris she did not mention—Iris Manning, the interesting +and beautiful girl for whom it was well known +he had a considerable weakness. He found a good-sized +house party; there was fishing in the little Sussex river, +tennis, golf not far away, while two motor cars brought +the remoter country across the downs into easy reach. Also +there was a bit of duck shooting for those who cared to +wake at 3 a. m. and paddle up-stream to the marshes where +the birds were feeding.</p> + +<p>“Have you brought your gun?” was the first thing +Arthur said to him when he arrived. “Like a fool, I left +mine in town.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you haven’t,” put in Miss Manning; “because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +if you have I must get up one fine morning at three +o’clock.” She laughed merrily, and there was an undernote +of excitement in the laugh.</p> + +<p>Captain Headley showed his surprise. “That you were +a Diana had escaped my notice, I’m ashamed to say,” he +replied lightly. “Yet I’ve known you some years, haven’t +I?” He looked straight at her, and the soft yet searching +eye, turning from his friend, met his own securely. +She was appraising him, for the hundreth time, and he, +for the hundreth time, was thinking how pretty she was, +and wondering how long the prettiness would last after +marriage.</p> + +<p>“I’m not,” he heard her answer. “That’s just it. But +I’ve promised.”</p> + +<p>“Rather!” said Arthur gallantly. “And I shall hold +you to it,” he added still more gallantly—too gallantly, +Headley thought. “I couldn’t possibly get up at cockcrow +without a very special inducement, could I, now? +You know me, Dick!”</p> + +<p>“Well, anyhow, I’ve brought my gun,” Headley replied +evasively, “so you’ve no excuse, either of you. You’ll +have to go.” And while they were laughing and chattering +about it, Mrs. Blondin clinched the matter for them. +Provisions were hard to come by; the larder really needed +a brace or two of birds; it was the least they could do in +return for what she called amusingly her “Armistice hospitality.”</p> + +<p>“So I expect you to get up at three,” she chaffed +them, “and return with your Victory birds.”</p> + +<p>It was from this preliminary skirmish over the tea-table +on the law five minutes after his arrival that Dick +Headley realized easily enough the little game in progress. +As a man of experience, just on the wrong side of forty, +it was not difficult to see the cards each held. He sighed. +Had he guessed an intrigue was on foot he would not +have come, yet he might have known that wherever his +hostess was, there were the vultures gathered together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +Matchmaker by choice and instinct, Mrs. Blondin could +not help herself. True to her name, she was always balancing +on matrimonial tightropes—for others.</p> + +<p><em>Her</em> cards, at any rate, were obvious enough; she had +laid them on the table for him. He easily read her hand. +The next twenty-four hours confirmed this reading. Having +made up her mind that Iris and Arthur were destined +for each other, she had grown impatient; they had been +ten days together, yet Iris was still free. They were good +friends only. With calculation, she, therefore, took a step +that must bring things further. She invited Dick Headley, +whose weakness for the girl was common knowledge. +The card was indicated; she played it. Arthur must come +to the point or see another man carry her off. This, at +least, she planned, little dreaming that the dark King of +Spades would interfere.</p> + +<p>Miss Manning’s hand also was fairly obvious, for both +men were extremely eligible <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">partis</i>. She was getting on; +one or other was to become her husband before the party +broke up. This, in crude language, was certainly in her +cards, though, being a nice and charming girl, she might +camouflage it cleverly to herself and others. Her eyes, +on each man in turn when the shooting expedition was +being discussed, revealed her part in the little intrigue +clearly enough. It was all, thus far, as commonplace as +could be.</p> + +<p>But there were two more hands Headley had to read—his +own and his friend’s; and these, he admitted +honestly, were not so easy. To take his own first. It was +true he was fond of the girl and had often tried to make +up his mind to ask her. Without being conceited, he had +good reason to believe his affection was returned and that +she would accept him. There was no ecstatic love on +either side, for he was no longer a boy of twenty, nor +was she unscathed by tempestuous love affairs that had +scorched the first bloom from her face and heart. But +they understood one another; they were an honest couple;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +she was tired of flirting; both wanted to marry and settle +down. Unless a better man turned up she probably would +say “Yes” without humbug or delay. It was this last reflection +that brought him to the final hand he had to read.</p> + +<p>Here he was puzzled. Arthur Deane’s rôle in the teacup +strategy, for the first time since they had known one +another, seemed strange, uncertain. Why? Because, +though paying no attention to the girl openly, he met her +clandestinely, unknown to the rest of the house-party, and +above all without telling his intimate pal—at three o’clock +in the morning.</p> + +<p>The house-party was in full swing, with a touch of +that wild, reckless gaiety which followed the end of the +war: “Let us be happy before a worse thing comes upon +us,” was in many hearts. After a crowded day they danced +till early in the morning, while doubtful weather prevented +the early shooting expedition after duck. The third night +Headley contrived to disappear early to bed. He lay +there thinking. He was puzzled over his friend’s rôle, over +the clandestine meeting in particular. It was the morning +before, waking very early, he had been drawn to the +window by an unusual sound—the cry of a bird. Was it +a bird? In all his experience he had never heard such +a curious, half-singing call before. He listened a moment, +thinking it must have been a dream, yet with the odd cry +still ringing in his ears. It was repeated close beneath his +open window, a long, low-pitched cry with three distinct +following notes in it.</p> + +<p>He sat up in bed and listened hard. No bird that he +knew could make such sounds. But it was not repeated +a third time, and out of sheer curiosity he went to the +window and looked out. Dawn was creeping over the +distant downs; he saw their outline in the grey pearly +light; he saw the lawn below, stretching down to the +little river at the bottom, where a curtain of faint mist +hung in the air. And on this lawn he also saw Arthur +Deane—with Iris Manning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of course, he reflected, they were going after the duck. +He turned to look at his watch; it was three o’clock. The +same glance, however, showed him his gun standing in +the corner. So they were going without a gun. A sharp +pang of unexpected jealousy shot through him. He was +just going to shout out something or other, wishing them +good luck, or asking if they had found another gun, perhaps, +when a cold touch crept down his spine. The same +instant his heart contracted. Deane had followed the girl +into the summer-house, which stood on the right. It was +<em>not</em> the shooting expedition at all. Arthur was meeting +her for another purpose. The blood flowed back, filling his +head. He felt an eavesdropper, a sneak, a detective; but, +for all that, he felt also jealous. And his jealousy seemed +chiefly because Arthur had not told him.</p> + +<p>Of this, then, he lay thinking in bed on the third +night. The following day he had said nothing, but had +crossed the corridor and put the gun in his friend’s room. +Arthur, for his part, had said nothing either. For the +first time in their long, long friendship, there lay a secret +between them. To Headley the unexpected revelation came +with pain.</p> + +<p>For something like a quarter of a century these two +had been bosom friends; they had camped together, been +in the army together, taken their pleasure together, each +the full confidant of the other in all the things that go +to make up men’s lives. Above all, Headley had been the +one and only recipient of Arthur’s unhappy love story. +He knew the girl, knew his friend’s deep passion, and +also knew his terrible pain when she was lost at sea. +Arthur was burnt out, finished, out of the running, so far +as marriage was concerned. He was not a man to love a +second time. It was a great and poignant tragedy. Headley, +as confidant, knew all. But more than that—Arthur, +on his side, knew his friend’s weakness for Iris Manning, +knew that a marriage was still possible and likely between +them. They were true as steel to one another, and each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +man, oddly enough, had once saved the other’s life, thus +adding to the strength of a great natural tie.</p> + +<p>Yet now one of them, feigning innocence by day, even +indifference, secretly met his friend’s girl by night, and +kept the matter to himself. It seemed incredible. With +his own eyes Headley had seen him on the lawn, passing +in the faint grey light through the mist into the summer-house, +where the girl had just preceded him. He had not +seen her face, but he had seen the skirt sweep round the +corner of the wooden pillar. He had not waited to see +them come out again.</p> + +<p>So he now lay wondering what rôle his old friend was +playing in this little intrigue that their hostess, Mrs. Blondin, +helped to stage. And, oddly enough, one minor detail +stayed in his mind with a curious vividness. As naturalist, +hunter, nature-lover, the cry of that strange bird, with +its three mournful notes, perplexed him exceedingly.</p> + +<p>A knock came at his door, and the door pushed open +before he had time to answer. Deane himself came in.</p> + +<p>“Wise man,” he exclaimed in an easy tone, “got off +to bed. Iris was asking where you were.” He sat down +on the edge of the mattress, where Headley was lying +with a cigarette and an open book he had not read. The +old sense of intimacy and comradeship rose in the latter’s +heart. Doubt and suspicion faded. He prized his great +friendship. He met the familiar eyes. “Impossible,” he +said to himself, “absolutely impossible! He’s not playing +a game; he’s not a rotter!” He pushed over his +cigarette case, and Arthur lighted one.</p> + +<p>“Done in,” he remarked shortly, with the first puff. +“Can’t stand it any more. I’m off to town to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Headley stared in amazement. “Fed up already?” he +asked. “Why, I rather like it. It’s quite amusing. What’s +wrong, old man?”</p> + +<p>“This match-making,” said Deane bluntly. “Always +throwing that girl at my head. If it’s not the duck-shooting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +stunt at 3 a. m., it’s something else. She doesn’t care +for me and I don’t care for her. Besides——”</p> + +<p>He stopped, and the expression of his face changed +suddenly. A sad, quiet look of tender yearning came into +his clear brown eyes.</p> + +<p>“<em>You</em> know, Dick,” he went on in a low, half-reverent +tone. “I don’t want to marry. I never can.”</p> + +<p>Dick’s heart stirred within him. “Mary,” he said, +understandingly.</p> + +<p>The other nodded, as though the memories were still +too much for him. “I’m still miserably lonely for her,” +he said. “Can’t help it simply. I feel utterly lost without +her. Her memory to me is everything.” He looked +deep into his pal’s eyes. “I’m married to that,” he added +very firmly.</p> + +<p>They pulled their cigarettes a moment in silence. They +belonged to the male type that conceals emotion behind +schoolboy language.</p> + +<p>“It’s hard luck,” said Headley gently, “rotten luck, +old man, I understand.” Arthur’s head nodded several +times in succession as he smoked. He made no remark +for some minutes. Then presently he said, as though it +had no particular importance—for thus old friends show +frankness to each other—“Besides, anyhow, it’s you the +girl’s dying for, not me. She’s blind as a bat, old Blondin. +Even when I’m with her—thrust with her by that +old matchmaker for my sins—it’s you she talks about. All +the talk leads up to you and yours. She’s devilish fond +of you.” He paused a moment and looked searchingly +into his friend’s face. “I say, old man—are you—I mean, +do you mean business there? Because—excuse me interfering—but +you’d better be careful. She’s a good sort, +you know, after all.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Arthur, I do like her a bit,” Dick told him +frankly. “But I can’t make up my mind quite. You see, +it’s like this——”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> + +<p>And they talked the matter over as old friends will, +until finally Arthur chucked his cigarette into the grate +and got up to go. “Dead to the world,” he said, with a +yawn. “I’m off to bed. Give you a chance, too,” he added +with a laugh. It was after midnight.</p> + +<p>The other turned, as though something had suddenly +occurred to him.</p> + +<p>“By the bye, Arthur,” he said abruptly, “what bird +makes this sound? I heard it the other morning. Most +extraordinary cry. You know everything that flies. What +is it?” And, to the best of his ability, he imitated the +strange three-note cry he had heard in the dawn two mornings +before.</p> + +<p>To his amazement and keen distress, his friend, with +a sound like a stifled groan, sat down upon the bed without +a word. He seemed startled. His face was white. +He stared. He passed a hand, as in pain, across his forehead.</p> + +<p>“Do it again,” he whispered, in a hushed, nervous +voice. “Once again—for me.”</p> + +<p>And Headley, looking at him, repeated the queer notes, +a sudden revulsion of feeling rising through him. “He’s +fooling me after all,” ran in his heart, “my old, old +pal——”</p> + +<p>There was silence for a full minute. Then Arthur, +stammering a bit, said lamely, a certain hush in his voice +still: “Where in the world did you hear that—and +<em>when?”</em></p> + +<p>Dick Headley sat up in bed. He was not going to +lose this friendship, which, to him, was more than the love +of woman. He must help. His pal was in distress and +difficulty. There were circumstances, he realized, that +might be too strong for the best man in the world—sometimes. +No, by God, he would play the game and help him +out!</p> + +<p>“Arthur, old chap,” he said affectionately, almost +tenderly. “I heard it two mornings ago—on the lawn below<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +my window here. It woke me up. I—I went to look. +Three in the morning, about.”</p> + +<p>Arthur amazed him then. He first took another cigarette +and lit it steadily. He looked round the room vaguely, +avoiding, it seemed, the other’s eyes. Then he turned, pain +in his face, and gazed straight at him.</p> + +<p>“You saw—nothing?” he asked in a louder voice, but +a voice that had something very real and true in it. It +reminded Headley of the voice he heard when he was +fainting from exhaustion, and Arthur had said, “Take +it, I tell you. I’m all right,” and had passed over the +flask, though his own throat and sight and heart were +black with thirst. It was a voice that had command in +it, a voice that did not lie because it could not—yet did +lie and could lie—when occasion warranted.</p> + +<p>Headley knew a second’s awful struggle.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” he answered quietly, after his little pause. +“Why?”</p> + +<p>For perhaps two minutes his friend hid his face. Then +he looked up.</p> + +<p>“Only,” he whispered, “because that was our secret +lover’s cry. It seems so strange you heard it and not I. +I’ve felt her so close of late—Mary!”</p> + +<p>The white face held very steady, the firm lips did not +tremble, but it was evident that the heart knew anguish +that was deep and poignant. “We used it to call each +other—in the old days. It was our private call. No one +else in the world knew it but Mary and myself.”</p> + +<p>Dick Headley was flabbergasted. He had no time to +think, however.</p> + +<p>“It’s odd you should hear it and not I,” his friend +repeated. He looked hurt, bewildered, wounded. Then +suddenly his face brightened. “I know,” he cried suddenly. +“You and I are pretty good pals. There’s a tie +between us and all that. Why, it’s tel—telepathy, or +whatever they call it. That’s what it is.”</p> + +<p>He got up abruptly. Dick could think of nothing to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +say but to repeat the other’s words. “Of course, of course. +That’s it,” he said, “telepathy.” He stared—anywhere +but at his pal.</p> + +<p>“Night, night!” he heard from the door, and before +he could do more than reply in similar vein Arthur was +gone.</p> + +<p>He lay for a long time, thinking, thinking. He found +it all very strange. Arthur in this emotional state was +new to him. He turned it over and over. Well, he had +known good men behave queerly when wrought up. That +recognition of the bird’s cry was strange, of course, but—he +knew the cry of a bird when he heard it, though he +might not know the actual bird. That was no human +whistle. Arthur was—inventing. No, that was not possible. +He was worked up, then, over something, a bit +hysterical perhaps. It had happened before, though in a +milder way, when his heart attacks came on. They affected +his nerves and head a little, it seemed. He was a deep +sort, Dick remembered. Thought turned and twisted in +him, offering various solutions, some absurd, some likely. +He was a nervous, high-strung fellow underneath, Arthur +was. He remembered that. Also he remembered, anxiously +again, that his heart was not quite sound, though +what that had to do with the present tangle he did not +see.</p> + +<p>Yet it was hardly likely that he would bring in Mary +as an invention, an excuse—Mary, the most sacred memory +in his life, the deepest, truest, best. He had sworn, anyhow, +that Iris Manning meant nothing to him.</p> + +<p>Through all his speculations, behind every thought, +ran this horrid working jealousy. It poisoned him. It +twisted truth. It moved like a wicked snake through mind +and heart. Arthur, gripped by his new, absorbing love +for Iris Manning, lied. He couldn’t believe it, he didn’t +believe it, he wouldn’t believe it—yet jealousy persisted +in keeping the idea alive in him. It was a dreadful +thought. He fell asleep on it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p> + +<p>But his sleep was uneasy with feverish, unpleasant +dreams that rambled on in fragments without coming to +conclusion. Then, suddenly, the cry of the strange bird +came into his dream. He started, turned over, woke up. +The cry still continued. It was not a dream. He jumped +out of bed.</p> + +<p>The room was grey with early morning, the air fresh +and a little chill. The cry came floating over the lawn +as before. He looked out, pain clutching at his heart. +Two figures stood below, a man and a girl, and the man +was Arthur Deane. Yet the light was so dim, the morning +being overcast, that had he not expected to see his +friend, he would scarcely have recognized the familiar form +in that shadowy outline that stood close beside the girl. +Nor could he, perhaps, have recognized Iris Manning. +Their backs were to him. They moved away, disappearing +again into the little summer-house, and this time—he +saw it beyond question—the two were hand in hand. +Vague and uncertain as the figures were in the early twilight, +he was sure of that.</p> + +<p>The first disagreeable sensation of surprise, disgust, +anger that sickened him turned quickly, however, into one +of another kind altogether. A curious feeling of superstitious +dread crept over him, and a shiver ran again along +his nerves.</p> + +<p>“Hallo, Arthur!” he called from the window. There +was no answer. His voice was certainly audible in the +summer-house. But no one came. He repeated the call +a little louder, waited in vain for thirty seconds, then came, +the same moment, to a decision that even surprised himself, +for the truth we he could no longer bear the suspense of +waiting. He must see his friend at once and have it out +with him. He turned and went deliberately down the corridor +to Deane’s bedroom. He would wait there for his +return and know the truth from his own lips. But also +another thought had come—the gun. He had quite forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +it—the safety-catch was out of order. He had not +warned him.</p> + +<p>He found the door closed but not locked; opening it +cautiously, he went in.</p> + +<p>But the unexpectedness of what he saw gave him a +genuine shock. He could hardly suppress a cry. Everything +in the room was neat and orderly, no sign of disturbance +anywhere, and it was not empty. There, in bed, +before his very eyes, was Arthur. The clothes were turned +back a little; he saw the pyjamas open at the throat; he +lay sound asleep, deeply, peacefully asleep.</p> + +<p>So surprised, indeed, was Headley that, after staring +a moment, almost unable to believe his sight, he then put +out a hand and touched him gently, cautiously on the forehead. +But Arthur did not stir or wake; his breathing +remained deep and regular. He lay sleeping like a baby.</p> + +<p>Headley glanced round the room, noticed the gun in +the corner where he himself had put it the day before, and +then went out, closing the door behind him softly.</p> + +<p>Arthur Deane, however, did not leave for London as +he had intended, because he felt unwell and kept to his +room upstairs. It was only a slight attack, apparently, but +he must lie quiet. There was no need to send for a doctor; +he knew just what to do; these passing attacks were common +enough. He would be up and about again very +shortly. Headley kept him company, saying no single +word of what had happened. He read aloud to him, +chatted and cheered him up. He had no other visitors. +Within twenty-four hours he was himself once more. He +and his friend had planned to leave the following day.</p> + +<p>But Headley, that last night in the house, felt an odd +uneasiness and could not sleep. All night long he sat +up reading, looking out of the window, smoking in a +chair where he could see the stars and hear the wind and +watch the huge shadow of the downs. The house lay +very still as the hours passed. He dozed once or twice. +Why did he sit up in this unnecessary way? Why did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +he leave his door ajar so that the slightest sound of another +door opening, or of steps passing along the corridor, +must reach him? Was he anxious for his friend? +Was he suspicious? What was his motive, what his secret +purpose?</p> + +<p>Headley did not know, and could not even explain it +to himself. He felt uneasy, that was all he knew. Not +for worlds would he have let himself go to sleep or lose +full consciousness that night. It was very odd; he could +not understand himself. He merely obeyed a strange, deep +instinct that bade him wait and watch. His nerves were +jumpy; in his heart lay some unexplicable anxiety that +was pain.</p> + +<p>The dawn came slowly; the stars faded one by one; +the line of the downs showed their grand bare curves +against the sky; cool and cloudless the September morning +broke above the little Sussex pleasure house. He sat +and watched the east grow bright. The early wind brought +a scent of marshes and the sea into his room. Then suddenly +it brought a sound as well—the haunting cry of +the bird with its three following notes. And this time +there came an answer.</p> + +<p>Headley knew then why he had sat up. A wave of +emotion swept him as he heard—an emotion he could not +attempt to explain. Dread, wonder, longing seized him. +For some seconds he could not leave his chair because +he did not dare to. The low-pitched cries of call and +answer rang in his ears like some unearthly music. With +an effort he started up, went to the window and looked +out.</p> + +<p>This time the light was sharp and clear. No mist +hung in the air. He saw the crimsoning sky reflected +like a band of shining metal in the reach of river beyond +the lawn. He saw dew on the grass, a sheet of pallid +silver. He saw the summer-house, empty of any passing +figures. For this time the two figures stood plainly in +view before his eyes upon the lawn. They stood there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +hand in hand, sharply defined, unmistakable in form and +outline, their faces, moreover, turned upwards to the window +where he stood, staring down in pain and amazement +at them—at Arthur Deane and <em>Mary</em>.</p> + +<p>They looked into his eyes. He tried to call, but no +sound left his throat. They began to move across the dew-soaked +lawn. They went, he saw, with a floating, undulating +motion towards the river shining in the dawn. Their +feet left no marks upon the grass. They reached the +bank, but did not pause in their going. They rose a +little, floating like silent birds across the river. Turning +in mid-stream, they smiled towards him, waved their hands +with a gesture of farewell, then, rising still higher into +the opal dawn, their figures passed into the distance slowly, +melting away against the sunlit marshes and the shadowing +downs beyond. They disappeared.</p> + +<p>Headley never quite remembers actually leaving the +window, crossing the room, or going down the passage. +Perhaps he went at once, perhaps he stood gazing into +the air above the downs for a considerable time, unable +to tear himself away. He was in some marvellous dream, +it seemed. The next thing he remembers, at any rate, +was that he was standing beside his friend’s bed, trying, +in his distraught anguish of heart, to call him from that +sleep which, on earth, knows no awakening.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>VIII<br /> +<br /> +EGYPTIAN SORCERY</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Sanfield</span> paused as he was about to leave the Underground +station at Victoria, and cursed the weather. +When he left the City it was fine; now it was pouring with +rain, and he had neither overcoat nor umbrella. Not a taxi +was discoverable in the dripping gloom. He would get +soaked before he reached his rooms in Sloane Street.</p> + +<p>He stood for some minutes, thinking how vile London +was in February, and how depressing life was in general. +He stood also, in that moment, though he knew it not, +upon the edge of a singular adventure. Looking back upon +it in later years, he often remembered this particularly +wretched moment of a pouring wet February evening, +when everything seemed wrong, and Fate had loaded the +dice against him, even in the matter of weather and umbrellas.</p> + +<p>Fate, however, without betraying her presence, was +watching him through the rain and murk; and Fate, that +night, had strange, mysterious eyes. Fantastic cards lay +up her sleeve. The rain, his weariness and depression, his +physical fatigue especially, seemed the conditions she required +before she played these curious cards. Something +new and wonderful fluttered close. Romance flashed by +him across the driving rain and touched his cheek. He +was too exasperated to be aware of it.</p> + +<p>Things had gone badly that day at the office, where +he was junior partner in a small firm of engineers. +Threatened trouble at the works had come to a head. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +strike seemed imminent. To add to his annoyance, a new +client, whose custom was of supreme importance, had just +complained bitterly of the delay in the delivery of his +machinery. The senior partners had left the matter in +Sanfield’s hands; he had not succeeded. The angry customer +swore he would hold the firm to its contract. They +could deliver or pay up—whichever suited them. The +junior partner had made a mess of things.</p> + +<p>The final words on the telephone still rang in his ears +as he stood sheltering under the arcade, watching the +downpour, and wondering whether he should make a dash +for it or wait on the chance of its clearing up—when a +further blow was dealt him as the rain-soaked poster of +an evening paper caught his eye: “Riots in Egypt. Heavy +Fall in Egyptian Securities,” he read with blank dismay. +Buying a paper he turned feverishly to the City article—to +find his worst fears confirmed. Delta Lands, in which +nearly all his small capital was invested, had declined a +quarter on the news, and would evidently decline further +still. The riots were going on in the towns nearest to +their property. Banks had been looted, crops destroyed; +the trouble was deep-seated.</p> + +<p>So grave was the situation that mere weather seemed +suddenly of no account at all. He walked home doggedly +in the drenching rain, paying less attention to it than if it +had been Scotch mist. The water streamed from his hat, +dripped down his back and neck, splashed him with mud +and grime from head to foot. He was soaked to the skin. +He hardly noticed it. His capital had depreciated by half, +at least, and possibly was altogether lost; his position at +the office was insecure. How could mere weather matter?</p> + +<p>Sitting, eventually, before his fire in dry clothes, after +an apology for a dinner he had no heart to eat, he reviewed +the situation. He faced a possible total loss of +his private capital. Next, the position of his firm caused +him grave uneasiness, since, apart from his own mishandling +of the new customer, the threatened strike might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +ruin it completely; a long strain on its limited finances +was out of the question. George Sanfield certainly saw +things at their worst. He was now thirty-five. A fresh +start—the mere idea of it made him shudder—occurred as +a possibility in the near future. Vitality, indeed, was at +a low ebb, it seemed. Mental depression, great physical +fatigue, weariness of life in general made his spirits droop +alarmingly, so that almost he felt tired of living. His tie +with existence, at any rate, just then was dangerously +weak.</p> + +<p>Thought turned next to the man on whose advice he +had staked his all in Delta Lands. Morris had important +Egyptian interests in various big companies and enterprises +along the Nile. He had first come to the firm with +a letter of introduction upon some business matter, which +the junior partner had handled so successfully that +acquaintance thus formed had ripened into a more personal +tie. The two men had much in common; their temperaments +were suited; understanding grew between them; +they felt at home and comfortable with one another. They +became friends; they felt a mutual confidence. When +Morris paid his rare visits to England, they spent much +time together; and it was on one of these occasions that +the matter of the Egyptian shares was mentioned, Morris +urgently advising their purchase.</p> + +<p>Sanfield explained his own position clearly enough, +but his friend was so confident and optimistic that the +purchase eventually had been made. There had been, +moreover, Sanfield now remembered, the flavour of a +peculiarly intimate and personal kind about the deal. He +had remarked it, with a touch of surprise, at the moment, +though really it seemed natural enough. Morris was very +earnest, holding his friend’s interest at heart; he was affectionate +almost.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to do you this good turn, old man,” he said. +“I have the strong feeling, somehow, that I owe you this, +though heaven alone knows why!” After a pause he added,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +half shyly: “It may be one of those old memories we +hear about nowadays cropping up out of some previous life +together.” Before the other could reply, he went on to +explain that only three men were in the parent syndicate, +the shares being unobtainable. “I’ll set some of my own +aside for you—four thousand or so, if you like.”</p> + +<p>They laughed together; Sanfield thanked him warmly; +the deal was carried out. But the recipient of the favour +had wondered a little at the sudden increase of intimacy +even while he liked it and responded.</p> + +<p>Had he been a fool, he now asked himself, to swallow +the advice, putting all his eggs into a single basket? He +knew very little about Morris after all.... Yet, while +reflection showed him that the advice was honest, and the +present riots no fault of the adviser’s, he found his thoughts +turning in a steady stream towards the man. The affairs +of the firm took second place. It was Morris, with his +deep-set eyes, his curious ways, his dark skin burnt brick-red +by a fierce Eastern sun; it was Morris, looking almost +like an Egyptian, who stood before him as he sat thinking +gloomily over his dying fire.</p> + +<p>He longed to talk with him, to ask him questions, to +seek advice. He saw him very vividly against the screen of +thought; Morris stood beside him now, gazing out across +the limitless expanse of tawny sand. He had in his eyes +the “distance” that sailors share with men whose life has +been spent amid great trackless wastes. Morris, moreover, +now he came to think of it, seemed always a little +out of place in England. He had few relatives and, apparently, +no friends; he was always intensely pleased when +the time came to return to his beloved Nile. He had +once mentioned casually a sister who kept house for him +when duty detained him in Cairo, but, even here, he was +something of an Oriental, rarely speaking of his women +folk. Egypt, however, plainly drew him like a magnet. +Resistance involved disturbance in his being, even ill-health.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +Egypt was “home” to him, and his friend, though +he had never been there, felt himself its potent spell.</p> + +<p>Another curious trait Sanfield remembered, too—his +friend’s childish superstition; his belief, or half-belief, in +magic and the supernatural. Sanfield, amused, had +ascribed it to the long sojourn in a land where anything +unusual is at once ascribed to spiritual agencies. Morris +owed his entire fortune, if his tale could be believed, to +the magical apparition of an unearthly kind in some lonely +<i lang="ar" xml:lang="ar">wadi</i> among the Bedouins. A sand-diviner had influenced +another successful speculation.... He was a picturesque +figure, whichever way one took him: yet a successful business +man into the bargain.</p> + +<p>These reflections and memories, on the other hand, +brought small comfort to the man who had tempted Fate +by following his advice. It was only a little strange how +Morris now dominated his thoughts, directing them towards +himself. Morris was in Egypt at the moment.</p> + +<p>He went to bed at length, filled with uneasy misgivings, +but for a long time he could not sleep. He tossed +restlessly, his mind still running on the subject of his long +reflections. He ached with tiredness. He dropped off +at last. Then came a nightmare dream, in which the +firm’s works were sold for nearly nothing to an old Arab +sheikh who wished to pay for them—in goats. He woke +up in a cold perspiration. He had uneasy thoughts. His +fancy was travelling. He could not rest.</p> + +<p>To distract his mind, he turned on the light and tried +to read, and, eventually, towards morning, fell into a +sleep of sheer exhaustion. And his final thought—he knew +not exactly why—was a sentence Morris had made use of +long ago: “I feel I owe you a good turn; I’d like to do +something for you....”</p> + +<p>This was the memory in his mind as he slipped off into +unconsciousness.</p> + +<p>But what happens when the mind is unconscious and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +the tired body lies submerged in deep sleep, no man, they +say, can really tell.</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>The next thing he knew he was walking along a sun-baked +street in some foreign town that was familiar, although, +at first, its name escaped him. Colour, softness, +and warmth pervaded it; there was sparkle and lightness +in the exhilarating air; it was an Eastern town.</p> + +<p>Though early morning, a number of people were +already stirring; strings of camels passed him, loaded with +clover, bales of merchandise, and firewood. Gracefully-draped +women went by silently, carrying water jars of +burnt clay upon their heads. Rude wooden shutters were +being taken down in the bazaars; the smoke of cooking-fires +rose in the blue spirals through the quiet air. He +felt strangely at home and happy. The light, the radiance +stirred him. He passed a mosque from which the +worshippers came pouring in a stream of colour.</p> + +<p>Yet, though an Eastern town, it was not wholly Oriental, +for he saw that many of the buildings were of semi-European +design, and that the natives sometimes wore +European dress, except for the fez upon the head. Among +them were Europeans, too. Staring into the faces of the +passers-by he found, to his vexation, that he could not +focus sight as usual, and that the nearer he approached, +the less clearly he discerned the features. The faces, upon +close attention, at once grew shadowy, merged into each +other, or, in some odd fashion, melted into the dazzling +sunshine that was their background. All his attempts in +this direction failed; impatience seized him; of surprise, +however, he was not conscious. Yet this mingled vagueness +and intensity seemed perfectly natural.</p> + +<p>Filled with a stirring curiosity, he made a strong effort +to concentrate his attention, only to discover that this +vagueness, this difficulty of focus, lay in his own being, +too. He wandered on, unaware exactly where he was going,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +yet not much perturbed, since there was an objective +in view, he knew, and this objective <em>must</em> eventually be +reached. Its nature, however, for the moment entirely +eluded him.</p> + +<p>The sense of familiarity, meanwhile, increased; he had +been in this town before, although not quite within recoverable +memory. It seemed, perhaps, the general atmosphere, +rather than the actual streets, he knew; a certain +perfume in the air, a tang of indefinable sweetness, a +vitality in the radiant sunshine. The dark faces that he +could not focus, he yet knew; the flowing garments of blue +and red and yellow, the softly-slippered feet, the slouching +camels, the burning human eyes that faded ere he fully +caught them—the entire picture in this blazing sunlight +lay half-hidden, half-revealed. And an extraordinary sense +of happiness and well-being flooded him as he walked; he +felt at home; comfort and bliss stole over him. Almost +he knew his way about. This was a place he loved and +knew.</p> + +<p>The complete silence, moreover, did not strike him as +peculiar until, suddenly, it was broken in a startling +fashion. He heard his own name spoken. It sounded close +beside his ear.</p> + +<p>“George Sanfield!” The voice was familiar. Morris +called him. He realized then the truth. He was, of +course, in Cairo.</p> + +<p>Yet, instead of turning to discover the speaker at his +side, he hurried forward, as though he knew that the voice +had come through distance. His consciousness cleared and +lightened; he felt more alive; his eyes now focused the +passers-by without difficulty. He was there to find Morris, +and Morris was directing him. All was explained and +natural again. He hastened. But, even while he hastened, +he knew that his personal desire to speak with his friend +about Egyptian shares and Delta Lands was not his single +object. Behind it, further in among as yet unstirring +shadows, lay another deeper purpose. Yet he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +trouble about it, nor make a conscious effort at discovery. +Morris was doing him that “good turn I feel I owe you.” +This conviction filled him overwhelmingly. The question +of how and why did not once occur to him. A strange, +great happiness rose in him.</p> + +<p>Upon the outskirts of the town now, he found himself +approaching a large building in the European style, +with wide verandas and a cultivated garden filled with +palm trees. A well-kept drive of yellow sand led to its +chief entrance, and the man in khaki drill and riding-breeches +walking along this drive, not ten yards in front +of him, was—Morris. He overtook him, but his cry of +welcome recognition was not answered. Morris, walking +with bowed head and stooping shoulders, seemed intensely +preoccupied; he had not heard the call.</p> + +<p>“Here I am, old fellow!” exclaimed his friend, holding +out a hand. “I’ve come, you see...!” then paused +aghast before the altered face. Morris paid no attention. +He walked straight on as though he had not heard. It +was the distraught and anguished expression on the drawn +and haggard features that impressed the other most. The +silence he took without surprise.</p> + +<p>It was the pain and suffering in his friend that occupied +him. The dark rims beneath heavy eyes, the evidence +of sleepless nights, of long anxiety and ceaseless +dread, afflicted him with their too-plain story. The man +was overwhelmed with some great sorrow. Sanfield forgot +his personal trouble; this larger, deeper grief usurped +its place entirely.</p> + +<p>“Morris! Morris!” he cried yet more eagerly than before. +“I’ve come, you see. Tell me what’s the matter. I +believe—that I can—help you...!”</p> + +<p>The other turned, looking past him through the air. +He made no answer. The eyes went through him. He +walked straight on, and Sanfield walked at his side in +silence. Through the large door they passed together, +Morris paying as little attention to him as though he were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +not there, and in the small chamber they now entered, +evidently a waiting-room, an Egyptian servant approached, +uttered some inaudible words, and then withdrew, leaving +them alone together.</p> + +<p>It seemed that time leaped forward, yet stood still; the +passage of minutes, that is to say, was irregular, almost +fanciful. Whether the interval was long or short, however, +Morris spent it pacing up and down the little room, +his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his mind oblivious +of all else but his absorbing anxiety and grief. To his +friend, who watched him by the wall with intense desire +to help, he paid no attention. The latter’s spoken words +went by him, entirely unnoticed; he gave no sign of seeing +him; his eyes, as he paced up and down, muttering inaudibly +to himself, were fixed every few seconds on an +inner door. Beyond that door, Sanfield now divined, lay +someone who hesitated on the narrow frontier between life +and death.</p> + +<p>It opened suddenly and a man, in overall and rubber +gloves, came out, his face grave yet with faint signs of +hope about it—a doctor, clearly, straight from the operating +table. Morris, standing rigid in his tracks, listened +to something spoken, for the lips were in movement, +though no words were audible. The operation, Sanfield +divined, had been successful, though danger was still +present. The two men passed out, then, into the hall +and climbed a wide staircase to the floor above, Sanfield +following noiselessly, though so close that he could touch +them. Entering a large, airy room where French windows, +carefully shaded with green blinds opened on to a veranda, +they approached a bed. Two nurses bent over it. The +occupant was at first invisible.</p> + +<p>Events had moved with curious rapidity. All this had +happened, it seemed, in a single moment, yet with the +irregular effect already mentioned which made Sanfield +feel it might, equally, have lasted hours. But, as he +stood behind Morris and the surgeon at the bed, the deeps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +in him opened suddenly, and he trembled under a shock +of intense emotion that he could not understand. As with +a stroke of lightning some heavenly fire set his heart aflame +with yearning. The very soul in him broke loose with +passionate longing that <em>must</em> find satisfaction. It came +to him in a single instant with the certain knowledge of +an unconquerable conviction. Hidden, yet ever waiting, +among the broken centuries, there now leaped upon him +this flash of memory—the memory of some sweet and +ancient love Time might veil yet could not kill.</p> + +<p>He ran forward, past the surgeon and the nurses, past +Morris who bent above the bed with a face ghastly from +anxiety. He gazed down upon the fair girl lying there, +her unbound hair streaming over the pillow. He saw, and +he remembered. And an uncontrollable cry of recognition +left his lips....</p> + +<p>The irregularity of the passing minutes became so +marked then, that he might well have passed outside their +measure altogether, beyond what men call Time; duration, +interval, both escaped. Alone and free with his eternal +love, he was safe from all confinement, free, it seemed, +either of time or space. His friend, however, was vaguely +with him during the amazing instant. He felt acutely +aware of the need each had, respectively, for the other, +born of a heritage the Past had hidden over-long. Each, +it was clear, could do the other a good turn.... Sanfield, +though unable to describe or disentangle later, knew, +while it lasted, this joy of full, delicious understanding....</p> + +<p>The strange, swift instant of recognition passed and +disappeared. The cry, Sanfield realized, on coming back +to the Present, had been soundless and inaudible as before. +No one observed him; no one stirred. The girl, on that +bed beside the opened windows, lay evidently dying. Her +breath came in gasps, her chest heaved convulsively, each +attempt at recovery was slower and more painful than +the one before. She was unconscious. Sometimes her +breathing seemed to stop. It grew weaker, as the pulse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +grew fainter. And Sanfield, transfixed as with paralysis, +stood watching, waiting, an intolerable yearning in his +heart to help. It seemed to him that he waited with a +purpose.</p> + +<p>This purpose suddenly became clear. He knew why +he waited. There was help to be given. He was the one +to give it.</p> + +<p>The girl’s vitality and ebbing nerves, her entire physical +organism now fading so quickly towards that final +extinction which meant death—could these but be stimulated +by a new tide of life, the danger-point now fast +approaching might be passed, and recovery must follow. +This impetus, he knew suddenly, he could supply. How, +he could not tell. It flashed upon him from beyond the +stars, as from ancient store of long-forgotten, long-neglected +knowledge. It was enough that he felt confident +and sure. His soul burned within him; the strength of +an ancient and unconquerable love rose through his being. +He would try.</p> + +<p>The doctor, he saw, was in the act of giving his last +aid in the form of a hypodermic injection, Morris and the +nurses looking on. Sanfield observed the sharp quick rally, +only too faint, too slight; he saw the collapse that followed. +The doctor, shrugging his shoulders, turned with +a look that could not express itself in words, and Morris, +burying his face in his hands, knelt by the bed, shaken +with convulsive sobbing. It was the end.</p> + +<p>In which moment, precisely, the strange paralysis that +had bound Sanfield momentarily, was lifted from his being, +and an impelling force, obeying his immense desire, +invaded him. He knew how to act. His will, taught long +ago, yet long-forgotten, was set free.</p> + +<p>“You have come back to me at last,” he cried in his +anguish and his power, though the voice was, as ever, +inaudible and soundless, “<em>I shall not let you go!...</em>”</p> + +<p>Drawn forward nearer and nearer to the bed, he leaned +down, as if to kiss the pale lips and streaming hair. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +his knowledge operated better than he knew. In the tremendous +grip of that power which spins the stars and +suns, while drawing souls into manifestation upon a dozen +planets, he raced, he dived, he plunged, helpless, yet driven +by the creative stress of love and sacrifice towards some +eternal purpose. Caught in what seemed a vortex of amazing +force, he sank away, as a straw is caught and sunk +within the suction of a mighty whirlpool. His memory +of Morris, of the doctor, of the girl herself, passed utterly. +His entire personality became merged, lost, obliterated. +He was aware of nothing; not even aware of nothingness. +He lost consciousness....</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>The reappearance was as sudden as the obliteration. +He emerged. There had been interval, duration, time. +He was not aware of them. A spasm of blinding pain +shot through him. He opened his eyes. His whole body +was a single devouring pain. He felt cramped, confined, +uncomfortable. He must escape. He thrashed about. +Someone seized his arm and held it. With a snarl he +easily wrenched it free.</p> + +<p>He was in bed. How had he come to this? An accident? +He saw the faces of nurse and doctor bending over +him, eager, amazed, surprised, a trifle frightened. Vague +memories floated to him. Who was he? Where had he +come from? And where was ... where was ... someone +... who was dearer to him than life itself? He +looked about him: the room, the faces, the French windows, +the veranda, all seemed only half familiar. He +looked, he searched for ... someone ... but in vain....</p> + +<p>A spasm of violent pain burned through his body like +a fire, and he shut his eyes. He groaned. A voice sounded +just above him: “Take this, dear. Try and swallow a +little. It will relieve you. Your brother will be back in +a moment. You are much better already.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked up at the nurse; he drank what she gave +him.</p> + +<p>“My brother!” he murmured. “I don’t understand. I +have no brother.” Thirst came over him; he drained the +glass. The nurse, wearing a startled look, moved away. +He watched her go. He pointed at her with his hand, +meaning to say something that he instantly forgot—as he +saw his own bare arm. Its dreadful thinness shocked +him. He must have been ill for months. The arm, wasted +almost to nothing, showed the bone. He sank back exhausted, +the sleeping draught began to take effect. The +nurse returned quietly to a chair beside the bed, from +which she watched him without ceasing as the long minutes +passed....</p> + +<p>He found it difficult to collect his thoughts, to keep +them in his mind when caught. There floated before him +a series of odd scenes like coloured pictures in an endless +flow. He was unable to catch them. Morris was with +him always. They were doing quite absurd, impossible +things. They rode together across the desert in the dawn, +they wandered through old massive temples, they saw the +sun set behind mud villages mid wavering palms, they +drifted down a river in a sailing boat of quaint design. +It had an enormous single sail. Together they visited +tombs cut in the solid rock, hot airless corridors, and +huge, dim, vaulted chambers underground. There was an +icy wind by night, fierce burning sun by day. They +watched vast troops of stars pass down a stupendous sky.... +They knew delight and tasted wonder. Strange +memories touched them....</p> + +<p>“Nurse!” he called aloud, returning to himself again, +and remembering that he must speak with his friend about +something—he failed to recall exactly what. “Please ask +Mr. Morris to come to me.”</p> + +<p>“At once, dear. He’s only in the next room waiting +for you to wake.” She went out quickly, and he heard +her voice in the passage. It sank to a whisper as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +came back with Morris, yet every syllable reached him +distinctly:</p> + +<p>“... and pay no attention if she wanders a little; +just ignore it. She’s turned the corner, thank God, and +that’s the chief thing.” Each word he heard with wonder +and perplexity, with increasing irritability too.</p> + +<p>“I’m a hell of a wreck,” he said, as Morris came, +beaming, to the bedside. “Have I been ill long? It’s +frightfully decent of you to come, old man.”</p> + +<p>But Morris, staggered at this greeting, stopped +abruptly, half turning to the nurse for guidance. He +seemed unable to find words. Sanfield was extremely +annoyed; he showed his feeling. “I’m <em>not</em> balmy, you old +ass!” he shouted. “I’m all right again, though very weak. +But I wanted to ask you—oh, I remember now—I wanted +to ask you about my—er—<em>Deltas</em>.”</p> + +<p>“My poor dear Maggie,” stammered Morris, fumbling +with his voice. “Don’t worry about your few shares, +darling. Deltas are all right—it’s <em>you</em> we——”</p> + +<p>“Why, the devil, do you call me Maggie?” snapped +the other viciously. “And ‘darling’!” He felt furious, +exasperated. “Have <em>you</em> gone balmy, or have I? What +in the world are you two up to?” His fury tired him. He +lay back upon his pillows, fuming. Morris took a chair +beside the bed; he put a hand gently on his wasted arm.</p> + +<p>“My darling girl,” he said, in what was intended to +be a soothing voice, though it stirred the sick man again to +fury beyond expression, “you must really keep quiet for +a bit. You’ve had a very severe operation”—his voice +shook a little—“but, thank God, you’ve pulled through and +are now on the way to recovery. You are my sister Maggie. +It will all come back to you when you’re rested——”</p> + +<p>“Maggie, indeed!” interrupted the other, trying to sit +up again, but too weak to compass it. “Your sister! You +bally idiot! Don’t you know me? I wish to God the +nurse wouldn’t ‘dear’ me in that senseless way. And you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +with your atrocious ‘darling,’ I’m not your precious sister +Maggie. I’m—I’m George San——”</p> + +<p>But even as he said it, there passed over him some +dim lost fragment of a wild, delicious memory he could +not seize. Intense pleasure lay in it, could he but recover +it. He knew a sweet, forgotten joy. His broken, troubled +mind lay searching frantically but without success. It +dazzled him. It shook him with an indescribable emotion—of +joy, of wonder, of deep sweet confusion. A rapt +happiness rose in him, yet pain, like a black awful shutter, +closed in upon the happiness at once. He remembered +a girl. But he remembered, too, that he had seen her +die. Who was she? Had he lost her ... again...!</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow,” he faltered in a weaker voice to +Morris, “my brain’s in a whirl. I’m sorry. I suppose I’ve +had some blasted concussion—haven’t I?”</p> + +<p>But the man beside his bed, he saw, was startled. An +extraordinary look came into his face, though he tried to +hide it with a smile.</p> + +<p>“My shares!” cried Sanfield, with a half scream. +“Four thousand of them!”</p> + +<p>Whereupon Morris blanched. “George Sanfield!” he +muttered, half to himself, half to the nurse who hurried +up. “That voice! The very number too!” He looked +white and terrified, as if he had seen a ghost. A whispered +colloquy ensued between him and the nurse. It was +inaudible.</p> + +<p>“Now, dearest Maggie,” he said at length, making evidently +a tremendous effort, “do try and lie quiet for a bit. +Don’t bother about George Sanfield, my London friend. +His shares are quite safe. You’ve heard me speak of him. +It’s all right, my darling, quite all right. Oh, believe me! +I’m your brother.”</p> + +<p>“Maggie...!” whispered the man to himself upon +the bed, whereupon Morris stooped, and, to his intense +horror, kissed him on the cheek. But his horror seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +merged at once in another personality that surged through +and over his entire being, drowning memory and recognition +hopelessly. “Darling,” he murmured. He realized +that he was mad, of course. It seemed he fainted....</p> + +<p>The momentary unconsciousness soon passed, at any +rate. He opened his eyes again. He saw a palm tree +out of the window. He knew positively he was <em>not</em> mad, +whatever else he might be. Dead perhaps? He felt the +sheets, the mattress, the skin upon his face. No, he was +alive all right. The dull pains where the tight bandages +oppressed him were also real. He was among substantial, +earthly things. The nurse, he noticed, regarded him anxiously. +She was a pleasant-looking young woman. He +smiled; and, with an expression of affectionate, even tender +pleasure, she smiled back at him.</p> + +<p>“You feel better now, a little stronger,” she said softly. +“You’ve had a sleep, Miss Margaret.” She said “Miss Margaret” +with a conscious effort. It was better, perhaps, than +“dear”; but his anger rose at once. He was too tired, however, +to express his feelings. There stole over him, besides, +the afflicting consciousness of an alien personality +that was familiar, and yet not his. It strove to dominate +him. Only by a great effort could he continue to think +his own thoughts. This other being kept trying to intrude, +to oust him, to take full possession. It resented his +presence with a kind of violence.</p> + +<p>He sighed. So strong was the feeling of another personality +trying to foist itself upon his own, upon his mind, +his body, even upon his very face, that he turned instinctively +to the nurse, though unaware exactly what he meant +to ask her for.</p> + +<p>“My hand-glass, please,” he heard himself saying—with +horror. The phrase was not his own. Glass or mirror +were the words <em>he</em> would have used.</p> + +<p>A moment later he was staring with acute and ghastly +terror at a reflection that was not his own. It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +face of the dead girl he saw within the silver-handled, +woman’s hand-glass he held up.</p> + +<p class="str">*****</p> + +<p>The dream with its amazing, vivid detail haunted him +for days, even coming between him and his work. It +seemed far more real, more vivid than the commonplace +events of life that followed. The occurrences of the day +were pale compared to its overpowering intensity. And a +cable, received the very next afternoon, increased this sense +of actual truth—of something that had really happened.</p> + +<p>“Hold shares writing Morris.”</p> + +<p>Its brevity added a convincing touch. He was aware +of Egypt even in Throgmorton Street. Yet it was the face +of the dead, or dying, girl that chiefly haunted him. She +remained in his thoughts, alive and sweet and exquisite. +Without her he felt incomplete, his life a failure. He +thought of nothing else.</p> + +<p>The affairs at the office, meanwhile, went well; unexpected +success attended them; there was no strike; the +angry customer was pacified. And when the promised +letter came from Morris, Sanfield’s hands trembled so violently +that he could hardly tear it open. Nor could he read +it calmly. The assurance about his precious shares scarcely +interested him. It was the final paragraph that set his +heart beating against his ribs as though a hammer lay +inside him:</p> + +<div class="blockquot1"> +<p>“... I’ve had great trouble and anxiety, though, thank God, +the danger is over now. I forget if I ever mentioned my sister, +Margaret, to you. She keeps house for me in Cairo, when I’m +there. She is my only tie in life. Well, a severe operation she +had to undergo, all but finished her. To tell you the truth, she +very nearly died, for the doctor gave her up. You’ll smile when +I tell you that odd things happened—at the very last moment. I +can’t explain it, nor can the doctor. It rather terrified me. But +at the very moment when we thought her gone, something revived +in her. She became full of unexpected life and vigor. She was +even violent—whereas, a moment before, she had not the strength +to speak, much less to move. It was rather wonderful, but it was +terrible too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You don’t believe in these things, I know, but I must tell you, +because, when she recovered consciousness, she began to babble +about yourself, using your name, though she has rarely, if ever, +heard it, and even speaking—you won’t believe this, of course!—of +your shares in Deltas, giving the <em>exact</em> number that you hold. +When you write, please tell me if you were very anxious about +these? Also, whether your thoughts were directed particularly to +me? I thought a good deal about you, knowing you might be +uneasy, but my mind was pretty full, as you will understand, of +her operation at the time. The climax, when all this happened, +was about 11 a. m. on February 13th.</p> + +<p>“Don’t fail to tell me this, as I’m particularly interested in +what you may have to say.”</p> + +<p>“And, now, I want to ask a great favor of you. The doctor +forbids Margaret to stay here during the hot weather, so I’m +sending her home to some cousins in Yorkshire, as soon as she is +fit to travel. It would be most awfully kind—I know how women +bore you—if you could manage to meet the boat and help her on +her way through London. I’ll let you know dates and particulars +later, when I hear that you will do this for me....”</p> +</div> + +<p>Sanfield hardly read the remainder of the letter, which +dealt with shares and business matters. But a month later +he stood on the dock-pier at Tilbury, watching the approach +of the tender from the <cite>Egyptian Mail</cite>.</p> + +<p>He saw it make fast; he saw the stream of passengers +pour down the gangway; and he saw among them the tall, +fair woman of his dream. With a beating heart he went +to meet her....</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>IX<br /> +<br /> +THE DECOY</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">It</span> belonged to the category of unlovely houses about +which an ugly superstition clings, one reason being, +perhaps, its inability to inspire interest in itself without +assistance. It seemed too ordinary to possess individuality, +much less to exert an influence. Solid and ungainly, +its huge bulk dwarfing the park timber, its best claim to +notice was a negative one—it was unpretentious.</p> + +<p>From the little hill its expressionless windows stared +across the Kentish Weald, indifferent to weather, dreary +in winter, bleak in spring, unblessed in summer. Some +colossal hand had tossed it down, then let it starve to +death, a country mansion that might well strain the adjectives +of advertisers and find inheritors with difficulty. Its +soul had fled, said some; it had committed suicide, thought +others; and it was an inheritor, before he killed himself in +the library, who thought this latter, yielding, apparently, +to an hereditary taint in the family. For two other inheritors +followed suit, with an interval of twenty years +between them, and there was no clear reason to explain +the three disasters. Only the first owner, indeed, lived +permanently in the house, the others using it in the summer +months and then deserting it with relief. Hence, +when John Burley, present inheritor, assumed possession, +he entered a house about which clung an ugly superstition, +based, nevertheless, upon a series of undeniably ugly facts.</p> + +<p>This century deals harshly with superstitious folk, +deeming them fools or charlatans; but John Burley, robust, +contemptuous of half lights, did not deal harshly +with them, because he did not deal with them at all. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +was hardly aware of their existence. He ignored them +as he ignored, say, the Esquimaux, poets, and other human +aspects that did not touch his scheme of life. A successful +business man, he concentrated on what was real; he +dealt with business people. His philanthropy, on a big +scale, was also real; yet, though he would have denied it +vehemently, he had his superstition as well. No man +exists without some taint of superstition in his blood; the +racial heritage is too rich to be escaped entirely. Burley’s +took this form—that unless he gave his tithe to the +poor he would not prosper. This ugly mansion, he decided, +would make an ideal Convalescent Home.</p> + +<p>“Only cowards or lunatics kill themselves,” he declared +flatly, when his use of the house was criticized. +“I’m neither one nor t’other.” He let out his gusty, +boisterous laugh. In his invigorating atmosphere such +weakness seemed contemptible, just as superstition in his +presence seemed feeblest ignorance. Even its picturesqueness +faded. “I can’t conceive,” he boomed, “can’t even +imagine to myself,” he added emphatically, “the state of +mind in which a man can think of suicide, much less do +it.” He threw his chest out with a challenging air. “I tell +you, Nancy, it’s either cowardice or mania. And I’ve no +use for either.”</p> + +<p>Yet he was easy-going and good-humoured in his denunciation. +He admitted his limitations with a hearty +laugh his wife called noisy. Thus he made allowances for +the fairy fears of sailorfolk, and had even been known to +mention haunted ships his companies owned. But he did +so in the terms of tonnage and Ł s. d. His scope was big; +details were made for clerks.</p> + +<p>His consent to pass a night in the mansion was the +consent of a practical business man and philanthropist who +dealt condescendingly with foolish human nature. It was +based on the common-sense of tonnage and Ł s. d. The +local newspapers had revived the silly story of the suicides, +calling attention to the effect of the superstition upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +fortunes of the house, and so, possibly, upon the fortunes of +its present owner. But the mansion, otherwise a white elephant, +was precisely ideal for his purpose, and so trivial +a matter as spending a night in it should not stand in the +way. “We must take people as we find them, Nancy.”</p> + +<p>His young wife had her motive, of course, in making +the proposal, and, if she was amused by what she called +“spook-hunting,” he saw no reason to refuse her the indulgence. +He loved her, and took her as he found her—late +in life. To allay the superstitions of prospective staff and +patients and supporters, all, in fact, whose goodwill was +necessary to success, he faced this boredom of a night in +the building before its opening was announced. “You see, +John, if you, the owner, do this, it will nip damaging talk +in the bud. If anything went wrong later it would only +be put down to this suicide idea, this haunting influence. +The Home will have a bad name from the start. There’ll +be endless trouble. It will be a failure.”</p> + +<p>“You think my spending a night there will stop the +nonsense?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“According to the old legend it breaks the spell,” she +replied. “That’s the condition, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“But somebody’s sure to die there sooner or later,” he +objected. “We can’t prevent that.”</p> + +<p>“We can prevent people whispering that they died unnaturally.” +She explained the working of the public mind.</p> + +<p>“I see,” he replied, his lip curling, yet quick to gauge +the truth of what she told him about collective instinct.</p> + +<p>“Unless <em>you</em> take poison in the hall,” she added laughingly, +“or elect to hang yourself with your braces from +the hat peg.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do it,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll +sit up with you. It will be like a honeymoon over again, +you and I on the spree—eh?” He was even interested +now; the boyish side of him was touched perhaps; but his +enthusiasm was less when she explained that three was a +better number than two on such an expedition.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I’ve often done it before, John. We were always +three.”</p> + +<p>“Who?” he asked bluntly. He looked wonderingly at +her, but she answered that if anything went wrong a party +of three provided a better margin for help. It was sufficiently +obvious. He listened and agreed. “I’ll get young +Mortimer,” he suggested. “Will he do?”</p> + +<p>She hesitated. “Well—he’s cheery; he’ll be interested, +too. Yes, he’s as good as another.” She seemed indifferent.</p> + +<p>“And he’ll make the time pass with his stories,” added +her husband.</p> + +<p>So Captain Mortimer, late officer on a T.B.D., a +“cheery lad,” afraid of nothing, cousin of Mrs. Burley, +and now filling a good post in the company’s London +offices, was engaged as third hand in the expedition. But +Captain Mortimer was young and ardent, and Mrs. Burley +was young and pretty and ill-mated, and John Burley was +a neglectful, and self-satisfied husband.</p> + +<p>Fate laid the trap with cunning, and John Burley, +blind-eyed, careless of detail, floundered into it. He also +floundered out again, though in a fashion none could have +expected of him.</p> + +<p>The night agreed upon eventually was as near to the +shortest in the year as John Burley could contrive—June +18th—when the sun set at 8:18 and rose about a quarter +to four. There would be barely three hours of true darkness. +“You’re the expert,” he admitted, as she explained +that sitting through the actual darkness only was required, +not necessarily from sunset to sunrise. “We’ll do the thing +properly. Mortimer’s not very keen, he had a dance or +something,” he added, noticing the look of annoyance that +flashed swiftly in her eyes; “but he got out of it. He’s +coming.” The pouting expression of the spoilt woman +amused him. “Oh, no, he didn’t need much persuading +really,” he assured her. “Some girl or other, of course.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +He’s young, remember.” To which no comment was forthcoming, +though the implied comparison made her flush.</p> + +<p>They motored from South Audley Street after an early +tea, in due course passing Sevenoaks and entering the +Kentish Weald; and, in order that the necessary advertisement +should be given, the chauffeur, warned strictly +to keep their purpose quiet, was to put up at the country +inn and fetch them an hour after sunrise; they would +breakfast in London. “He’ll tell everybody,” said his +practical and cynical master; “the local newspaper will +have it all next day. A few hours’ discomfort is worth +while if it ends the nonsense. We’ll read and smoke, and +Mortimer shall tell us yarns about the sea.” He went +with the driver into the house to superintend the arrangement +of the room, the lights, the hampers of food, and +so forth, leaving the pair upon the lawn.</p> + +<p>“Four hours isn’t much, but it’s something,” whispered +Mortimer, alone with her for the first time since they +started. “It’s simply ripping of you to have got me in. +You look divine to-night. You’re the most wonderful +woman in the world.” His blue eyes shone with the hungry +desire he mistook for love. He looked as if he had blown +in from the sea, for his skin was tanned and his light hair +bleached a little by the sun. He took her hand, drawing +her out of the slanting sunlight towards the rhododendrons.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t, you silly boy. It was John suggested your +coming.” She released her hand with an affected effort. +“Besides, you overdid it—pretending you had a dance.”</p> + +<p>“You could have objected,” he said eagerly, “and didn’t. +Oh, you’re too lovely, you’re delicious!” He kissed her +suddenly with passion. There was a tiny struggle, in +which she yielded too easily, he thought.</p> + +<p>“Harry, you’re an idiot!” she cried breathlessly, when +he let her go. “I really don’t know how you dare! And +John’s your friend. Besides, you know”—she glanced +round quickly—“it isn’t safe here.” Her eyes shone happily, +her cheeks were flaming. She looked what she was, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +pretty, young, lustful animal, false to ideals, true to selfish +passion only. “Luckily,” she added, “he trusts me too +fully to think anything.”</p> + +<p>The young man, worship in his eyes, laughed gaily. +“There’s no harm in a kiss,” he said. “You’re a child +to him, he never thinks of you as a woman. Anyhow, his +head’s full of ships and kings and sealing-wax,” he comforted +her, while respecting her sudden instinct which +warned him not to touch her again, “and he never sees anything. +Why, even at ten yards——”</p> + +<p>From twenty yards away a big voice interrupted him, +as John Burley came round a corner of the house and +across the lawn towards them. The chauffeur, he announced, +had left the hampers in the room on the first +floor and gone back to the inn. “Let’s take a walk +round,” he added, joining them, “and see the garden. Five +minutes before sunset we’ll go in and feed.” He laughed. +“We must do the thing faithfully, you know, mustn’t we, +Nancy? Dark to dark, remember. Come on, Mortimer”—he +took the young man’s arm—“a last look round before +we go in and hang ourselves from adjoining hooks in +the matron’s room!” He reached out his free hand towards +his wife.</p> + +<p>“Oh, hush, John!” she said quickly. “I don’t like—especially +now the dusk is coming.” She shivered, as +though it were a genuine little shiver, pursing her lips +deliciously as she did so; whereupon he drew her forcibly +to him, saying he was sorry, and kissed her exactly where +she had been kissed two minutes before, while young Mortimer +looked on. “We’ll take care of you between us,” +he said. Behind a broad back the pair exchanged a swift +but meaning glance, for there was that in his tone which +enjoined wariness, and perhaps after all he was not so blind +as he appeared. They had their code, these two. “All’s +well,” was signalled; “but another time be more careful!”</p> + +<p>There still remained some minutes’ sunlight before the +huge red ball of fire would sink behind the wooded hills,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +and the trio, talking idly, a flutter of excitement in two +hearts certainly, walked among the roses. It was a perfect +evening, windless, perfumed, warm. Headless shadows +preceded them gigantically across the lawn as they moved, +and one side of the great building lay already dark; bats +were flitting, moths darted to and fro above the azalea and +rhododendron clumps. The talk turned chiefly on the uses +of the mansion as a Convalescent Home, its probable running +cost, suitable staff, and so forth.</p> + +<p>“Come along,” John Burley said presently, breaking +off and turning abruptly, “we must be inside, actually inside, +before the sun’s gone. We must fulfil the conditions +faithfully,” he repeated, as though fond of the phrase. He +was in earnest over everything in life, big or little, once +he set his hand to it.</p> + +<p>They entered, this incongruous trio of ghost-hunters, +no one of them really intent upon the business in hand, +and went slowly upstairs to the great room where the +hampers lay. Already in the hall it was dark enough for +three electric torches to flash usefully and help their steps +as they moved with caution, lighting one corner after +another. The air inside was chill and damp. “Like an +unused museum,” said Mortimer. “I can smell the specimens.” +They looked about them, sniffing. “That’s humanity,” +declared his host, employer, friend, “with cement +and whitewash to flavour it”; and all three laughed as +Mrs. Burley said she wished they had picked some roses +and brought them in. Her husband was again in front +on the broad staircase, Mortimer just behind him, when +she called out. “I don’t like being last,” she exclaimed. +It’s so black behind me in the hall. I’ll come between you +two,” and the sailor took her outstretched hand, squeezing +it, as he passed her up. “There’s a figure, remember,” she +said hurriedly, turning to gain her husband’s attention, as +when she touched wood at home. “A figure is seen; that’s +part of the story. The figure of a man.” She gave a tiny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +shiver of pleasurable, half-imagined alarm as she took his +arm.</p> + +<p>“I hope we shall see it,” he mentioned prosaically.</p> + +<p>“I hope we shan’t,” she replied with emphasis. “It’s +only seen before—something happens.” Her husband said +nothing, while Mortimer remarked facetiously that it +would be a pity if they had their trouble for nothing. +“Something can hardly happen to all three of us,” he +said lightly, as they entered a large room where the paper-hangers +had conveniently left a rough table of bare planks. +Mrs. Burley, busy with her own thoughts, began to unpack +the sandwiches and wine. Her husband strolled over +to the window. He seemed restless.</p> + +<p>“So this,” his deep voice startled her, “is where one +of us”—he looked round him—“is to——”</p> + +<p>“John!” She stopped him sharply, with impatience. +“Several times already I’ve begged you.” Her voice rang +rather shrill and querulous in the empty room, a new note +in it. She was beginning to feel the atmosphere of the +place, perhaps. On the sunny lawn it had not touched her, +but now, with the fall of night, she was aware of it, as +shadow called to shadow and the kingdom of darkness +gathered power. Like a great whispering gallery, the whole +house listened.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, Nancy,” he said with contrition, as +he came and sat down beside her, “I quite forgot again. +Only I cannot take it seriously. It’s so utterly unthinkable +to me that a man——”</p> + +<p>“But why evoke the idea at all?” she insisted in a +lowered voice, that snapped despite its faintness. “Men, +after all, don’t do such things for nothing.”</p> + +<p>“We don’t know everything in the universe, do we?” +Mortimer put in, trying clumsily to support her. “All I +know just now is that I’m famished and this veal and +ham pie is delicious.” He was very busy with his knife +and fork. His foot rested lightly on her own beneath the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +table; he could not keep his eyes off her face; he was +continually passing new edibles to her.</p> + +<p>“No,” agreed John Burley, “not everything. You’re +right there.”</p> + +<p>She kicked the younger man gently, flashing a warning +with her eyes as well, while her husband, emptying +his glass, his head thrown back, looked straight at them +over the rim, apparently seeing nothing. They smoked +their cigarettes round the table, Burley lighting a big cigar. +“Tell us about the figure, Nancy?” he inquired. “At least +there’s no harm in that. It’s new to me. I hadn’t heard +about a figure.” And she did so willingly, turning her +chair sideways from the dangerous, reckless feet. Mortimer +could now no longer touch her. “I know very little,” +she confessed; “only what the paper said. It’s a man.... +And he changes.”</p> + +<p>“How changes?” asked her husband. “Clothes, you +mean, or what?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Burley laughed, as though she was glad to laugh. +Then she answered: “According to the story, he shows +himself each time to the man——”</p> + +<p>“The man who——?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, of course. He appears to the man who dies—as +himself.”</p> + +<p>“H’m,” grunted her husband, naturally puzzled. He +stared at her.</p> + +<p>“Each time the chap saw his own double”—Mortimer +came this time usefully to the rescue—“before he did it.”</p> + +<p>Considerable explanation followed, involving much +psychic jargon from Mrs. Burley, which fascinated and +impressed the sailor, who thought her as wonderful as she +was lovely, showing it in his eyes for all to see. John Burley’s +attention wandered. He moved over to the window, +leaving them to finish the discussion between them; he +took no part in it, made no comment even, merely listening +idly and watching them with an air of absent-mindedness +through the cloud of cigar smoke round his head. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +moved from window to window, ensconcing himself in turn +in each deep embrasure, examining the fastenings, measuring +the thickness of the stonework with his handkerchief. +He seemed restless, bored, obviously out of place in this +ridiculous expedition. On his big massive face lay a quiet, +resigned expression his wife had never seen before. She +noticed it now as, the discussion ended, the pair tidied +away the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i> of dinner, lit the spirit lamp for coffee and +laid out a supper which would be very welcome with the +dawn. A draught passed through the room, making the +papers flutter on the table. Mortimer turned down the +smoking lamps with care.</p> + +<p>“Wind’s getting up a bit—from the south,” observed +Burley from his niche, closing one-half of the casement +window as he said it. To do this, he turned his back a +moment, fumbling for several seconds with the latch, while +Mortimer, noting it, seized his sudden opportunity with +the foolish abandon of his age and temperament. Neither +he nor his victim perceived that, against the outside darkness, +the interior of the room was plainly reflected in the +window-pane. One reckless, the other terrified, they +snatched the fearful joy, which might, after all, have been +lengthened by another full half-minute, for the head they +feared, followed by the shoulders, pushed through the side +of the casement still open, and remained outside, taking +in the night.</p> + +<p>“A grand air,” said his deep voice, as the head drew +in again, “I’d like to be at sea a night like this.” He +left the casement open and came across the room towards +them. “Now,” he said cheerfully, arranging a seat for +himself, “let’s get comfortable for the night. Mortimer, +we expect stories from you without ceasing, until dawn or +the ghost arrives. Horrible stories of chains and headless +men, remember. Make it a night we shan’t forget in a +hurry.” He produced his gust of laughter.</p> + +<p>They arranged their chairs, with other chairs to put +their feet on, and Mortimer contrived a footstool by means<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +of a hamper for the smallest feet; the air grew thick with +tobacco smoke; eyes flashed and answered, watched perhaps +as well; ears listened and perhaps grew wise; occasionally, +as a window shook, they started and looked round; +there were sounds about the house from time to time, when +the entering wind, using broken or open windows, set loose +objects rattling.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Burley vetoed horrible stories with decision. +A big, empty mansion, lonely in the country, and even +with the comfort of John Burley and a lover in it, has +its atmosphere. Furnished rooms are far less ghostly. +This atmosphere now came creeping everywhere, through +spacious halls and sighing corridors, silent, invisible, but +all-pervading, John Burley alone impervious to it, unaware +of its soft attack upon the nerves. It entered possibly +with the summer night wind, but possibly it was +always there.... And Mrs. Burley looked often at her +husband, sitting near her at an angle; the light fell on +his fine strong face; she felt that, though apparently so +calm and quiet, he was really very restless; something +about him was a little different; she could not define it; +his mouth seemed set as with an effort; he looked, she +thought curiously to herself, patient and very dignified; +he was rather a dear after all. Why did she think the face +inscrutable? Her thoughts wandered vaguely, unease, discomfort +among them somewhere, while the heated blood—she +had taken her share of wine—seethed in her.</p> + +<p>Burley turned to the sailor for more stories. “Sea +and wind in them,” he asked. “No horrors, remember!” +and Mortimer told a tale about the shortage of rooms at +a Welsh seaside place where spare rooms fetched fabulous +prices, and one man alone refused to let—a retired captain +of a South Seas trader, very poor, a bit crazy apparently. +He had two furnished rooms in his house worth twenty +guineas a week. The rooms faced south; he kept them full +of flowers; but he would not let. An explanation of his +unworldly obstinacy was not forthcoming until Mortimer—they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +fished together—gained his confidence. “The South +Wind lives in them,” the old fellow told him. “I keep +them free for her.”</p> + +<p>“For <em>her?”</em></p> + +<p>“It was on the South Wind my love came to me,” said +the other softly; “and it was on the South Wind that she +left——”</p> + +<p>It was an odd tale to tell in such company, but he told +it well.</p> + +<p>“Beautiful,” thought Mrs. Burley. Aloud she said a +quiet, “Thank you. By ‘left,’ I suppose he meant she +died or ran away?”</p> + +<p>John Burley looked up with a certain surprise. “We +ask for a story,” he said, “and you give us a poem.” He +laughed. “You’re in love, Mortimer,” he informed him, +“and with my wife probably.”</p> + +<p>“Of course I am, sir,” replied the young man gallantly. +“A sailor’s heart, you know,” while the face of +the woman turned pink, then white. She knew her husband +more intimately than Mortimer did, and there was +something in his tone, his eyes, his words, she did not +like. Harry was an idiot to choose such a tale. An irritated +annoyance stirred in her, close upon dislike. “Anyhow, +it’s better than horrors,” she said hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“Well,” put in her husband, letting forth a minor gust +of laughter, “it’s possible, at any rate. Though one’s as +crazy as the other.” His meaning was not wholly clear. +“If a man really loved,” he added in his blunt fashion, +“and was tricked by her, I could almost conceive his——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t preach, John, for Heaven’s sake. You’re +so dull in the pulpit.” But the interruption only served +to emphasize the sentence which, otherwise, might have +been passed over.</p> + +<p>“Could conceive his finding life so worthless,” persisted +the other, “that——” He hesitated. “But there, now, I +promised I wouldn’t,” he went on, laughing good-humouredly. +Then, suddenly, as though in spite of himself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +driven it seemed: “Still, under such conditions, he might +show his contempt for human nature and for life by——”</p> + +<p>It was a tiny stifled scream that stopped him this time.</p> + +<p>“John, I hate, I loathe you, when you talk like that. +And you’ve broken your word again.” She was more than +petulant; a nervous anger sounded in her voice. It was +the way he had said it, looking from them towards the +window, that made her quiver. She felt him suddenly as a +man; she felt afraid of him.</p> + +<p>Her husband made no reply; he rose and looked at +his watch, leaning sideways towards the lamp, so that the +expression of his face was shaded. “Two o’clock,” he +remarked. “I think I’ll take a turn through the house. +I may find a workman asleep or something. Anyhow, the +light will soon come now.” He laughed; the expression +of his face, his tone of voice, relieved her momentarily. +He went out. They heard his heavy tread echoing down +the carpetless long corridor.</p> + +<p>Mortimer began at once. “Did he mean anything?” +he asked breathlessly. “He doesn’t love you the least little +bit, anyhow. He never did. I do. You’re wasted on +him. You belong to me.” The words poured out. He +covered her face with kisses. “Oh, I didn’t mean <em>that</em>,” +he caught between the kisses.</p> + +<p>The sailor released her, staring. “What then?” he +whispered. “Do you think he saw us on the lawn?” He +paused a moment, as she made no reply. The steps were +audible in the distance still. “I know!” he exclaimed suddenly. +“It’s the blessed house he feels. That’s what it is. +He doesn’t like it.”</p> + +<p>A wind sighed through the room, making the papers +flutter; something rattled; and Mrs. Burley started. A +loose end of rope swinging from the paperhanger’s ladder +caught her eye. She shivered slightly.</p> + +<p>“He’s different,” she replied in a low voice, nestling +very close again, “and so restless. Didn’t you notice what +he said just now—that under certain conditions he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +understand a man”—she hesitated—“doing it,” she concluded, +a sudden drop in her voice. “Harry,” she looked +full into his eyes, “that’s not like him. He didn’t say +that for nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! He’s bored to tears, that’s all. And the +house is getting on your nerves, too.” He kissed her tenderly. +Then, as she responded, he drew her nearer still +and held her passionately, mumbling incoherent words, +among which “nothing to be afraid of” was distinguishable. +Meanwhile, the steps were coming nearer. She +pushed him away. “You must behave yourself. I insist. +You shall, Harry,” then buried herself in his arms, her face +hidden against his neck—only to disentangle herself the +next instant and stand clear of him. “I hate you, Harry,” +she exclaimed sharply, a look of angry annoyance flashing +across her face. “And I <em>hate</em> myself. Why do you +treat me——?” She broke off as the steps came closer, +patted her hair straight, and stalked over to the open +window.</p> + +<p>“I believe after all you’re only playing with me,” he +said viciously. He stared in surprised disappointment, +watching her. “It’s him you really love,” he added jealously. +He looked and spoke like a petulant spoilt boy.</p> + +<p>She did not turn her head. “He’s always been fair to +me, kind and generous. He never blames me for anything. +Give me a cigarette and don’t play the stage hero. +My nerves are on edge, to tell you the truth.” Her voice +jarred harshly, and as he lit her cigarette he noticed that +her lips were trembling; his own hand trembled too. He +was still holding the match, standing beside her at the +window-sill, when the steps crossed the threshold and John +Burley came into the room. He went straight up to the +table and turned the lamp down. “It was smoking,” he +remarked. “Didn’t you see?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, sir,” and Mortimer sprang forward, too +late to help him. “It was the draught as you pushed +the door open.” The big man said, “Ah!” and drew a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +chair over, facing them. “It’s just <em>the</em> very house,” he +told them. “I’ve been through every room on this floor. +It will make a splendid Home, with very little alteration, +too.” He turned round in his creaking wicker chair and +looked up at his wife, who sat swinging her legs and +smoking in the window embrasure. “Lives will be saved +inside these old walls. It’s a good investment,” he went +on, talking rather to himself it seemed. “People will die +here, too——”</p> + +<p>“Hark!” Mrs. Burley interrupted him. “That noise—what +is it?” A faint thudding sound in the corridor +or in the adjoining room was audible, making all three +look round quickly, listening for a repetition, which did +not come. The papers fluttered on the table, the lamps +smoked an instant.</p> + +<p>“Wind,” observed Burley calmly, “our little friend, the +South Wind. Something blown over again, that’s all.” +But, curiously, the three of them stood up. “I’ll go and +see,” he continued. “Doors and windows are all open +to let the paint dry.” Yet he did not move; he stood +there watching a white moth that dashed round and round +the lamp, flopping heavily now and again upon the bare +deal table.</p> + +<p>“Let me go, sir,” put in Mortimer eagerly. He was +glad of the chance; for the first time he, too, felt uncomfortable. +But there was another who, apparently, +suffered a discomfort greater than his own and was accordingly +even more glad to get away. “I’ll go,” Mrs. Burley +announced, with decision. “I’d like to. I haven’t been +out of this room since we came. I’m not an atom afraid.”</p> + +<p>It was strange that for a moment she did not make a +move either; it seemed as if she waited for something. +For perhaps fifteen seconds no one stirred or spoke. She +knew by the look in her lover’s eyes that he had now +become aware of the slight, indefinite change in her husband’s +manner, and was alarmed by it. The fear in him +woke her contempt; she suddenly despised the youth, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +was conscious of a new, strange yearning towards her +husband; against her worked nameless pressures, troubling +her being. There was an alteration in the room, she +thought; something had come in. The trio stood listening +to the gentle wind outside, waiting for the sound to +be repeated; two careless, passionate young lovers and a +man stood waiting, listening, watching in that room; yet +it seemed there were five persons altogether and not three, +for two guilty consciences stood apart and separate from +their owners. John Burley broke the silence.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you go, Nancy. Nothing to be afraid of—there. +It’s only wind.” He spoke as though he meant it.</p> + +<p>Mortimer bit his lips. “I’ll come with you,” he said +instantly. He was confused. “Let’s all three go. I don’t +think we ought to be separated.” But Mrs. Burley was +already at the door. “I insist,” she said, with a forced +laugh. “I’ll call if I’m frightened,” while her husband, +saying nothing, watched her from the table.</p> + +<p>“Take this,” said the sailor, flashing his electric torch +as he went over to her. “Two are better than one.” He +saw her figure exquisitely silhouetted against the black +corridor beyond; it was clear she wanted to go; any nervousness +in her was mastered by a stronger emotion still; +she was glad to be out of their presence for a bit. He +had hoped to snatch a word of explanation in the corridor, +but her manner stopped him. Something else stopped +him, too.</p> + +<p>“First door on the left,” he called out, his voice echoing +down the empty length. “That’s the room where the +noise came from. Shout if you want us.”</p> + +<p>He watched her moving away, the light held steadily +in front of her, but she made no answer, and he turned +back to see John Burley lighting his cigar at the lamp +chimney, his face thrust forward as he did so. He stood +a second, watching him, as the lips sucked hard at the +cigar to make it draw; the strength of the features was +emphasized to sternness. He had meant to stand by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +door and listen for the least sound from the adjoining +room, but now found his whole attention focused on the +face above the lamp. In that minute he realized that Burley +had wished—had meant—his wife to go. In that minute +also he forgot his love, his shameless, selfish little +mistress, his worthless, caddish little self. For John Burley +looked up. He straightened slowly, puffing hard and +quickly to make sure his cigar was lit, and faced him. +Mortimer moved forward into the room, self-conscious, +embarrassed, cold.</p> + +<p>“Of course it was only wind,” he said lightly, his one +desire being to fill the interval while they were alone with +commonplaces. He did not wish the other to speak, +“Dawn wind, probably.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. +“It’s half-past two already, and the sun gets up at a +quarter to four. It’s light by now, I expect. The shortest +night is never quite dark.” He rambled on confusedly, +for the other’s steady, silent stare embarrassed him. A +faint sound of Mrs. Burley moving in the next room made +him stop a moment. He turned instinctively to the door, +eager for an excuse to go.</p> + +<p>“That’s nothing,” said Burley, speaking at last and in +a firm quiet voice. “Only my wife, glad to be alone—my +young and pretty wife. She’s all right. I know her +better than you do. Come in and shut the door.”</p> + +<p>Mortimer obeyed. He closed the door and came close +to the table, facing the other, who at once continued.</p> + +<p>“If I thought,” he said, in that quiet deep voice, “that +you two were serious”—he uttered his words very slowly, +with emphasis, with intense severity—“do you know what +I should do? I will tell you, Mortimer. I should like one +of us two—you or myself—to remain in this house, dead.”</p> + +<p>His teeth gripped his cigar tightly; his hands were +clenched; he went on through a half-closed mouth. His +eyes blazed steadily.</p> + +<p>“I trust her so absolutely—understand me?—that my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +belief in women, in human beings, would go. And with +it the desire to live. Understand me?”</p> + +<p>Each word to the young careless fool was a blow in +the face, yet it was the softest blow, the flash of a big +deep heart, that hurt the most. A dozen answers—denial, +explanation, confession, taking all guilt upon himself—crowded +his mind, only to be dismissed. He stood motionless +and silent, staring hard into the other’s eyes. No +word passed his lips; there was no time in any case. It +was in this position that Mrs. Burley, entering at that +moment, found them. She saw her husband’s face; the +other man stood with his back to her. She came in with +a little nervous laugh. “A bell-rope swinging in the wind +and hitting a sheet of metal before the fireplace,” she +informed them. And all three laughed together then, +though each laugh had a different sound. “But I hate +this house,” she added. “I wish we had never come.”</p> + +<p>“The moment there’s light in the sky,” remarked her +husband quietly, “we can leave. That’s the contract; let’s +see it through. Another half-hour will do it. Sit down, +Nancy, and have a bite of something.” He got up and +placed a chair for her. “I think I’ll take another look +round.” He moved slowly to the door. “I may go out +on to the lawn a bit and see what the sky is doing.”</p> + +<p>It did not take half a minute to say the words, yet +to Mortimer it seemed as though the voice would never end. +His mind was confused and troubled. He loathed himself, +he loathed the woman through whom he had got into +this awkward mess.</p> + +<p>The situation had suddenly become extremely painful; +he had never imagined such a thing; the man he had +thought blind had after all seen everything—known it all +along, watched them, waited. And the woman, he was +now certain, loved her husband; she had fooled him, Mortimer, +all along, amusing herself.</p> + +<p>“I’ll come with you, sir. Do let me,” he said suddenly. +Mrs. Burley stood pale and uncertain between them. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +looked scared. What has happened, she was clearly wondering.</p> + +<p>“No, no, Harry”—he called him “Harry” for the first +time—“I’ll be back in five minutes at most. My wife +mustn’t be alone either.” And he went out.</p> + +<p>The young man waited till the footsteps sounded some +distance down the corridor, then turned, but he did not +move forward; for the first time he let pass unused what +he called “an opportunity.” His passion had left him; +his love, as he once thought it, was gone. He looked at +the pretty woman near him, wondering blankly what he +had ever seen there to attract him so wildly. He wished +to Heaven he was out of it all. He wished he were dead. +John Burley’s words suddenly appalled him.</p> + +<p>One thing he saw plainly—she was frightened. This +opened his lips.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” he asked, and his hushed voice +shirked the familiar Christian name. “Did you see anything?” +He nodded his head in the direction of the adjoining +room. It was the sound of his own voice addressing +her coldly that made him abruptly see himself as he +really was, but it was her reply, honestly given, in a faint +even voice, that told him she saw her own self too with +similar clarity. God, he thought, how revealing a tone, a +single word can be!</p> + +<p>“I saw—nothing. Only I feel uneasy—dear.” That +“dear” was a call for help.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” he cried, so loud that she held up a warning +finger, “I’m—I’ve been a damned fool, a cad! I’m +most frightfully ashamed. I’ll do anything—<em>anything</em> to +get it right.” He felt cold, naked, his worthlessness laid +bare; she felt, he knew, the same. Each revolted suddenly +from the other. Yet he knew not quite how or wherefore +this great change had thus abruptly come about, especially +on her side. He felt that a bigger, deeper emotion than +he could understand was working on them, making mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +physical relationships seem empty, trivial, cheap and vulgar. +His cold increased in face of this utter ignorance.</p> + +<p>“Uneasy?” he repeated, perhaps hardly knowing exactly +why he said it. “Good Lord, but he can take care of himself——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>he</em> is a man,” she interrupted; “yes.”</p> + +<p>Steps were heard, firm, heavy steps, coming back along +the corridor. It seemed to Mortimer that he had listened +to this sound of steps all night, and would listen to them +till he died. He crossed to the lamp and lit a cigarette, +carefully this time, turning the wick down afterwards. +Mrs. Burley also rose, moving over towards the door, away +from him. They listened a moment to these firm and +heavy steps, the tread of a man, John Burley. A man ... +and a philanderer, flashed across Mortimer’s brain like +fire, contrasting the two with fierce contempt for himself. +The tread became less audible. There was distance in it. +It had turned in somewhere.</p> + +<p>“There!” she exclaimed in a hushed tone. “He’s gone +in.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! It passed us. He’s going out on to the +lawn.”</p> + +<p>The pair listened breathlessly for a moment, when the +sound of steps came distinctly from the adjoining room, +walking across the boards, apparently towards the window.</p> + +<p>“There!” she repeated. “He did go in.” Silence of +perhaps a minute followed, in which they heard each +other’s breathing. “I don’t like his being alone—in +there,” Mrs. Burley said in a thin faltering voice, and +moved as though to go out. Her hand was already on the +knob of the door, when Mortimer stopped her with a violent +gesture.</p> + +<p>“Don’t! For God’s sake, don’t!” he cried, before she +could turn it. He darted forward. As he laid a hand +upon her arm a thud was audible through the wall. It +was a heavy sound, and this time there was no wind to +cause it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> + +<p>“It’s only that loose swinging thing,” he whispered +thickly, a dreadful confusion blotting out clear thought +and speech.</p> + +<p>“There was no loose swaying thing at all,” she said +in a failing voice, then reeled and swayed against him. +“I invented that. There was nothing.” As he caught her, +staring helplessly, it seemed to him that a face with lifted +lids rushed up at him. He saw two terrified eyes in a +patch of ghastly white. Her whisper followed, as she sank +into his arms. “It’s John. He’s——”</p> + +<p>At which instant, with terror at its climax, the sound +of steps suddenly became audible once more—the firm +and heavy tread of John Burley coming out again into +the corridor. Such was their amazement and relief that +they neither moved nor spoke. The steps drew nearer. +The pair seemed petrified; Mortimer did not remove his +arms, nor did Mrs. Burley attempt to release herself. They +stared at the door and waited. It was pushed wider the +next second, and John Burley stood beside them. He was +so close he almost touched them—there in each other’s +arms.</p> + +<p>“Jack, dear!” cried his wife, with a searching tenderness +that made her voice seem strange.</p> + +<p>He gazed a second at each in turn. “I’m going out +on to the lawn for a moment,” he said quietly. There +was no expression on his face; he did not smile, he did not +frown; he showed no feeling, no emotion—just looked into +their eyes, and then withdrew round the edge of the door +before either could utter a word in answer. The door +swung to behind him. He was gone.</p> + +<p>“He’s going to the lawn. He said so.” It was Mortimer +speaking, but his voice shook and stammered. Mrs. +Burley had released herself. She stood now by the table, +silent, gazing with fixed eyes at nothing, her lips parted, +her expression vacant. Again she was aware of an alteration +in the room; something had gone out.... He +watched her a second, uncertain what to say or do. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +was the face of a drowned person, occurred to him. Something +intangible, yet almost visible stood between them in +that narrow space. Something had ended, there before his +eyes, definitely ended. The barrier between them rose +higher, denser. Through this barrier her words came to +him with an odd whispering remoteness.</p> + +<p>“Harry.... You saw? You noticed?”</p> + +<p>“What d’you mean?” he said gruffly. He tried to feel +angry, contemptuous, but his breath caught absurdly.</p> + +<p>“Harry—he was different. The eyes, the hair, the”—her +face grew like death—“the twist in his face——”</p> + +<p>“What on earth are you saying? Pull yourself together.” +He saw that she was trembling down the whole +length of her body, as she leaned against the table for +support. His own legs shook. He stared hard at her.</p> + +<p>“Altered, Harry ... altered.” Her horrified whisper +came at him like a knife. For it was true. He, too, had +noticed something about the husband’s appearance that was +not quite normal. Yet, even while they talked, they heard +him going down the carpetless stairs; the sounds ceased as +he crossed the hall; then came the noise of the front door +banging, the reverberation even shaking the room a little +where they stood.</p> + +<p>Mortimer went over to her side. He walked unevenly.</p> + +<p>“My dear! For God’s sake—this is sheer nonsense. +Don’t let yourself go like this. I’ll put it straight with +him—it’s all my fault.” He saw by her face that she +did not understand his words; he was saying the wrong +thing altogether; her mind was utterly elsewhere. “He’s +all right,” he went on hurriedly. “He’s out on the lawn +now——”</p> + +<p>He broke off at the sight of her. The horror that +fastened on her brain plastered her face with deathly +whiteness.</p> + +<p>“That was not John at all!” she cried, a wail of misery +and terror in her voice. She rushed to the window and he +followed. To his immense relief a figure moving below<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +was plainly visible. It was John Burley. They saw him +in the faint grey of the dawn, as he crossed the lawn, going +away from the house. He disappeared.</p> + +<p>“There you are! See?” whispered Mortimer reassuringly. +“He’ll be back in——” when a sound in the adjoining +room, heavier, louder than before, cut appallingly +across his words, and Mrs. Burley, with that wailing +scream, fell back into his arms. He caught her only just +in time, for she stiffened into ice, daft with the uncomprehended +terror of it all, and helpless as a child.</p> + +<p>“Darling, my darling—oh, God!” He bent, kissing +her face wildly. He was utterly distraught.</p> + +<p>“Harry! Jack—oh, oh!” she wailed in her anguish. +“It took on his likeness. It deceived us ... to give him +time. He’s done it.”</p> + +<p>She sat up suddenly. “Go,” she said, pointing to the +room beyond, then sank fainting, a dead weight in his +arms.</p> + +<p>He carried her unconscious body to a chair, then entering +the adjoining room he flashed his torch upon the body +of her husband hanging from a bracket in the wall. He +cut it down five minutes too late.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>X<br /> +<br /> +THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT<br /> +<span class="f8">(A NIGHTMARE)</span></h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Professor Mark Ebor</span>, the scientist, led a double +life, and the only persons who knew it were his assistant, +Dr. Laidlaw, and his publishers. But a double life +need not always be a bad one, and, as Dr. Laidlaw and the +gratified publishers well knew, the parallel lives of this +particular man were equally good, and indefinitely produced +would certainly have ended in a heaven somewhere +that can suitably contain such strangely opposite characteristics +as his remarkable personality combined.</p> + +<p>For Mark Ebor, F.R.S., etc., etc., was that unique +combination hardly ever met with in actual life, a man of +science and a mystic.</p> + +<p>As the first, his name stood in the gallery of the great, +and as the second—but there came the mystery! For +under the pseudonym of “Pilgrim” (the author of that +brilliant series of books that appealed to so many), his +identity was as well concealed as that of the anonymous +writer of the weather reports in a daily newspaper. Thousands +read the sanguine, optimistic, stimulating little books +that issued annually from the pen of “Pilgrim,” and thousands +bore their daily burdens better for having read; +while the Press generally agreed that the author, besides +being an incorrigible enthusiast and optimist, was also—a +woman; but no one ever succeeded in penetrating the +veil of anonymity and discovering that “Pilgrim” and the +biologist were one and the same person.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mark Ebor, as Dr. Laidlaw knew him in his laboratory, +was one man; but Mark Ebor, as he sometimes saw +him after work was over, with rapt eyes and ecstatic face, +discussing the possibilities of “union with God” and the +future of the human race, was quite another.</p> + +<p>“I have always held, as you know,” he was saying one +evening as he sat in the little study beyond the laboratory +with his assistant and intimate, “that Vision should play +a large part in the life of the awakened man—not to be +regarded as infallible, of course, but to be observed and +made use of as a guide-post to possibilities——”</p> + +<p>“I am aware of your peculiar views, sir,” the young +doctor put in deferentially, yet with a certain impatience.</p> + +<p>“For Visions come from a region of the consciousness +where observation and experiment are out of the question,” +pursued the other with enthusiasm, not noticing the +interruption, “and, while they should be checked by reason +afterwards, they should not be laughed at or ignored. +All inspiration, I hold, is of the nature of interior Vision, +and all our best knowledge has come—such is my confirmed +belief—as a sudden revelation to the brain prepared to +receive it——”</p> + +<p>“Prepared by hard work first, by concentration, by +the closest possible study of ordinary phenomena,” Dr. +Laidlaw allowed himself to observe.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” sighed the other; “but by a process, none +the less, of spiritual illumination. The best match in the +world will not light a candle unless the wick be first suitably +prepared.”</p> + +<p>It was Laidlaw’s turn to sigh. He knew so well the +impossibility of arguing with his chief when he was in the +regions of the mystic, but at the same time the respect +he felt for his tremendous attainments was so sincere that +he always listened with attention and deference, wondering +how far the great man would go and to what end this +curious combination of logic and “illumination” would +eventually lead him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Only last night,” continued the elder man, a sort of +light coming into his rugged features, “the vision came +to me again—the one that has haunted me at intervals +ever since my youth, and that will not be denied.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Laidlaw fidgeted in his chair.</p> + +<p>“About the Tablets of the Gods, you mean—and that +they lie somewhere hidden in the sands,” he said patiently. +A sudden gleam of interest came into his face as he +turned to catch the professor’s reply.</p> + +<p>“And that I am to be the one to find them, to decipher +them, and to give the great knowledge to the world——”</p> + +<p>“Who will not believe,” laughed Laidlaw shortly, yet +interested in spite of his thinly-veiled contempt.</p> + +<p>“Because even the keenest minds, in the right sense +of the word, are hopelessly—unscientific,” replied the other +gently, his face positively aglow with the memory of his +vision. “Yet what is more likely,” he continued after a +moment’s pause, peering into space with rapt eyes that +saw things too wonderful for exact language to describe, +“than that there should have been given to man in the +first ages of the world some record of the purpose and +problem that had been set him to solve? In a word,” he +cried, fixing his shining eyes upon the face of his perplexed +assistant, “that God’s messengers in the far-off ages should +have given to His creatures some full statement of the +secret of the world, of the secret of the soul, of the meaning +of life and death—the explanation of our being here, +and to what great end we are destined in the ultimate fullness +of things?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Laidlaw sat speechless. These outbursts of mystical +enthusiasm he had witnessed before. With any other man +he would not have listened to a single sentence, but to Professor +Ebor, man of knowledge and profound investigator, +he listened with respect, because he regarded this condition +as temporary and pathological, and in some sense +a reaction from the intense strain of the prolonged mental +concentration of many days.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> + +<p>He smiled, with something between sympathy and +resignation as he met the other’s rapt gaze.</p> + +<p>“But you have said, sir, at other times, that you consider +the ultimate secrets to be screened from all +possible——”</p> + +<p>“The <em>ultimate</em> secrets, yes,” came the unperturbed reply; +“but that there lies buried somewhere an indestructible +record of the secret meaning of life, originally known +to men in the days of their pristine innocence, I am convinced. +And, by this strange vision so often vouchsafed +to me, I am equally sure that one day it shall be given to +me to announce to a weary world this glorious and terrific +message.”</p> + +<p>And he continued at great length and in glowing language +to describe the species of vivid dream that had come +to him at intervals since earliest childhood, showing in +detail how he discovered these very Tablets of the Gods, +and proclaimed their splendid contents—whose precise +nature was always, however, withheld from him in the +vision—to a patient and suffering humanity.</p> + +<p>“The <cite>Scrutator</cite>, sir, well described ‘Pilgrim’ as the +Apostle of Hope,” said the young doctor gently, when he +had finished; “and now, if that reviewer could hear you +speak and realize from what strange depths comes your +simple faith——”</p> + +<p>The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a +little child broke over his face like sunshine in the +morning.</p> + +<p>“Half the good my books do would be instantly +destroyed,” he said sadly; “they would say that I wrote +with my tongue in my cheek. But wait,” he added significantly; +“wait till I find these Tablets of the Gods! Wait +till I hold the solutions of the old world-problems in my +hands! Wait till the light of this new revelation breaks +upon confused humanity, and it wakes to find its bravest +hopes justified! Ah, then, my dear Laidlaw——”</p> + +<p>He broke off suddenly; but the doctor, cleverly guessing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +the thought in his mind, caught him up immediately.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps this very summer,” he said, trying hard to +make the suggestion keep pace with honesty; “in your explorations +in Assyria—your digging in the remote civilization +of what was once Chaldea, you may find—what you +dream of——”</p> + +<p>The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a +fine old face.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” he murmured softly, “perhaps!”</p> + +<p>And the young doctor, thanking the gods of science +that his leader’s aberrations were of so harmless a character, +went home strong in the certitude of his knowledge of +externals, proud that he was able to refer his visions to +self-suggestion, and wondering complaisantly whether in +his old age he might not after all suffer himself from +visitations of the very kind that afflicted his respected +chief.</p> + +<p>And as he got into bed and thought again of his master’s +rugged face, and finely shaped head, and the deep +lines traced by years of work and self-discipline, he turned +over on his pillow and fell asleep with a sigh that was half +of wonder, half of regret.</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>It was in February, nine months later, when Dr. Laidlaw +made his way to Charing Cross to meet his chief +after his long absence of travel and exploration. The +vision about the so-called Tablets of the Gods had meanwhile +passed almost entirely from his memory.</p> + +<p>There were few people in the train, for the stream of +traffic was now running the other way, and he had no difficulty +in finding the man he had come to meet. The shock +of white hair beneath the low-crowned felt hat was alone +enough to distinguish him by easily.</p> + +<p>“Here I am at last!” exclaimed the professor, somewhat +wearily, clasping his friend’s hand as he listened to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +the young doctor’s warm greetings and questions. “Here +I am—a little older, and <em>much</em> dirtier than when you last +saw me!” He glanced down laughingly at his travel-stained +garments.</p> + +<p>“And <em>much</em> wiser,” said Laidlaw, with a smile, as he +bustled about the platform for porters and gave his chief +the latest scientific news.</p> + +<p>At last they came down to practical considerations.</p> + +<p>“And your luggage—where is that? You must have +tons of it, I suppose?” said Laidlaw.</p> + +<p>“Hardly anything,” Professor Ebor answered. “Nothing, +in fact, but what you see.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing but this hand-bag?” laughed the other, thinking +he was joking.</p> + +<p>“And a small portmanteau in the van,” was the quiet +reply. “I have no other luggage.”</p> + +<p>“You have no other luggage?” repeated Laidlaw, turning +sharply to see if he were in earnest.</p> + +<p>“Why should I need more?” the professor added simply.</p> + +<p>Something in the man’s face, or voice, or manner—the +doctor hardly knew which—suddenly struck him as +strange. There was a change in him, a change so profound—so +little on the surface, that is—that at first he had not +become aware of it. For a moment it was as though an +utterly alien personality stood before him in that noisy, +bustling throng. Here, in all the homely, friendly turmoil +of a Charing Cross crowd, a curious feeling of cold +passed over his heart, touching his life with icy finger, so +that he actually trembled and felt afraid.</p> + +<p>He looked up quickly at his friend, his mind working +with startled and unwelcome thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Only this?” he repeated, indicating the bag. “But +where’s all the stuff you went away with? And—have you +brought nothing home—no treasures?”</p> + +<p>“This is all I have,” the other said briefly. The pale +smile that went with the words caused the doctor a second +indescribable sensation of uneasiness. Something was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +very wrong, something was very queer; he wondered now +that he had not noticed it sooner.</p> + +<p>“The rest follows, of course, by slow freight,” he added +tactfully, and as naturally as possible. “But come, sir, +you must be tired and in want of food after your long +journey. I’ll get a taxi at once, and we can see about the +other luggage afterwards.”</p> + +<p>It seemed to him he hardly knew quite what he was +saying; the change in his friend had come upon him so +suddenly and now grew upon him more and more distressingly. +Yet he could not make out exactly in what it +consisted. A terrible suspicion began to take shape in his +mind, troubling him dreadfully.</p> + +<p>“I am neither very tired, nor in need of food, thank +you,” the professor said quietly. “And this is all I have. +There is no luggage to follow. I have brought home nothing—nothing +but what you see.”</p> + +<p>His words conveyed finality. They got into a taxi, +tipped the porter, who had been staring in amazement at +the venerable figure of the scientist, and were conveyed +slowly and noisily to the house in the north of London +where the laboratory was, the scene of their labours of +years.</p> + +<p>And the whole way Professor Ebor uttered no word, +nor did Dr. Laidlaw find the courage to ask a single +question.</p> + +<p>It was only late that night, before he took his departure, +as the two men were standing before the fire in +the study—that study where they had discussed so many +problems of vital and absorbing interest—that Dr. Laidlaw +at last found strength to come to the point with direct +questions. The professor had been giving him a superficial +and desultory account of his travels, of his journeys by +camel, of his encampments among the mountains and in +the desert, and of his explorations among the buried +temples, and, deeper, into the waste of the pre-historic +sands, when suddenly the doctor came to the desired point<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +with a kind of nervous rush, almost like a frightened boy.</p> + +<p>“And you found——” he began stammering, looking +hard at the other’s dreadfully altered face, from which +every line of hope and cheerfulness seemed to have been +obliterated as a sponge wipes markings from a slate—“you +found——”</p> + +<p>“I found,” replied the other, in a solemn voice, and +it was the voice of the mystic rather than the man of +science—“I found what I went to seek. The vision never +once failed me. It led me straight to the place like a +star in the heavens. I found—the Tablets of the Gods.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Laidlaw caught his breath, and steadied himself +on the back of a chair. The words fell like particles of ice +upon his heart. For the first time the professor had uttered +the well-known phrase without the glow of light and wonder +in his face that always accompanied it.</p> + +<p>“You have—brought them?” he faltered.</p> + +<p>“I have brought them home,” said the other, in a +voice with a ring like iron; “and I have—deciphered +them.”</p> + +<p>Profound despair, the bloom of outer darkness, the +dead sound of a hopeless soul freezing in the utter cold +of space seemed to fill in the pauses between the brief +sentences. A silence followed, during which Dr. Laidlaw +saw nothing but the white face before him alternately +fade and return. And it was like the face of a dead man.</p> + +<p>“They are, alas, indestructible,” he heard the voice continue, +with its even, metallic ring.</p> + +<p>“Indestructible,” Laidlaw repeated mechanically, +hardly knowing what he was saying.</p> + +<p>Again a silence of several minutes passed, during +which, with a creeping cold about his heart, he stood +and stared into the eyes of the man he had known and +loved so long—aye, and worshipped, too; the man who had +first opened his own eyes when they were blind, and had +led him to the gates of knowledge, and no little distance +along the difficult path beyond; the man who, in another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +direction, had passed on the strength of his faith into the +hearts of thousands by his books.</p> + +<p>“I may see them?” he asked at last, in a low voice he +hardly recognized as his own. “You will let me know—their +message?”</p> + +<p>Professor Ebor kept his eyes fixedly upon his assistant’s +face as he answered, with a smile that was more like the +grin of death than a living human smile.</p> + +<p>“When I am gone,” he whispered; “when I have passed +away. Then you shall find them and read the translation +I have made. And then, too, in your turn, you must try, +with the latest resources of science at your disposal to aid +you, to compass their utter destruction.” He paused a +moment, and his face grew pale as the face of a corpse. +“Until that time,” he added presently, without looking +up, “I must ask you not to refer to the subject again—and +to keep my confidence meanwhile—<em>ab—so—lute—ly</em>.”</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>A year passed slowly by, and at the end of it Dr. +Laidlaw had found it necessary to sever his working connexion +with his friend and one-time leader. Professor +Ebor was no longer the same man. The light had gone +out of his life; the laboratory was closed; he no longer +put pen to paper or applied his mind to a single problem. +In the short space of a few months he had passed from +a hale and hearty man of late middle life to the condition +of old age—a man collapsed and on the edge of dissolution. +Death, it was plain, lay waiting for him in the shadows +of any day—and he knew it.</p> + +<p>To describe faithfully the nature of this profound alteration +in his character and temperament is not easy, but +Dr. Laidlaw summed it up to himself in three words: <em>Loss +of Hope</em>. The splendid mental powers remained indeed +undimmed, but the incentive to use them—to use them +for the help of others—had gone. The character still held<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +to its fine and unselfish habits of years, but the far goal +to which they had been the leading strings had faded away. +The desire for knowledge—knowledge for its own sake—had +died, and the passionate hope which hitherto had animated +with tireless energy the heart and brain of this +splendidly equipped intellect had suffered total eclipse. +The central fires had gone out. Nothing was worth doing, +thinking, working for. There <em>was</em> nothing to work for +any longer!</p> + +<p>The professor’s first step was to recall as many of his +books as possible; his second to close his laboratory and +stop all research. He gave no explanation, he invited no +questions. His whole personality crumbled away, so to +speak, till his daily life became a mere mechanical process +of clothing the body, feeding the body, keeping it in good +health so as to avoid physical discomfort, and, above all, +doing nothing that could interfere with sleep. The professor +did everything he could to lengthen the hours of +sleep, and therefore of forgetfulness.</p> + +<p>It was all clear enough to Dr. Laidlaw. A weaker man, +he knew, would have sought to lose himself in one form +or another of sensual indulgence—sleeping-draughts, drink, +the first pleasures that came to hand. Self-destruction +would have been the method of a little bolder type; and +deliberate evil-doing, poisoning with his awful knowledge +all he could, the means of still another kind of man. Mark +Ebor was none of these. He held himself under fine control, +facing silently and without complaint the terrible +facts he honestly believed himself to have been unfortunate +enough to discover. Even to his intimate friend and assistant, +Dr. Laidlaw, he vouchsafed no word of true explanation +or lament. He went straight forward to the end, +knowing well that the end was not very far away.</p> + +<p>And death came very quietly one day to him, as he +was sitting in the arm-chair of the study, directly facing +the doors of the laboratory—the doors that no longer +opened. Dr. Laidlaw, by happy chance, was with him at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +the time, and just able to reach his side in response to the +sudden painful efforts for breath; just in time, too, to +catch the murmured words that fell from the pallid lips +like a message from the other side of the grave.</p> + +<p>“Read them, if you must; and, if you can—destroy. +But”—his voice sank so low that Dr. Laidlaw only just +caught the dying syllables—“but—never, never—give them +to the world.”</p> + +<p>And like a grey bundle of dust loosely gathered up in +an old garment the professor sank back into his chair and +expired.</p> + +<p>But this was only the death of the body. His spirit +had died two years before.</p> + + +<h3>4</h3> + +<p>The estate of the dead man was small and uncomplicated, +and Dr. Laidlaw, as sole executor and residuary +legatee, had no difficulty in settling it up. A month after +the funeral he was sitting alone in his upstairs library, the +last sad duties completed, and his mind full of poignant +memories and regrets for the loss of a friend he had +revered and loved, and to whom his debt was so incalculably +great. The last two years, indeed, had been for him terrible. +To watch the swift decay of the greatest combination +of heart and brain he had ever known, and to realize +he was powerless to help, was a source of profound grief +to him that would remain to the end of his days.</p> + +<p>At the same time an insatiable curiosity possessed him. +The study of dementia was, of course, outside his special +province as a specialist, but he knew enough of it to understand +how small a matter might be the actual cause of how +great an illusion, and he had been devoured from the very +beginning by a ceaseless and increasing anxiety to know +what the professor had found in the sands of “Chaldea,” +what these precious Tablets of the Gods might be, and +particularly—for this was the real cause that had sapped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +the man’s sanity and hope—what the inscription was that +he had believed to have deciphered thereon.</p> + +<p>The curious feature of it all to his own mind was, +that whereas his friend had dreamed of finding a message +of glorious hope and comfort, he had apparently found +(so far as he had found anything intelligible at all, and +not invented the whole thing in his dementia) that the +secret of the world, and the meaning of life and death, was +of so terrible a nature that it robbed the heart of courage +and the soul of hope. What, then, could be the contents +of the little brown parcel the professor had bequeathed to +him with his pregnant dying sentences?</p> + +<p>Actually his hand was trembling as he turned to the +writing-table and began slowly to unfasten a small old-fashioned +desk on which the small gilt initials “M.E.” +stood forth as a melancholy memento. He put the key +into the lock and half turned it. Then, suddenly, he +stopped and looked about him. Was that a sound at the +back of the room? It was just as though someone had +laughed and then tried to smother the laugh with a cough. +A slight shiver ran over him as he stood listening.</p> + +<p>“This is absurd,” he said aloud; “too absurd for belief—that +I should be so nervous! It’s the effect of curiosity +unduly prolonged.” He smiled a little sadly and his +eyes wandered to the blue summer sky and the plane trees +swaying in the wind below his window. “It’s the reaction,” +he continued. “The curiosity of two years to be +quenched in a single moment! The nervous tension, of +course, must be considerable.”</p> + +<p>He turned back to the brown desk and opened it without +further delay. His hand was firm now, and he took +out the paper parcel that lay inside without a tremor. +It was heavy. A moment later there lay on the table before +him a couple of weather-worn plaques of grey stone—they +looked like stone, although they felt like metal—on which +he saw markings of a curious character that might have +been the mere tracings of natural forces through the ages,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +or, equally well, the half-obliterated hieroglyphics cut upon +their surface in past centuries by the more or less untutored +hand of a common scribe.</p> + +<p>He lifted each stone in turn and examined it carefully. +It seemed to him that a faint glow of heat passed +from the substance into his skin, and he put them down +again suddenly, as with a gesture of uneasiness.</p> + +<p>“A very clever, or a very imaginative man,” he said to +himself, “who could squeeze the secrets of life and death +from such broken lines as those!”</p> + +<p>Then he turned to a yellow envelope lying beside them +in the desk, with the single word on the outside in the +writing of the professor—the word <em>Translation</em>.</p> + +<p>“Now,” he thought, taking it up with a sudden violence +to conceal his nervousness, “now for the great solution. +Now to learn the meaning of the worlds, and why +mankind was made, and why discipline is worth while, and +sacrifice and pain the true law of advancement.”</p> + +<p>There was the shadow of a sneer in his voice, and yet +something in him shivered at the same time. He held the +envelope as though weighing it in his hand, his mind pondering +many things. Then curiosity won the day, and he +suddenly tore it open with the gesture of an actor who +tears open a letter on the stage, knowing there is no real +writing inside at all.</p> + +<p>A page of finely written script in the late scientist’s +handwriting lay before him. He read it through from +beginning to end, missing no word, uttering each syllable +distinctly under his breath as he read.</p> + +<p>The pallor of his face grew ghastly as he neared the +end. He began to shake all over as with ague. His breath +came heavily in gasps. He still gripped the sheet of +paper, however, and deliberately, as by an intense effort +of will, read it through a second time from beginning to +end. And this time, as the last syllable dropped from +his lips, the whole face of the man flamed with a sudden +and terrible anger. His skin became deep, deep red, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +he clenched his teeth. With all the strength of his vigorous +soul he was struggling to keep control of himself.</p> + +<p>For perhaps five minutes he stood there beside the table +without stirring a muscle. He might have been carved +out of stone. His eyes were shut, and only the heaving +of the chest betrayed the fact that he was a living being. +Then, with a strange quietness, he lit a match and applied +it to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. The ashes +fell slowly about him, piece by piece, and he blew them +from the window-sill into the air, his eyes following them +as they floated away on the summer wind that breathed +so warmly over the world.</p> + +<p>He turned back slowly into the room. Although his +actions and movements were absolutely steady and controlled, +it was clear that he was on the edge of violent +action. A hurricane might burst upon the still room any +moment. His muscles were tense and rigid. Then, suddenly, +he whitened, collapsed, and sank backwards into a +chair, like a tumbled bundle of inert matter. He had +fainted.</p> + +<p>In less than half an hour he recovered consciousness +and sat up. As before, he made no sound. Not a syllable +passed his lips. He rose quietly and looked about the room.</p> + +<p>Then he did a curious thing.</p> + +<p>Taking a heavy stick from the rack in the corner he +approached the mantlepiece, and with a heavy shattering +blow he smashed the clock to pieces. The glass fell in +shivering atoms.</p> + +<p>“Cease your lying voice for ever,” he said, in a curiously +still, even tone. “There is no such thing as <em>time!”</em></p> + +<p>He took the watch from his pocket, swung it round +several times by the long gold chain, smashed it into +smithereens against the wall with a single blow, and then +walked into his laboratory next door, and hung its broken +body on the bones of the skeleton in the corner of the +room.</p> + +<p>“Let one damned mockery hang upon another,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +said smiling oddly. “Delusions, both of you, and cruel as +false!”</p> + +<p>He slowly moved back to the front room. He stopped +opposite the bookcase where stood in a row the “Scriptures +of the World,” choicely bound and exquisitely +printed, the late professor’s most treasured possession, and +next to them several books signed “Pilgrim.”</p> + +<p>One by one he took them from the shelf and hurled +them through the open window.</p> + +<p>“A devil’s dreams! A devil’s foolish dreams!” he +cried, with a vicious laugh.</p> + +<p>Presently he stopped from sheer exhaustion. He turned +his eyes slowly to the wall opposite, where hung a weird +array of Eastern swords and daggers, scimitars and spears, +the collections of many journeys. He crossed the room and +ran his finger along the edge. His mind seemed to waver.</p> + +<p>“No,” he muttered presently; “not that way. There +are easier and better ways than that.”</p> + +<p>He took his hat and passed downstairs into the street.</p> + + +<h3>5</h3> + +<p>It was five o’clock, and the June sun lay hot upon +the pavement. He felt the metal door-knob burn the palm +of his hand.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Laidlaw, this is well met,” cried a voice at his +elbow; “I was in the act of coming to see you. I’ve a case +that will interest you, and besides, I remembered that you +flavoured your tea with orange leaves!—and I admit——”</p> + +<p>It was Alexis Stephen, the great hypnotic doctor.</p> + +<p>“I’ve had no tea to-day,” Laidlaw said, in a dazed +manner, after staring for a moment as though the other +had struck him in the face. A new idea had entered his +mind.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Dr. Stephen quickly. +“Something’s wrong with you. It’s this sudden heat, or +overwork. Come, man, let’s go inside.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> + +<p>A sudden light broke upon the face of the younger +man, the light of a heaven-sent inspiration. He looked +into his friend’s face, and told a direct lie.</p> + +<p>“Odd,” he said, “I myself was just coming to see you. +I have something of great importance to test your confidence +with. But in <em>your</em> house, please,” as Stephen urged +him towards his own door—“in your house. It’s only +round the corner, and I—I cannot go back there—to my +rooms—till I have told you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m your patient—for the moment,” he added stammeringly +as soon as they were seated in the privacy of the +hypnotist’s sanctum, “and I want—er——”</p> + +<p>“My dear Laidlaw,” interrupted the other, in that +soothing voice of command which had suggested to many +a suffering soul that the cure for its pain lay in the powers +of its own reawakened will, “I am always at your service, +as you know. You have only to tell me what I can do +for you, and I will do it.” He showed every desire to +help him out. His manner was indescribably tactful and +direct.</p> + +<p>Dr. Laidlaw looked up into his face.</p> + +<p>“I surrender my will to you,” he said, already calmed +by the other’s healing presence, “and I want you to treat +me hypnotically—and at once. I want you to suggest to +me”—his voice became very tense—“that I shall forget—forget +till I die—everything that has occurred to me during +the last two hours; till I die, mind,” he added, with +solemn emphasis, “till I die.”</p> + +<p>He floundered and stammered like a frightened boy. +Alexis Stephen looked at him fixedly without speaking.</p> + +<p>“And further,” Laidlaw continued, “I want you to ask +me no questions. I wish to forget for ever something I +have recently discovered—something so terrible and yet so +obvious that I can hardly understand why it is not patent +to every mind in the world—for I have had a moment of +absolute <em>clear vision</em>—of merciless clairvoyance. But I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +want no one else in the whole world to know what it is—least +of all, old friend, yourself.”</p> + +<p>He talked in utter confusion, and hardly knew what +he was saying. But the pain on his face and the anguish +in his voice were an instant passport to the other’s heart.</p> + +<p>“Nothing is easier,” replied Dr. Stephen, after a hesitation +so slight that the other probably did not even notice +it. “Come into my other room where we shall not be disturbed. +I can heal you. Your memory of the last two +hours shall be wiped out as though it had never been. +You can trust me absolutely.”</p> + +<p>“I know I can,” Laidlaw said simply, as he followed +him in.</p> + + +<h3>6</h3> + +<p>An hour later they passed back into the front room +again. The sun was already behind the houses opposite, +and the shadows began to gather.</p> + +<p>“I went off easily?” Laidlaw asked.</p> + +<p>“You were a little obstinate at first. But though you +came in like a lion, you went out like a lamb. I let you +sleep a bit afterwards.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Stephen kept his eyes rather steadily upon his +friend’s face.</p> + +<p>“What were you doing by the fire before you came +here?” he asked, pausing, in a casual tone, as he lit a +cigarette and handed the case to his patient.</p> + +<p>“I? Let me see. Oh, I know; I was worrying my +way through poor old Ebor’s papers and things. I’m his +executor, you know. Then I got weary and came out for +a whiff of air.” He spoke lightly and with perfect naturalness. +Obviously he was telling the truth. “I prefer specimens +to papers,” he laughed cheerily.</p> + +<p>“I know, I know,” said Dr. Stephen, holding a lighted +match for the cigarette. His face wore an expression of +content. The experiment had been a complete success.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +The memory of the last two hours was wiped out utterly. +Laidlaw was already chatting gaily and easily about a +dozen other things that interested him. Together they +went out into the street, and at his door Dr. Stephen left +him with a joke and a wry face that made his friend laugh +heartily.</p> + +<p>“Don’t dine on the professor’s old papers by mistake,” +he cried, as he vanished down the street.</p> + +<p>Dr. Laidlaw went up to his study at the top of the +house. Half way down he met his housekeeper, Mrs. +Fewings. She was flustered and excited, and her face was +very red and perspiring.</p> + +<p>“There’ve been burglars here,” she cried excitedly, “or +something funny! All your things is just anyhow, sir. I +found everything all about everywhere!” She was very +confused. In this orderly and very precise establishment +it was unusual to find a thing out of place.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my specimens!” cried the doctor, dashing up the +rest of the stairs at top speed. “Have they been touched +or——”</p> + +<p>He flew to the door of the laboratory. Mrs. Fewings +panted up heavily behind him.</p> + +<p>“The labatry ain’t been touched,” she explained, breathlessly, +“but they smashed the libry clock and they’ve ’ung +your gold watch, sir, on the skelinton’s hands. And the +books that weren’t no value they flung out er the window +just like so much rubbish. They must have been wild +drunk, Dr. Laidlaw, sir!”</p> + +<p>The young scientist made a hurried examination of +the rooms. Nothing of value was missing. He began to +wonder what kind of burglars they were. He looked up +sharply at Mrs. Fewings standing in the doorway. For a +moment he seemed to cast about in his mind for something.</p> + +<p>“Odd,” he said at length. “I only left here an hour +ago and everything was all right then.”</p> + +<p>“Was it, sir? Yes, sir.” She glanced sharply at him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +Her room looked out upon the courtyard, and she must +have seen the books come crashing down, and also have +heard her master leave the house a few minutes later.</p> + +<p>“And what’s this rubbish the brutes have left?” he +cried, taking up two slabs of worn gray stone, on the writing-table. +“Bath brick, or something, I do declare.”</p> + +<p>He looked very sharply again at the confused and +troubled housekeeper.</p> + +<p>“Throw them on the dust heap, Mrs. Fewings, and—and +let me know if anything is missing in the house, and +I will notify the police this evening.”</p> + +<p>When she left the room he went into the laboratory +and took his watch off the skeleton’s fingers. His face +wore a troubled expression, but after a moment’s thought +it cleared again. His memory was a complete blank.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I left it on the writing-table when I went +out to take the air,” he said. And there was no one present +to contradict him.</p> + +<p>He crossed to the window and blew carelessly some +ashes of burned paper from the sill, and stood watching +them as they floated away lazily over the tops of the trees.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>XI<br /> +<br /> +THE EMPTY SLEEVE</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> Gilmer brothers were a couple of fussy and pernickety +old bachelors of a rather retiring, not to say +timid, disposition. There was grey in the pointed beard +of John, the elder, and if any hair had remained to William +it would also certainly have been of the same shade. They +had private means. Their main interest in life was the +collection of violins, for which they had the instinctive +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">flair</i> of true connoisseurs. Neither John nor William, however, +could play a single note. They could only pluck the +open strings. The production of tone, so necessary before +purchase, was done vicariously for them by another.</p> + +<p>The only objection they had to the big building in +which they occupied the roomy top floor was that Morgan, +liftman and caretaker, insisted on wearing a billycock with +his uniform after six o’clock in the evening, with a result +disastrous to the beauty of the universe. For “Mr. Morgan,” +as they called him between themselves, had a round +and pasty face on the top of a round and conical body. In +view, however, of the man’s other rare qualities—including +his devotion to themselves—this objection was not +serious.</p> + +<p>He had another peculiarity that amused them. On being +found fault with, he explained nothing, but merely +repeated the words of the complaint.</p> + +<p>“Water in the bath wasn’t really hot this morning, +Morgan!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Water in the bath not reely ’ot, wasn’t it, sir?”</p> + +<p>Or, from William, who was something of a faddist:</p> + +<p>“My jar of sour milk came up late yesterday, Morgan.”</p> + +<p>“Your jar sour milk come up late, sir, yesterday?”</p> + +<p>Since, however, the statement of a complaint invariably +resulted in its remedy, the brothers had learned to +look for no further explanation. Next morning the bath +<em>was</em> hot, the sour milk <em>was</em> “brortup” punctually. The +uniform and billycock hat, though, remained an eyesore +and source of oppression.</p> + +<p>On this particular night John Gilmer, the elder, returning +from a Masonic rehearsal, stepped into the lift and +found Mr. Morgan with his hand ready on the iron rope.</p> + +<p>“Fog’s very thick outside,” said Mr. John pleasantly; +and the lift was a third of the way up before Morgan had +completed his customary repetition: “Fog very thick outside, +yes, sir.” And Gilmer then asked casually if his +brother were alone, and received the reply that Mr. Hyman +had called and had not yet gone away.</p> + +<p>Now this Mr. Hyman was a Hebrew, and, like themselves, +a connoisseur in violins, but, unlike themselves, +who only kept their specimens to look at, he was a skilful +and exquisite player. He was the only person they ever +permitted to handle their pedigree instruments, to take +them from the glass cases where they reposed in silent +splendour, and to draw the sound out of their wondrous +painted hearts of golden varnish. The brothers loathed +to see his fingers touch them, yet loved to hear their singing +voices in the room, for the latter confirmed their +sound judgment as collectors, and made them certain their +money had been well spent. Hyman, however, made no +attempt to conceal his contempt and hatred for the mere +collector. The atmosphere of the room fairly pulsed with +these opposing forces of silent emotion when Hyman played +and the Gilmers, alternately writhing and admiring, listened. +The occasions, however, were not frequent. The +Hebrew only came by invitation, and both brothers made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +a point of being in. It was a very formal proceeding—something +of a sacred rite almost.</p> + +<p>John Gilmer, therefore, was considerably surprised by +the information Morgan had supplied. For one thing, +Hyman, he had understood, was away on the Continent.</p> + +<p>“Still in there, you say?” he repeated, after a moment’s +reflection.</p> + +<p>“Still in there, Mr. John, sir.” Then, concealing his +surprise from the liftman, he fell back upon his usual mild +habit of complaining about the billycock hat and the uniform.</p> + +<p>“You really should try and remember, Morgan,” he +said, though kindly. “That hat does <em>not</em> go well with that +uniform!”</p> + +<p>Morgan’s pasty countenance betrayed no vestige of expression. +“’At don’t go well with the yewniform, sir,” +he repeated, hanging up the disreputable bowler and replacing +it with a gold-braided cap from the peg. “No, sir, it +don’t, do it?” he added cryptically, smiling at the transformation +thus effected.</p> + +<p>And the lift then halted with an abrupt jerk at the +top floor. By somebody’s carelessness the landing was in +darkness, and, to make things worse, Morgan, clumsily +pulling the iron rope, happened to knock the billycock from +its peg so that his sleeve, as he stooped to catch it, struck +the switch and plunged the scene in a moment’s complete +obscurity.</p> + +<p>And it was then, in the act of stepping out before the +light was turned on again, that John Gilmer stumbled +against something that shot along the landing past the +open door. First he thought it must be a child, then a +man, then—an animal. Its movement was rapid yet +stealthy. Starting backwards instinctively to allow it room +to pass, Gilmer collided in the darkness with Morgan, and +Morgan incontinently screamed. There was a moment of +stupid confusion. The heavy framework of the lift shook +a little, as though something had stepped into it and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +as quickly jumped out again. A rushing sound followed +that resembled footsteps, yet at the same time was more +like gliding—someone in soft slippers or stockinged feet, +greatly hurrying. Then came silence again. Morgan +sprang to the landing and turned up the electric light. +Mr. Gilmer, at the same moment, did likewise to the +switch in the lift. Light flooded the scene. Nothing was +visible.</p> + +<p>“Dog or cat, or something, I suppose, wasn’t it?” exclaimed +Gilmer, following the man out and looking round +with bewildered amazement upon a deserted landing. He +knew quite well, even while he spoke, that the words were +foolish.</p> + +<p>“Dog or cat, yes, sir, or—something,” echoed Morgan, +his eyes narrowed to pin-points, then growing large, but his +face stolid.</p> + +<p>“The light should have been on.” Mr. Gilmer spoke +with a touch of severity. The little occurrence had curiously +disturbed his equanimity. He felt annoyed, upset, +uneasy.</p> + +<p>For a perceptible pause the liftman made no reply, +and his employer, looking up, saw that, besides being flustered, +he was white about the jaws. His voice, when he +spoke, was without its normal assurance. This time he +did not merely repeat. He explained.</p> + +<p>“The light <em>was</em> on, sir, when last <em>I</em> come up!” he said, +with emphasis, obviously speaking the truth. “Only a +moment ago,” he added.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gilmer, for some reason, felt disinclined to press +for explanations. He decided to ignore the matter.</p> + +<p>Then the lift plunged down again into the depths like +a diving-bell into water; and John Gilmer, pausing a +moment first to reflect, let himself in softly with his latch-key, +and, after hanging up hat and coat in the hall, entered +the big sitting-room he and his brother shared in common.</p> + +<p>The December fog that covered London like a dirty +blanket had penetrated, he saw, into the room. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +objects in it were half shrouded in the familiar yellowish +haze.</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>In dressing-gown and slippers, William Gilmer, almost +invisible in his armchair by the gas-stove across the room, +spoke at once. Through the thick atmosphere his face +gleamed, showing an extinguished pipe hanging from his +lips. His tone of voice conveyed emotion, an emotion +he sought to suppress, of a quality, however, not easy to +define.</p> + +<p>“Hyman’s been here,” he announced abruptly. “You +must have met him. He’s this very instant gone out.”</p> + +<p>It was quite easy to see that something had happened, +for “scenes” leave disturbance behind them in the atmosphere. +But John made no immediate reference to this. He +replied that he had seen no one—which was strictly true—and +his brother thereupon, sitting bolt upright in the +chair, turned quickly and faced him. His skin, in the +foggy air, seemed paler than before.</p> + +<p>“That’s odd,” he said nervously.</p> + +<p>“What’s odd?” asked John.</p> + +<p>“That you didn’t see—anything. You ought to have +run into one another on the doorstep.” His eyes went +peering about the room. He was distinctly ill at ease. +“You’re positive you saw no one? Did Morgan take him +down before you came? Did Morgan see him?” He +asked several questions at once.</p> + +<p>“On the contrary, Morgan told me he was still here +with you. Hyman probably walked down, and didn’t take +the lift at all,” he replied. “That accounts for neither of +us seeing him.” He decided to say nothing about the +occurrence in the lift, for his brother’s nerves, he saw +plainly, were on edge.</p> + +<p>William then stood up out of his chair, and the skin +of his face changed its hue, for whereas a moment ago it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +was merely pale, it had now altered to a tint that lay somewhere +between white and a livid grey. The man was +fighting internal terror. For a moment these two brothers +of middle age looked each other straight in the eye. Then +John spoke:</p> + +<p>“What’s wrong, Billy?” he asked quietly. “Something’s +upset you. What brought Hyman in this way—unexpectedly? +I thought he was still in Germany.”</p> + +<p>The brothers, affectionate and sympathetic, understood +one another perfectly. They had no secrets. Yet for +several minutes the younger one made no reply. It seemed +difficult to choose his words apparently.</p> + +<p>“Hyman played, I suppose—on the fiddles?” John +helped him, wondering uneasily what was coming. He +did not care much for the individual in question, though +his talent was of such great use to them.</p> + +<p>The other nodded in the affirmative, then plunged into +rapid speech, talking under his breath as though he feared +someone might overhear. Glancing over his shoulder down +the foggy room, he drew his brother close.</p> + +<p>“Hyman came,” he began, “unexpectedly. He hadn’t +written, and I hadn’t asked him. You hadn’t either, I +suppose?”</p> + +<p>John shook his head.</p> + +<p>“When I came in from the dining-room I found him +in the passage. The servant was taking away the dishes, +and he had let himself in while the front door was ajar. +Pretty cool, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“He’s an original,” said John, shrugging his +shoulders. “And you welcomed him?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I asked him in, of course. He explained he had +something glorious for me to hear. Silenski had played +it in the afternoon, and he had bought the music since. +But Silenski’s ‘Strad’ hadn’t the power—it’s thin on the +upper strings, you remember, unequal, patchy—and he +said no instrument in the world could do it justice but our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +‘Joseph’-the small Guarnerius, you know, which he swears +is the most perfect in the world.”</p> + +<p>“And what was it? Did he play it?” asked John, +growing more uneasy as he grew more interested. With +relief he glanced round and saw the matchless little instrument +lying there safe and sound in its glass case near the +door.</p> + +<p>“He played it—divinely: a Zigeuner Lullaby, a fine, +passionate, rushing bit of inspiration, oddly misnamed +‘lullaby.’ And, fancy, the fellow had memorized it already! +He walked about the room on tiptoe while he played it, +complaining of the light——”</p> + +<p>“Complaining of the light?”</p> + +<p>“Said the thing was crepuscular, and needed dusk for +its full effect. I turned the lights out one by one, till +finally there was only the glow of the gas logs. He +insisted. You know that way he has with him? And +then he got over me in another matter: insisted on using +some special strings he had brought with him, and put +them on, too, himself—thicker than the A and E <em>we</em> use.”</p> + +<p>For though neither Gilmer could produce a note, it +was their pride that they kept their precious instruments in +perfect condition for playing, choosing the exact thickness +and quality of strings that suited the temperament of each +violin; and the little Guarnerius in question always “sang” +best, they held, with thin strings.</p> + +<p>“Infernal insolence,” exclaimed the listening brother, +wondering what was coming next. “Played it well, +though, didn’t he, this Lullaby thing?” he added, seeing +that William hesitated. As he spoke he went nearer, sitting +down close beside him in a leather chair.</p> + +<p>“Magnificent! Pure fire of genius!” was the reply +with enthusiasm, the voice at the same time dropping +lower. “Staccato like a silver hammer; harmonics like +flutes, clear, soft, ringing; and the tone—well, the G string +was a baritone, and the upper registers creamy and mellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +as a boy’s voice. John,” he added, “that Guarnerius +is the very pick of the period and”—again he hesitated—“Hyman +loves it. He’d give his soul to have it.”</p> + +<p>The more John heard, the more uncomfortable it made +him. He had always disliked this gifted Hebrew, for in +his secret heart he knew that he had always feared and +distrusted him. Sometimes he had felt half afraid of him; +the man’s very forcible personality was too insistent to be +pleasant. His type was of the dark and sinister kind, and +he possessed a violent will that rarely failed of accomplishing +its desire.</p> + +<p>“Wish I’d heard the fellow play,” he said at length, +ignoring his brother’s last remark, and going on to speak +of the most matter-of-fact details he could think of. “Did +he use the Dodd bow, or the Tourte? That Dodd I picked +up last month, you know, is the most perfectly balanced I +have ever——”</p> + +<p>He stopped abruptly, for William had suddenly got +upon his feet and was standing there, searching the room +with his eyes. A chill ran down John’s spine as he watched +him.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Billy?” he asked sharply. “Hear anything?”</p> + +<p>William continued to peer about him through the thick +air.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing, probably,” he said, an odd catch in his +voice; “only—— I keep feeling as if there was somebody +listening. Do you think, perhaps”—he glanced over +his shoulder—“there is someone at the door? I wish—I +wish you’d have a look, John.”</p> + +<p>John obeyed, though without great eagerness. Crossing +the room slowly, he opened the door, then switched on +the light. The passage leading past the bathroom towards +the bedrooms beyond was empty. The coats hung +motionless from their pegs.</p> + +<p>“No one, of course,” he said, as he closed the door +and came back to the stove. He left the light burning in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +the passage. It was curious the way both brothers had +this impression that they were not alone, though only +one of them spoke of it.</p> + +<p>“Used the Dodd or the Tourte, Billy—which?” continued +John in the most natural voice he could assume.</p> + +<p>But at that very same instant the water started to his +eyes. His brother, he saw, was close upon the thing he +really had to tell. But he had stuck fast.</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>By a great effort John Gilmer composed himself and +remained in his chair. With detailed elaboration he lit a +cigarette, staring hard at his brother over the flaring match +while he did so. There he sat in his dressing-gown and +slippers by the fireplace, eyes downcast, fingers playing +idly with the red tassel. The electric light cast heavy +shadows across the face. In a flash then, since emotion +may sometimes express itself in attitude even better than +in speech, the elder brother understood that Billy was +about to tell him an unutterable thing.</p> + +<p>By instinct he moved over to his side so that the same +view of the room confronted him.</p> + +<p>“Out with it, old man,” he said, with an effort to be +natural. “Tell me what you saw.”</p> + +<p>Billy shuffled slowly round and the two sat side by +side, facing the fog-draped chamber.</p> + +<p>“It was like this,” he began softly, “only I was standing +instead of sitting, looking over to that door as you and +I do now. Hyman moved to and fro in the faint glow +of the gas logs against the far wall, playing that ‘crepuscular’ +thing in his most inspired sort of way, so that +the music seemed to issue from himself rather than from +the shining bit of wood under his chin, when—I noticed +something coming over me that was”—he hesitated, searching +for words—“that wasn’t <em>all</em> due to the music,” he finished +abruptly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> + +<p>“His personality put a bit of hypnotism on you, eh?”</p> + +<p>William shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“The air was thickish with fog and the light was dim, +cast upwards upon him from the stove,” he continued. +“I admit all that. But there wasn’t light enough to throw +shadows, you see, and——”</p> + +<p>“Hyman looked queer?” the other helped him quickly.</p> + +<p>Billy nodded his head without turning.</p> + +<p>“Changed there before my very eyes”—he whispered +it—“turned animal——”</p> + +<p>“Animal?” John felt his hair rising.</p> + +<p>“That’s the only way I can put it. His face and hands +and body turned otherwise than usual. I lost the sound +of his feet. When the bow-hand or the fingers on the +strings passed into the light, they were”—he uttered a +soft, shuddering little laugh—“furry, oddly divided, the +fingers massed together. And he paced stealthily. I +thought every instant the fiddle would drop with a crash +and he would spring at me across the room.”</p> + +<p>“My dear chap——”</p> + +<p>“He moved with those big, lithe, striding steps one +sees”—John held his breath in the little pause, listening +keenly—“one sees those big brutes make in the cages when +their desire is aflame for food or escape, or—or fierce, passionate +desire for anything they want with their whole +nature——”</p> + +<p>“The big felines!” John whistled softly.</p> + +<p>“And every minute getting nearer and nearer to the +door, as though he meant to make a sudden rush for it +and get out.”</p> + +<p>“With the violin! Of course you stopped him?”</p> + +<p>“In the end. But for a long time, I swear to you, I +found it difficult to know what to do, even to move. I +couldn’t get my voice for words of any kind; it was like +a spell.”</p> + +<p>“It <em>was</em> a spell,” suggested John firmly.</p> + +<p>“Then, as he moved, still playing,” continued the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +other, “he seemed to grow smaller; to shrink down below +the line of the gas. I thought I should lose sight of him +altogether. I turned the light up suddenly. There he +was over by the door—crouching.”</p> + +<p>“Playing on his knees, you mean?”</p> + +<p>William closed his eyes in an effort to visualize it +again.</p> + +<p>“Crouching,” he repeated, at length, “close to the floor. +At least, I think so. It all happened so quickly, and I +felt so bewildered, it was hard to see straight. But at +first I could have sworn he was half his natural size. I +called to him, I think I swore at him—I forget exactly, +but I know he straightened up at once and stood before me +down there in the light”—he pointed across the room to +the door—“eyes gleaming, face white as chalk, perspiring +like midsummer, and gradually filling out, straightening +up, whatever you like to call it, to his natural size and appearance +again. It was the most horrid thing I’ve ever +seen.”</p> + +<p>“As an—animal, you saw him still?”</p> + +<p>“No; human again. Only much smaller.”</p> + +<p>“What did he say?”</p> + +<p>Billy reflected a moment.</p> + +<p>“Nothing that I can remember,” he replied. “You +see, it was all over in a few seconds. In the full light, I +felt so foolish, and nonplussed at first. To see him normal +again baffled me. And, before I could collect myself, he +had let himself out into the passage, and I heard the front +door slam. A minute later—the same second almost, it +seemed—you came in. I only remember grabbing the violin +and getting it back safely under the glass case. The +strings were still vibrating.”</p> + +<p>The account was over. John asked no further questions. +Nor did he say a single word about the lift, Morgan, +or the extinguished light on the landing. There fell +a longish silence between the two men; and then, while +they helped themselves to a generous supply of whisky-and-soda<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +before going to bed, John looked up and spoke:</p> + +<p>“If you agree, Billy,” he said quietly, “I think I might +write and suggest to Hyman that we shall no longer have +need for his services.”</p> + +<p>And Billy, acquiescing, added a sentence that expressed +something of the singular dread lying but half concealed +in the atmosphere of the room, if not in their minds as +well:</p> + +<p>“Putting it, however, in a way that need not offend +him.”</p> + +<p>“Of course. There’s no need to be rude, is there?”</p> + +<p>Accordingly, next morning the letter was written; and +John, saying nothing to his brother, took it round himself +by hand to the Hebrew’s rooms near Euston. The answer +he dreaded was forthcoming:</p> + +<p>“Mr. Hyman’s still away abroad,” he was told. “But +we’re forwarding letters; yes. Or I can give you ’is +address if you’ll prefer it.” The letter went, therefore, +to the number in Königstrasse, Munich, thus obtained.</p> + +<p>Then, on his way back from the insurance company +where he went to increase the sum that protected the small +Guarnerius from loss by fire, accident, or theft, John +Gilmer called at the offices of certain musical agents and +ascertained that Silenski, the violinist, was performing at +the time in Munich. It was only some days later, though, +by diligent inquiry, he made certain that at a concert on +a certain date the famous virtuoso had played a Zigeuner +Lullaby of his own composition—the very date, it turned +out, on which he himself had been to the Masonic rehearsal +at Mark Masons’ Hall.</p> + +<p>John, however, said nothing of these discoveries to +his brother William.</p> + + +<h3>4</h3> + +<p>It was about a week later when a reply to the letter +came from Munich—a letter couched in somewhat offensive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +terms, though it contained neither words nor phrases that +could actually be found fault with. Isidore Hyman was +hurt and angry. On his return to London a month or so +later, he proposed to call and talk the matter over. The +offensive part of the letter lay, perhaps, in his definite +assumption that he could persuade the brothers to resume +the old relations. John, however, wrote a brief reply to +the effect that they had decided to buy no new fiddles; +their collection being complete, there would be no occasion +for them to invite his services as a performer. This +was final. No answer came, and the matter seemed to +drop. Never for one moment, though, did it leave the +consciousness of John Gilmer. Hyman had said that he +would come, and come assuredly he would. He secretly +gave Morgan instructions that he and his brother for the +future were always “out” when the Hebrew presented himself.</p> + +<p>“He must have gone back to Germany, you see, almost +at once after his visit here that night,” observed William—John, +however, making no reply.</p> + +<p>One night towards the middle of January the two +brothers came home together from a concert in Queen’s +Hall, and sat up later than usual in their sitting-room +discussing over their whisky and tobacco the merits of the +pieces and performers. It must have been past one o’clock +when they turned out the lights in the passage and retired +to bed. The air was still and frosty; moonlight over the +roofs—one of those sharp and dry winter nights that now +seem to visit London rarely.</p> + +<p>“Like the old-fashioned days when we were boys,” remarked +William, pausing a moment by the passage window +and looking out across the miles of silvery, sparkling +roofs.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” added John; “the ponds freezing hard in the +fields, rime on the nursery windows, and the sound of a +horse’s hoofs coming down the road in the distance, eh?” +They smiled at the memory, then said good night, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +separated. Their rooms were at opposite ends of the corridor; +in between were the bathroom, dining-room, and +sitting-room. It was a long, straggling flat. Half an hour +later both brothers were sound asleep, the flat silent, only +a dull murmur rising from the great city outside, and the +moon sinking slowly to the level of the chimneys.</p> + +<p>Perhaps two hours passed, perhaps three, when John +Gilmer, sitting up in bed with a start, wide-awake and +frightened, knew that someone was moving about in one +of the three rooms that lay between him and his brother. +He had absolutely no idea why he should have been frightened, +for there was no dream or nightmare-memory that +he brought over from unconsciousness, and yet he realized +plainly that the fear he felt was by no means a foolish and +unreasoning fear. It had a cause and a reason. Also—which +made it worse—it was fully warranted. Something +in his sleep, forgotten in the instant of waking, had happened +that set every nerve in his body on the watch. He +was positive only of two things—first, that it was the +entrance of this person, moving so quietly there in the +flat, that sent the chills down his spine; and, secondly, +that this person was <em>not</em> his brother William.</p> + +<p>John Gilmer was a timid man. The sight of a burglar, +his eyes black-masked, suddenly confronting him in the +passage, would most likely have deprived him of all power +of decision—until the burglar had either shot him or +escaped. But on this occasion some instinct told him that +it was no burglar, and that the acute distress he experienced +was not due to any message of ordinary physical +fear. The thing that had gained access to his flat while +he slept had first come—he felt sure of it—into his room, +and had passed very close to his own bed, before going on. +It had then doubtless gone to his brother’s room, visiting +them both stealthily to make sure they slept. And its +mere passage through his room had been enough to wake +him and set these drops of cold perspiration upon his skin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +For it was—he felt it in every fibre of his body—something +hostile.</p> + +<p>The thought that it might at that very moment be in +the room of his brother, however, brought him to his feet +on the cold floor, and set him moving with all the determination +he could summon towards the door. He looked +cautiously down an utterly dark passage; then crept on +tiptoe along it. On the wall were old-fashioned weapons +that had belonged to his father; and feeling a curved, +sheathless sword that had come from some Turkish campaign +of years gone by, his fingers closed tightly round +it, and lifted it silently from the three hooks whereon it +lay. He passed the doors of the bathroom and dining-room, +making instinctively for the big sitting-room where +the violins were kept in their glass cases. The cold nipped +him. His eyes smarted with the effort to see in the darkness. +Outside the closed door he hesitated.</p> + +<p>Putting his ear to the crack, he listened. From within +came a faint sound of someone moving. The same instant +there rose the sharp, delicate “ping” of a violin-string +being plucked; and John Gilmer, with nerves that shook +like the vibrations of that very string, opened the door +wide with a fling and turned on the light at the same +moment. The plucked string still echoed faintly in the +air.</p> + +<p>The sensation that met him on the threshold was the +well-known one that things had been going on in the +room which his unexpected arrival had that instant put a +stop to. A second earlier and he would have discovered +it all in the act. The atmosphere still held the feeling +of rushing, silent movement with which the things had +raced back to their normal, motionless positions. The +immobility of the furniture was a mere attitude hurriedly +assumed, and the moment his back was turned the whole +business, whatever it might be, would begin again. With +this presentment of the room, however—a purely imaginative +one—came another, swiftly on its heels.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> + +<p>For one of the objects, less swift than the rest, had not +quite regained its “attitude” of repose. It still moved. +Below the window curtains on the right, not far from the +shelf that bore the violins in their glass cases, he made it +out, slowly gliding along the floor. Then, even as his eye +caught it, it came to rest.</p> + +<p>And, while the cold perspiration broke out all over +him afresh, he knew that this still moving item was the +cause both of his waking and of his terror. This was +the disturbance whose presence he had divined in the flat +without actual hearing, and whose passage through his +room, while he yet slept, had touched every nerve in his +body as with ice. Clutching his Turkish sword tightly, +he drew back with the utmost caution against the wall +and watched, for the singular impression came to him +that the movement was not that of a human being crouching, +but rather of something that pertained to the animal +world. He remembered, flash-like, the movements of reptiles, +the stealth of the larger felines, the undulating glide +of great snakes. For the moment, however, it did not +move, and they faced one another.</p> + +<p>The other side of the room was but dimly lighted, +and the noise he made clicking up another electric lamp +brought the thing flying forward again—towards himself. +At such a moment it seemed absurd to think of so small +a detail, but he remembered his bare feet, and, genuinely +frightened, he leaped upon a chair and swished with his +sword through the air about him. From this better point +of view, with the increased light to aid him, he then saw +two things—first, that the glass case usually covering the +Guarnerius violin had been shifted; and, secondly, that +the moving object was slowly elongating itself into an upright +position. Semi-erect, yet most oddly, too, like a +creature on its hind legs, it was coming swiftly towards +him. It was making for the door—and escape.</p> + +<p>The confusion of ghostly fear was somehow upon him +so that he was too bewildered to see clearly, but he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +sufficient self-control, it seemed, to recover a certain power +of action; for the moment the advancing figure was near +enough for him to strike, that curved scimitar flashed +and whirred about him, with such misdirected violence, +however, that he not only failed to strike it even once, +but at the same time lost his balance and fell forward from +the chair whereon he perched—straight into it.</p> + +<p>And then came the most curious thing of all, for as +he dropped, the figure also dropped, stooped low down, +crouched, dwindled amazingly in size, and rushed past him +close to the ground like an animal on all fours. John +Gilmer screamed, for he could no longer contain himself. +Stumbling over the chair as he turned to follow, cutting +and slashing wildly with his sword, he saw halfway down +the darkened corridor beyond the scuttling outline of, apparently, +an enormous—cat!</p> + +<p>The door into the outer landing was somehow ajar, and +the next second the beast was out, but not before the steel +had fallen with a crashing blow upon the front disappearing +leg, almost severing it from the body.</p> + +<p>It was dreadful. Turning up the lights as he went, he +ran after it to the outer landing. But the thing he followed +was already well away, and he heard, on the floor +below him, the same oddly gliding, slithering, stealthy +sound, yet hurrying, that he had heard weeks before when +something had passed him in the lift and Morgan, in his +terror, had likewise cried aloud.</p> + +<p>For a time he stood there on that dark landing, listening, +thinking, trembling; then turned into the flat and shut +the door. In the sitting-room he carefully replaced the +glass case over the treasured violin, puzzled to the point of +foolishness, and strangely routed in his mind. For the +violin itself, he saw, had been dragged several inches from +its cushioned bed of plush.</p> + +<p>Next morning, however, he made no allusion to the +occurrence of the night. His brother apparently had not +been disturbed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>5</h3> + +<p>The only thing that called for explanation—an explanation +not fully forthcoming—was the curious aspect of Mr. +Morgan’s countenance. The fact that this individual gave +notice to the owners of the building, and at the end of the +month left for a new post, was, of course, known to both +brothers; whereas the story he told in explanation of his +face was known only to the one who questioned him about +it—John. And John, for reasons best known to himself, +did not pass it on to the other. Also, for reasons best +known to himself, he did not cross-question the liftman +about those singular marks, or report the matter to the +police.</p> + +<p>Mr. Morgan’s pasty visage was badly scratched, and +there were red lines running from the cheek into the neck +that had the appearance of having been produced by sharp +points viciously applied—claws. He had been disturbed +by a noise in the hall, he said, about three in the morning, +a scuffle had ensued in the darkness, but the intruder had +got clear away....</p> + +<p>“A cat or something of the kind, no doubt,” suggested +John Gilmer at the end of the brief recital. And Morgan +replied in his usual way: “A cat, or something of the kind, +Mr. John, no doubt.”</p> + +<p>All the same, he had not cared to risk a second encounter, +but had departed to wear his billycock and uniform +in a building less haunted.</p> + +<p>Hyman, meanwhile, made no attempt to call and talk +over his dismissal. The reason for this was only apparent, +however, several months later when, quite by chance, coming +along Piccadilly in an omnibus, the brothers found +themselves seated opposite to a man with a thick black +beard and blue glasses. William Gilmer hastily rang the +bell and got out, saying something half intelligible about +feeling faint. John followed him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Did you see who it was?” he whispered to his brother +the moment they were safely on the pavement.</p> + +<p>John nodded.</p> + +<p>“Hyman, in spectacles. He’s grown a beard, too.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but did you also notice——”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“He had an empty sleeve.”</p> + +<p>“An empty sleeve?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said William; “he’s lost an arm.”</p> + +<p>There was a long pause before John spoke. At the +door of their club the elder brother added:</p> + +<p>“Poor devil! He’ll never again play on”—then, suddenly +changing the preposition—“<em>with</em> a pedigree violin!”</p> + +<p>And that night in the flat, after William had gone to +bed, he looked up a curious old volume he had once picked +up on a second-hand bookstall, and read therein quaint +descriptions of how the “desire-body of a violent man” +may assume animal shape, operate on concrete matter even +at a distance; and, further, how a wound inflicted thereon +can reproduce itself upon its physical counterpart by means +of the mysterious so-called phenomenon of “re-percussion.”</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>XII<br /> +<br /> +WIRELESS CONFUSION</h2> + + +<p>“Good night, Uncle,” whispered the child, as she +climbed on to his knee and gave him a resounding +kiss. “It’s time for me to disappop into bed—at least, so +mother says.”</p> + +<p>“Disappop, then,” he replied, returning her kiss, +“although I doubt....”</p> + +<p>He hesitated. He remembered the word was her father’s +invention, descriptive of the way rabbits pop into their +holes and disappear, and the way <em>good</em> children should +leave the room the instant bed-time was announced. The +father—his twin brother—seemed to enter the room and +stand beside them. “Then give me another kiss, and disappop!” +he said quickly. The child obeyed the first part +of his injunction, but had not obeyed the second when the +queer thing happened. She had not left his knee; he was +still holding her at the full stretch of both arms; he was +staring into her laughing eyes, when she suddenly went +far away into an extraordinary distance. She retired. +Minute, tiny, but still in perfect proportion and clear as +before, she was withdrawn in space till she was small as a +doll. He saw his own hands holding her, and they too were +minute. Down this long corridor of space, as it were, he +saw her diminutive figure.</p> + +<p>“Uncle!” she cried, yet her voice was loud as before, +“but what a funny face! You’re pretending you’ve seen a +ghost”—and she was gone from his knee and from the +room, the door closing quietly behind her. He saw her +cross the floor, a tiny figure. Then, just as she reached the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +door, she became of normal size again, as if she crossed +a line.</p> + +<p>He felt dizzy. The loud voice close to his ear issuing +from a diminutive figure half a mile away had a distressing +effect upon him. He knew a curious qualm as he sat +there in the dark. He heard the wind walking round the +house, trying the doors and windows. He was troubled +by a memory he could not seize.</p> + +<p>Yet the emotion instantly resolved itself into one of personal +anxiety: something had gone wrong with his eyes. +Sight, his most precious possession as an artist, was of +course affected. He was conscious of a little trembling in +him, as he at once began trying his sight at various objects—his +hands, the high ceiling, the trees dim in the twilight +on the lawn outside. He opened a book and read half a +dozen lines, at changing distances; finally he stared carefully +at the second hand of his watch. “Right as a trivet!” +he exclaimed aloud. He emitted a long sigh; he was immensely +relieved. “Nothing wrong with my eyes.”</p> + +<p>He thought about the actual occurrence a great deal—he +felt as puzzled as any other normal person must have +felt. While he held the child actually in his arms, gripping +her with both hands, he had seen her suddenly half a +mile away. “Half a mile!” he repeated under his breath, +“why it was even more, it was easily a mile.” It had been +exactly as though he suddenly looked at her down the +wrong end of a powerful telescope. It had really happened; +he could not explain it; there was no more to be +said.</p> + +<p>This was the first time it happened to him.</p> + +<p>At the theatre, a week later, when the phenomenon was +repeated, the stage he was watching fixedly at the moment +went far away, as though he saw it from a long way off. +The distance, so far as he could judge, was the same as +before, about a mile. It was an Eastern scene, realistically +costumed and produced, that without an instant’s warning +withdrew. The entire stage went with it, although he did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +not actually see it go. He did not see movement, that is. +It was suddenly remote, while yet the actors’ voices, the +orchestra, the general hubbub retained their normal +volume. He experienced again the distressing dizziness; +he closed his eyes, covering them with his hand, then rubbing +the eyeballs slightly; and when he looked up the next +minute, the world was as it should be, as it had been, at +any rate. Unwilling to experience a repetition of the +thing in a public place, however, and fortunately being +alone, he left the theatre at the end of the act.</p> + +<p>Twice this happened to him, once with an individual, +his brother’s child, and once with a landscape, an Eastern +stage scene. Both occurrences were within the week, during +which time he had been considering a visit to the +oculist, though without putting his decision into execution. +He was the kind of man that dreaded doctors, dentists, +oculists, always postponing, always finding reasons for +delay. He found reasons now, the chief among them being +an unwelcome one—that it was perhaps a brain specialist, +rather than an oculist, he ought to consult. This particular +notion hung unpleasantly about his mind, when, the +day after the theatre visit, the thing recurred, but with a +startling difference.</p> + +<p>While idly watching a blue-bottle fly that climbed the +window-pane with remorseless industry, only to slip down +again at the very instant when escape into the open air +was within its reach, the fly grew abruptly into gigantic +proportions, became blurred and indistinct as it did so, +covered the entire pane with its furry, dark, ugly mass, +and frightened him so that he stepped back with a cry +and nearly lost his balance altogether. He collapsed into +a chair. He listened with closed eyes. The metallic buzzing +was audible, a small, exasperating sound, ordinarily +unable to stir any emotion beyond a mild annoyance. Yet +it was terrible; that so huge an insect should make so faint +a sound seemed to him terrible.</p> + +<p>At length he cautiously opened his eyes. The fly was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +of normal size once more. He hastily flicked it out of the +window.</p> + +<p>An hour later he was talking with the famous oculist in +Harley Street ... about the advisability of starting reading-glasses. +He found it difficult to relate the rest. A +curious shyness restrained him.</p> + +<p>“Your optic nerves might belong to a man of twenty,” +was the verdict. “Both are perfect. But at your age it +is wise to save the sight as much as possible. There is a +slight astigmatism....” And a prescription for the +glasses was written out. It was only when paying the fee, +and as a means of drawing attention from the awkward +moment, that his story found expression. It seemed to +come out in spite of himself. He made light of it even +then, telling it without conviction. It seemed foolish suddenly +as he told it. “How very odd,” observed the oculist +vaguely, “dear me, yes, curious indeed. But that’s nothing. +H’m, h’m!” Either it was no concern of his, or he +deemed it negligible.... His only other confidant was a +friend of psychological tendencies who was interested and +eager to explain. It is on the instant plausible explanation +of anything and everything that the reputation of such +folk depends; this one was true to type: “A spontaneous +invention, my dear fellow—a pictorial rendering of your +thought. You are a painter, aren’t you? Well, this is +merely a rendering in picture-form of”—he paused for +effect, the other hung upon his words—“of the odd expression +‘disappop.’”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” exclaimed the painter.</p> + +<p>“You see everything pictorially, of course, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—as a rule.”</p> + +<p>“There you have it. Your painter’s psychology saw the +child ‘disappopping.’ That’s all.”</p> + +<p>“And the fly?” but the fly was easily explained, since +it was merely the process reversed. “Once a process has +established itself in your mind, you see, it may act in either +direction. When a madman says ‘I’m afraid Smith will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +do me an injury,’ it means, ‘I will do an injury to Smith,’” +And he repeated with finality, “That’s it.”</p> + +<p>The explanations were not very satisfactory, the illustration +even tactless, but then the problem had not been +stated quite fully. Neither to the oculist nor to the other +had <em>all</em> the facts been given. The same shyness had been a +restraining influence in both cases; a detail had been +omitted, and this detail was that he connected the occurrences +somehow with his brother whom the war had taken.</p> + +<p>The phenomenon made one more appearance—the last—before +its character, its field of action rather, altered. +He was reading a book when the print became now large, +now small; it blurred, grew remote and tiny, then so huge +that a single word, a letter even, filled the whole page. He +felt as if someone were playing optical tricks with the +mechanism of his eyes, trying first one, then another focus.</p> + +<p>More curious still, the meaning of the words themselves +became uncertain; he did not understand them any more; +the sentences lost their meaning, as though he read a +strange language, or a language little known. The flash +came then—someone was using his eyes—someone else was +looking through them.</p> + +<p>No, it was not his brother. The idea was preposterous +in any case. Yet he shivered again, as when he heard the +walking wind, for an uncanny conviction came over him +that it was someone who did not understand eyes but was +manipulating their mechanism experimentally. With the +conviction came also this: that, while not his brother, it +was someone connected with his brother.</p> + +<p>Here, moreover, was an explanation of sorts, for if the +supernatural existed—he had never troubled his head about +it—he could accept this odd business as a manifestation, +and leave it at that. He did so, and his mind was eased. +This was his attitude: “The supernatural <em>may</em> exist. Why +not? We cannot know. But we can watch.” His eyes and +brain, at any rate, were proved in good condition.</p> + +<p>He watched. No change of focus, no magnifying or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +diminishing, came again. For some weeks he noticed nothing +unusual of any kind, except that his mind often filled +now with Eastern pictures. Their sudden irruption caught +his attention, but no more than that; they were sometimes +blurred and sometimes vivid; he had never been in the +East; he attributed them to his constant thinking of his +brother, missing in Mesopotamia these six months. Photographs +in magazines and newspapers explained the rest. +Yet the persistence of the pictures puzzled him: tents beneath +hot cloudless skies, palms, a stretch of desert, dry +watercourses, camels, a mosque, a minaret—typical +snatches of this kind flashed into his mind with a sense of +faint familiarity often. He knew, again, the return of a +fugitive memory he could not seize.... He kept a note of +the dates, all of them subsequent to the day he read his +brother’s fate in the official Roll of Honour: “Believed +missing; now killed.” Only when the original phenomenon +returned, but in its altered form, did he stop the practice. +The change then affected his life too fundamentally to +trouble about mere dates and pictures.</p> + +<p>For the phenomenon, shifting its field of action, abruptly +became mental, and the singular change of focus took +place now in his mind. Events magnified or contracted +themselves out of all relation with their intrinsic values, +sense of proportion went hopelessly astray. Love, hate and +fear experienced sudden intensification, or abrupt dwindling +into nothing; the familiar everyday emotions, commonplace +daily acts, suffered exaggerated enlargement, or +reduction into insignificance, that threatened the stability +of his personality. Fortunately, as stated, they were of +brief duration; to examine them in detail were to touch +the painful absurdities of incipient mania almost; that a +lost collar stud could block his exasperated mind for hours, +filling an entire day with emotion, while a deep affection +of long standing could ebb towards complete collapse suddenly +without apparent cause...!</p> + +<p>It was the unexpected suddenness of Turkey’s spectacular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +defeat that closed the painful symptoms. The +Armistice saw them go. He knew a quick relief he was +unable to explain. The telegram that his brother was alive +and safe came <em>after</em> his recovery of mental balance. It was +a shock. But the phenomena had ceased before the shock.</p> + +<p>It was in the light of his brother’s story that he reviewed +the puzzling phenomena described. The story was +not more curious than many another, perhaps, yet the details +were queer enough. That a wounded Turk to whom +he gave water should have remembered gratitude was likely +enough, for all travellers know that these men are kindly +gentlemen at times; but that this Mohammedan peasant +should have been later a member of a prisoner’s escort and +have provided the means of escape and concealment—weeks +in a dry watercourse and months in a hut outside +the town—seemed an incredible stroke of good fortune. +“He brought me food and water three times a week. I +had no money to give him, so I gave him my Zeiss glasses. +I taught him a bit of English too. But he liked the glasses +best. He was never tired of playing with ’em—making big +and little, as he called it. He learned precious little English....”</p> + +<p>“My pair, weren’t they?” interrupted his brother. “My +old climbing glasses.”</p> + +<p>“Your present to me when I went out, yes. So really +you helped me to save my life. I told the old Turk that. +I was always thinking about you.”</p> + +<p>“And the Turk?”</p> + +<p>“No doubt.... Through <em>my</em> mind, that is. At any +rate, he asked a lot of questions about you. I showed him +your photo. He died, poor chap—at least they told me +so. Probably they shot him.”</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>XIII<br /> +<br /> +CONFESSION</h2> + + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> fog swirled slowly round him, driven by a heavy +movement of its own, for of course there was no wind. +It hung in poisonous thick coils and loops; it rose and +sank; no light penetrated it directly from street lamp or +motor-car, though here and there some big shop-window +shed a glimmering patch upon its ever-shifting curtain.</p> + +<p>O’Reilly’s eyes ached and smarted with the incessant +effort to see a foot beyond his face. The optic nerve grew +tired, and sight, accordingly, less accurate. He coughed +as he shuffled forward cautiously through the choking +gloom. Only the stifled rumble of crawling traffic persuaded +him he was in a crowded city at all—this, and the +vague outlines of groping figures, hugely magnified, emerging +suddenly and disappearing again, as they fumbled +along inch by inch towards uncertain destinations.</p> + +<p>The figures, however were human beings; they were +real. That much he knew. He heard their muffled voices, +now close, now distant, strangely smothered always. He +also heard the tapping of innumerable sticks, feeling for +iron railings or the kerb. These phantom outlines represented +living people. He was not alone.</p> + +<p>It was the dread of finding himself <em>quite</em> alone that +haunted him, for he was still unable to cross an open +space without assistance. He had the physical strength, +it was the mind that failed him. Midway the panic terror +might descend upon him, he would shake all over, his +will dissolve, he would shriek for help, run wildly—into +the traffic probably—or, as they called it in his North<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +Ontario home, “throw a fit” in the street before advancing +wheels. He was not yet entirely cured, although under +ordinary conditions he was safe enough, as Dr. Henry had +assured him.</p> + +<p>When he left Regent’s Park by Tube an hour ago the +air was clear, the November sun shone brightly, the pale +blue sky was cloudless, and the assumption that he could +manage the journey across London Town alone was justified. +The following day he was to leave for Brighton for +the week of final convalescence: this little preliminary test +of his powers on a bright November afternoon was all to +the good. Doctor Henry furnished minute instructions: +“You change at Piccadilly Circus—without leaving the +underground station, mind—and get out at South Kensington. +You know the address of your V.A.D. friend. Have +your cup of tea with her, then come back the same way to +Regent’s Park. Come back before dark—say six o’clock +at latest. It’s better.” He had described exactly what +turns to take after leaving the station, so many to the +right, so many to the left; it was a little confusing, but the +distance was short. “You can always ask. You can’t possibly +go wrong.”</p> + +<p>The unexpected fog, however, now blurred these instructions +in a confused jumble in his mind. The failure +of outer sight reacted upon memory. The V.A.D. besides +had warned him her address was “not easy to find the +first time. The house lies in a backwater. But with your +‘backwoods’ instincts you’ll probably manage it better than +any Londoner!” She, too, had not calculated upon the fog.</p> + +<p>When O’Reilly came up the stairs at South Kensington +Station, he emerged into such murky darkness that he +thought he was still underground. An impenetrable +world lay round him. Only a raw bite in the damp atmosphere +told him he stood beneath an open sky. For some +little time he stood and stared—a Canadian soldier, his +home among clear brilliant spaces, now face to face for the +first time in his life with that thing he had so often read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +about—a bad London fog. With keenest interest and surprise +he “enjoyed” the novel spectacle for perhaps ten +minutes, watching the people arrive and vanish, and wondering +why the station lights stopped dead the instant they +touched the street—then, with a sense of adventure—it cost +an effort—he left the covered building and plunged into +the opaque sea beyond.</p> + +<p>Repeating to himself the directions he had received—first +to the right, second to the left, once more to the left, +and so forth—he checked each turn, assuring himself it +was impossible to go wrong. He made correct if slow +progress, until someone blundered into him with an abrupt +and startling question: “Is this right, do you know, for +South Kensington Station?”</p> + +<p>It was the suddenness that startled him; one moment +there was no one, the next they were face to face, another, +and the stranger had vanished into the gloom with a +courteous word of grateful thanks. But the little shock +of interruption had put memory out of gear. Had he +already turned twice to the right, or had he not? +O’Reilly realized sharply he had forgotten his memorized +instructions. He stood still, making strenuous efforts at +recovery, but each effort left him more uncertain than +before. Five minutes later he was lost as hopelessly as +any townsman who leaves his tent in the backwoods without +blazing the trees to ensure finding his way back again. +Even the sense of direction, so strong in him among his +native forests, was completely gone. There were no stars, +there was no wind, no smell, no sound of running water. +There was nothing anywhere to guide him, nothing but +occasional dim outlines, groping, shuffling, emerging and +disappearing in the eddying fog, but rarely coming within +actual speaking, much less touching, distance. He was lost +utterly; more, he was alone.</p> + +<p>Yet not <em>quite</em> alone—the thing he dreaded most. There +were figures still in his immediate neighborhood. They +emerged, vanished, reappeared, dissolved. No, he was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +quite alone. He saw these thickenings of the fog, he +heard their voices, the tapping of their cautious sticks, +their shuffling feet as well. They were real. They moved, +it seemed, about him in a circle, never coming very close.</p> + +<p>“But they’re real,” he said to himself aloud, betraying +the weak point in his armour. “They’re human beings +right enough. I’m positive of that.”</p> + +<p>He had never argued with Dr. Henry—he wanted to +get well; he had obeyed implicitly, believing everything +the doctor told him—up to a point. But he had always +had his own idea about these “figures,” because, among +them, were often enough his own pals from the Somme, +Gallipoli, the Mespot horror, too. And he ought to know +his own pals when he saw them! At the same time he +knew quite well he had been “shocked,” his being dislocated; +half dissolved as it were, his system pushed into +some lopsided condition that meant inaccurate registration. +True. He grasped that perfectly. But, in that +shock and dislocation, had he not possibly picked up +another gear? Were there not gaps and broken edges, +pieces that no longer dovetailed, fitted as usual, interstices, +in a word? Yes, that was the word—interstices. Cracks, +so to speak, between his perception of the outside world +and his inner interpretation of these? Between memory +and recognition? Between the various states of consciousness +that usually dovetailed so neatly that the joints were +normally imperceptible?</p> + +<p>His state, he well knew, was abnormal, but were his +symptoms on that account unreal? Could not these “interstices” +be used by—others? When he saw his “figures,” +he used to ask himself: “Are not these the real ones, and +the others—the human beings—unreal?”</p> + +<p>This question now revived in him with a new intensity. +Were these figures in the fog real or unreal? The man +who had asked the way to the station, was he not, after +all, a shadow merely?</p> + +<p>By the use of his cane and foot and what of sight was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +left to him he knew that he was on an island. A lamppost +stood up solid and straight beside him, shedding its +faint patch of glimmering light. Yet there were railings, +however, that puzzled him, for his stick hit the metal rods +distinctly in a series. And there should be no railings +round an island. Yet he had most certainly crossed a +dreadful open space to get where he was. His confusion +and bewilderment increased with dangerous rapidity. +Panic was not far away.</p> + +<p>He was no longer on an omnibus route. A rare taxi +crawled past occasionally, a whitish patch at the window +indicating an anxious human face; now and again came +a van or cart, the driver holding a lantern as he led the +stumbling horse. These comforted him, rare though they +were. But it was the figures that drew his attention most. +He was quite sure they were real. They were human +beings like himself.</p> + +<p>For all that, he decided he might as well be positive +on the point. He tried one accordingly—a big man who +rose suddenly before him out of the very earth.</p> + +<p>“Can you give me the trail to Morley Place?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>But his question was drowned by the other’s simultaneous +inquiry in a voice much louder than his own.</p> + +<p>“I say, is this right for the Tube station, d’you know? +I’m utterly lost. I want South Ken.”</p> + +<p>And by the time O’Reilly had pointed the direction +whence he himself had just come, the man was gone +again, obliterated, swallowed up, not so much as his footsteps +audible, almost as if—it seemed again—he never had +been there at all.</p> + +<p>This left an acute unpleasantness in him, a sense of +bewilderment greater than before. He waited five minutes, +not daring to move a step, then tried another figure, +a woman this time who, luckily, knew the immediate +neighbourhood intimately. She gave him elaborate instructions +in the kindest possible way, then vanished with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +incredible swiftness and ease into the sea of gloom beyond. +The instantaneous way she vanished was disheartening, +upsetting; it was so uncannily abrupt and sudden. +Yet she comforted him. Morley Place, according to her +version, was not two hundred yards from where he stood. +He felt his way forward, step by step, using his cane, crossing +a giddy open space kicking the kerb with each boot +alternately, coughing and choking all the time as he did so.</p> + +<p>“They were real, I guess, anyway,” he said aloud. +“They were both real enough all right. And it may lift a +bit soon!” He was making a great effort to hold himself +in hand. He was already fighting, that is. He realized +this perfectly. The only point was—the reality of the +figures. “It may lift now any minute,” he repeated +louder. In spite of the cold, his skin was sweating profusely.</p> + +<p>But, of course, it did not lift. The figures, too, became +fewer. No carts were audible. He had followed the +woman’s directions carefully, but now found himself in +some by-way, evidently, where pedestrians at the best of +times were rare. There was dull silence all about him. +His foot lost the kerb, his cane swept the empty air, +striking nothing solid, and panic rose upon him with its +shuddering, icy grip. He was alone, he knew himself +alone, worse still—he was in another open space.</p> + +<p>It took him fifteen minutes to cross that open space, +most of the way upon his hands and knees, oblivious of +the icy slime that stained his trousers, froze his fingers, +intent only upon feeling solid support against his back +and spine again. It was an endless period. The moment +of collapse was close, the shriek already rising in his throat, +the shaking of the whole body uncontrollable, when—his +outstretched fingers struck a friendly kerb, and he saw +a glimmering patch of diffused radiance overhead. With a +great, quick effort he stood upright, and an instant later +his stick rattled along an area railing. He leaned against +it, breathless, panting, his heart beating painfully while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +the street lamp gave him the further comfort of its feeble +gleam, the actual flame, however, invisible. He looked this +way and that; the pavement was deserted. He was engulfed +in the dark silence of the fog.</p> + +<p>But Morley Place, he knew, must be very close by +now. He thought of the friendly little V.A.D. he had +known in France, of a warm bright fire, a cup of tea and +a cigarette. One more effort, he reflected, and all these +would be his. He pluckily groped his way forward again, +crawling slowly by the area railings. If things got really +bad again, he would ring a bell and ask for help, much +as he shrank from the idea. Provided he had no more +open spaces to cross, provided he saw no more figures +emerging and vanishing like creatures born of the fog and +dwelling within it as within their native element—it was +the figures he now dreaded more than anything else, more +even than the loneliness—provided the panic sense——</p> + +<p>A faint darkening of the fog beneath the next lamp +caught his eye and made him start. He stopped. It was +not a figure this time, it was the shadow of the pole +grotesquely magnified. No, it moved. It moved towards +him. A flame of fire followed by ice flowed through him. +It was a figure—close against his face. It was a woman.</p> + +<p>The doctor’s advice came suddenly back to him, the +counsel that had cured him of a hundred phantoms:</p> + +<p>“Do not ignore them. Treat them as real. Speak and +go with them. You will soon prove their unreality then. +And they will leave you....”</p> + +<p>He made a brave, tremendous effort. He was shaking. +One hand clutched the damp and icy area railing.</p> + +<p>“Lost your way like myself, haven’t you, ma’am?” he +said in a voice that trembled. “Do you know where we +are at all? Morley Place <em>I</em>’m looking for——”</p> + +<p>He stopped dead. The woman moved nearer and for +the first time he saw her face clearly. Its ghastly pallor, +the bright, frightened eyes that stared with a kind of +dazed bewilderment into his own, the beauty above all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +arrested his speech midway. The woman was young, her +tall figure wrapped in a dark fur coat.</p> + +<p>“Can I help you?” he asked impulsively, forgetting his +own terror for the moment. He was more than startled. +Her air of distress and pain stirred a peculiar anguish in +him. For a moment she made no answer, thrusting her +white face closer as if examining him, so close, indeed, +that he controlled with difficulty his instinct to shrink back +a little.</p> + +<p>“Where am I?” she asked at length, searching his eyes +intently. “I’m lost—I’ve lost myself. I can’t find my +way back.” Her voice was low, a curious wailing in it +that touched his pity oddly. He felt his own distress +merging in one that was greater.</p> + +<p>“Same here,” he replied more confidently. “I’m terrified +of being alone, too. I’ve had shell-shock, you know. +Let’s go together. We’ll find a way together——”</p> + +<p>“Who are you!” the woman murmured, still staring +at him with her big bright eyes, their distress, however, +no whit lessened. She gazed at him as though aware suddenly +of his presence.</p> + +<p>He told her briefly. “And I’m going to tea with a +V.A.D. friend in Morley Place. What’s your address? Do +you know the name of the street?”</p> + +<p>She appeared not to hear him, or not to understand +exactly; it was as if she was not listening again.</p> + +<p>“I came out so suddenly, so unexpectedly,” he heard +the low voice with pain in every syllable; “I can’t find my +home again. Just when I was expecting him too——” +She looked about her with a distraught expression that +made O’Reilly long to carry her in his arms to safety +then and there. “He may be there now—waiting for +me at this very moment—and I can’t get back.” And +so sad was her voice that only by an effort did O’Reilly +prevent himself putting out his hand to touch her. More +and more he forgot himself in his desire to help her. Her +beauty, the wonder of her strange bright eyes in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +pallid face, made an immense appeal. He became calmer. +This woman was real enough. He asked again the address, +the street and number, the distance she thought it was. +“Have you any idea of the direction, ma’am, any idea at +all? We’ll go together and——”</p> + +<p>She suddenly cut him short. She turned her head as +if to listen, so that he saw her profile a moment, the outline +of the slender neck, a glimpse of jewels just below the fur.</p> + +<p>“Hark! I hear him calling! I remember...!” +And she was gone from his side into the swirling fog.</p> + +<p>Without an instant’s hesitation O’Reilly followed her, +not only because he wished to help, but because he dared +not be left alone. The presence of this strange, lost woman +comforted him; he must not lose sight of her, whatever +happened. He had to run, she went so rapidly, ever +just in front, moving with confidence and certainty, turning +right and left, crossing the street, but never stopping, +never hesitating, her companion always at her heels in +breathless haste, and with a growing terror that he might +lose her any minute. The way she found her direction +through the dense fog was marvellous enough, but +O’Reilly’s only thought was to keep her in sight, lest +his own panic redescend upon him with its inevitable collapse +in the dark and lonely street. It was a wild and +panting pursuit, and he kept her in view with difficulty, +a dim fleeting outline always a few yards ahead of him. +She did not once turn her head, she uttered no sound, no +cry; she hurried forward with unfaltering instinct. Nor +did the chase occur to him once as singular; she was his +safety, and that was all he realized.</p> + +<p>One thing, however, he remembered afterwards, though +at the actual time he no more than registered the detail, +paying no attention to it—a definite perfume she left upon +the atmosphere, one, moreover, that he knew, although he +could not find its name as he ran. It was associated +vaguely, for him, with something unpleasant, something +disagreeable. He connected it with misery and pain. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +gave him a feeling of uneasiness. More than that he did +not notice at the moment, nor could he remember—he +certainly did not try—where he had known this particular +scent before.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly the woman stopped, opened a gate and +passed into a small private garden—so suddenly that +O’Reilly, close upon her heels, only just avoided tumbling +into her. “You’ve found it?” he cried. “May I come in +a moment with you? Perhaps you’ll let me telephone to +the doctor.”</p> + +<p>She turned instantly. Her face close against his own, +was livid.</p> + +<p>“Doctor!” she repeated in an awful whisper. The word +meant terror to her. O’Reilly stood amazed. For a second +or two neither of them moved. The woman seemed petrified.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Henry, you know,” he stammered, finding his +tongue again. “I’m in his care. He’s in Harley Street.”</p> + +<p>Her face cleared as suddenly as it had darkened, though +the original expression of bewilderment and pain still +hung in her great eyes. But the terror left them, as +though she suddenly forgot some association that had revived +it.</p> + +<p>“My home,” she murmured. “My home is somewhere +here. I’m near it. I must get back—in time—for him. +I must. He’s coming to me.” And with these extraordinary +words she turned, walked up the narrow path, and +stood upon the porch of a two-storey house before her +companion had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently +to move or utter a syllable in reply. The front door, he +saw, was ajar. It had been left open.</p> + +<p>For five seconds, perhaps for ten, he hesitated; it was +the fear that the door would close and shut him out that +brought the decision to his will and muscles. He ran up +the steps and followed the woman into a dark hall where +she had already preceded him, and amid whose blackness +she now had finally vanished. He closed the door, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +knowing exactly why he did so, and knew at once by an +instinctive feeling that the house he now found himself in +with this unknown woman was empty and unoccupied. In +a house, however, he felt safe. It was the open streets +that were his danger. He stood waiting, listening a moment +before he spoke; and he heard the woman moving +down the passage from door to door, repeating to herself +in her low voice of unhappy wailing some words he could +not understand:</p> + +<p>“Where is it? Oh, where is it? I must get back....”</p> + +<p>O’Reilly then found himself abruptly stricken with +dumbness, as though, with these strange words, a haunting +terror came up and breathed against him in the darkness.</p> + +<p>“Is she after all a figure?” ran in letters of fire across +his numbed brain. “Is she unreal—or real?”</p> + +<p>Seeking relief in action of some kind, he put out a +hand automatically, feeling along the wall for an electric +switch, and though he found it by some miraculous chance, +no answering glow responded to the click.</p> + +<p>And the woman’s voice from the darkness: “Ah! Ah! +At last I’ve found it. I’m home again—at last...!” He +heard a door open and close upstairs. He was on the +ground-floor now—alone. Complete silence followed.</p> + +<p>In the conflict of various emotions—fear for himself +lest his panic should return, fear for the woman who had +led him into this empty house and now deserted him upon +some mysterious errand of her own that made him think +of madness—in this conflict that held him a moment spell-bound, +there was a yet bigger ingredient demanding +instant explanation, but an explanation that he could not +find. Was the woman real or was she unreal? Was she +a human being or a “figure”? The horror of doubt obsessed +him with an acute uneasiness that betrayed itself +in a return of that unwelcome inner trembling he knew +was dangerous.</p> + +<p>What saved him from a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">crise</i> that must have had most +dangerous results for his mind and nervous system generally,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> +seems to have been the outstanding fact that he +felt more for the woman than for himself. His sympathy +and pity had been deeply moved; her voice, her beauty, +her anguish and bewilderment, all uncommon, inexplicable, +mysterious, formed together a claim that drove self +into the background. Added to this was the detail that +she had left him, gone to another floor without a word, +and now, behind a closed door in a room upstairs, found +herself face to face at last with the unknown object of +her frantic search—with “it,” whatever “it” might be. Real +or unreal, figure or human being, the overmastering impulse +of his being was that he must go to her.</p> + +<p>It was this clear impulse that gave him decision and +energy to do what he then did. He struck a match, he +found a stump of candle, he made his way by means +of this flickering light along the passage and up the +carpetless stairs. He moved cautiously, stealthily, +though not knowing why he did so. The house, he now +saw, was indeed untenanted; dust-sheets covered the piled-up +furniture; he glimpsed through doors ajar, pictures +were screened upon the walls, brackets draped to look like +hooded heads. He went on slowly, steadily, moving on +tiptoe as though conscious of being watched, noting the +well of darkness in the hall below, the grotesque shadows +that his movements cast on walls and ceiling. The silence +was unpleasant, yet, remembering that the woman was +“expecting” someone, he did not wish it broken. He +reached the landing and stood still. Closed doors on both +sides of a corridor met his sight, as he shaded the candle +to examine the scene. Behind which of these doors, he +asked himself, was the woman, figure or human being, +now alone with “it”?</p> + +<p>There was nothing to guide him, but an instinct that +he must not delay sent him forward again upon his search. +He tried a door on the right—an empty room, with the +furniture hidden by dust-sheets, and the mattress rolled +up on the bed. He tried a second door, leaving the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +one open behind him, and it was, similarly, an empty bedroom. +Coming out into the corridor again he stood a +moment waiting, then called aloud in a low voice that yet +woke echoes unpleasantly in the hall below: “Where are +you? I want to help—which room are you in?”</p> + +<p>There was no answer; he was almost glad he heard +no sound, for he knew quite well that he was waiting really +for another sound—the steps of him who was “expected.” +And the idea of meeting with this unknown third sent +a shudder through him, as though related to an interview +he dreaded with his whole heart, and must at all costs +avoid. Waiting another moment or two, he noted that his +candle-stump was burning low, then crossed the landing +with a feeling, at once of hesitation and determination, +towards a door opposite to him. He opened it; he did not +halt on the threshold. Holding the candle at arm’s length, +he went boldly in.</p> + +<p>And instantly his nostrils told him he was right at last, +for a whiff of the strange perfume, though this time much +stronger than before, greeted him, sending a new quiver +along his nerves. He knew now why it was associated with +unpleasantness, with pain, with misery, for he recognized +it—the odour of a hospital. In this room a powerful +anćsthetic had been used—and recently.</p> + +<p>Simultaneously with smell, sight brought its message +too. On the large double bed behind the door on his right +lay, to his amazement, the woman in the dark fur coat. +He saw the jewels on the slender neck; but the eyes he +did not see, for they were closed—closed, too, he grasped at +once, in death. The body lay stretched at full length, +quite motionless. He approached. A dark thin streak +that came from the parted lips and passed downwards over +the chin, losing itself then in the fur collar, was a trickle +of blood. It was hardly dry. It glistened.</p> + +<p>Strange it was perhaps that, while imaginary fears had +the power to paralyse him, mind and body, this sight of +something real had the effect of restoring confidence. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +sight of blood and death, amid conditions often ghastly +and even monstrous, was no new thing to him. He went +up quietly, and with steady hand he felt the woman’s cheek, +the warmth of recent life still in its softness. The final cold +had not yet mastered this empty form whose beauty, in its +perfect stillness, had taken on the new strange sweetness +of an unearthly bloom. Pallid, silent, untenanted, it lay +before him, lit by the flicker of his guttering candle. He +lifted the fur coat to feel for the unbeating heart. A +couple of hours ago at most, he judged, this heart was +working busily, the breath came through those parted lips, +the eyes were shining in full beauty. His hand encountered +a hard knob—the head of a long steel hat-pin driven +through the heart up to its hilt.</p> + +<p>He knew then which was the figure—which was the +real and which the unreal. He knew also what had been +meant by “it.”</p> + +<p>But before he could think or reflect what action he +must take, before he could straighten himself even from +his bent position over the body on the bed, there sounded +through the empty house below the loud clang of the front +door being closed. And instantly rushed over him that +other fear he had so long forgotten—fear for himself. +The panic of his own shaken nerves descended with irresistible +onslaught. He turned, extinguishing the candle +in the violent trembling of his hand, and tore headlong +from the room.</p> + +<p>The following ten minutes seemed a nightmare in +which he was not master of himself and knew not exactly +what he did. All he realized was that steps already +sounded on the stairs, coming quickly nearer. The flicker +of an electric torch played on the banisters, whose shadows +ran swiftly sideways along the wall as the hand that held +the light ascended. He thought in a frenzied second of +police, of his presence in the house, of the murdered +woman. It was a sinister combination. Whatever happened, +he must escape without being so much as even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> +seen. His heart raced madly. He darted across the landing +into the room opposite, whose door he had luckily left +open. And by some incredible chance, apparently, he was +neither seen nor heard by the man who, a moment later, +reached the landing, entered the room where the body of +the woman lay, and closed the door carefully behind him.</p> + +<p>Shaking, scarcely daring to breathe lest his breath be +audible, O’Reilly, in the grip of his own personal terror, +remnant of his uncured shock of war, had no thought of +what duty might demand or not demand of him. He +thought only of himself. He realized one clear issue—that +he must get out of the house without being heard or +seen. Who the new-comer was he did not know, beyond an +uncanny assurance that it was <em>not</em> him whom the woman +had “expected,” but the murderer himself, and that it was +the murderer, in his turn, who was expecting this third +person. In that room with death at his elbow, a death +he had himself brought about but an hour or two ago, the +murderer now hid in waiting for his second victim. And +the door was closed.</p> + +<p>Yet any minute it might open again, cutting off retreat.</p> + +<p>O’Reilly crept out, stole across the landing, reached +the head of the stairs, and began, with the utmost caution, +the perilous descent. Each time the bare boards creaked +beneath his weight, no matter how stealthily this weight +was adjusted, his heart missed a beat. He tested each step +before he pressed upon it, distributing as much of his +weight as he dared upon the banisters. It was a little +more than half-way down that, to his horror, his foot +caught in a projecting carpet tack; he slipped on the polished +wood, and only saved himself from falling headlong +by a wild clutch at the railing, making an uproar that +seemed to him like the explosion of a hand-grenade in +the forgotten trenches. His nerves gave way then, and +panic seized him. In the silence that followed the resounding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> +echoes he heard the bedroom door opening on +the floor above.</p> + +<p>Concealment was now useless. It was impossible, too. +He took the last flight of stairs in a series of leaps, four +steps at a time, reached the hall, flew across it, and opened +the front door, just as his pursuer, electric torch in hand, +covered half the stairs behind him. Slamming the door, +he plunged headlong into the welcome, all-obscuring fog +outside.</p> + +<p>The fog had now no terrors for him, he welcomed its +concealing mantle; nor did it matter in which direction +he ran so long as he put distance between him and the +house of death. The pursuer had, of course, not followed +him into the street. He crossed open spaces without a +tremor. He ran in a circle nevertheless, though without +being aware he did so. No people were about, no single +groping shadow passed him; no boom of traffic reached +his ears, when he paused for breath at length against an +area railing. Then for the first time he made the discovery +that he had no hat. He remembered now. In examining +the body, partly out of respect, partly perhaps unconsciously, +he had taken it off and laid it—on the very bed.</p> + +<p>It was there, a tell-tale bit of damning evidence, in the +house of death. And a series of probable consequences +flashed through his mind like lightning. It was a new +hat fortunately; more fortunate still, he had not yet written +name or initials in it; but the maker’s mark was there +for all to read, and the police would go immediately to +the shop where he had bought it only two days before. +Would the shop-people remember his appearance? Would +his visit, the date, the conversation be recalled? He +thought it was unlikely; he resembled dozens of men; he +had no outstanding peculiarity. He tried to think, but +his mind was confused and troubled, his heart was beating +dreadfully, he felt desperately ill. He sought vainly for +some story to account for his being out in the fog and far +from home without a hat. No single idea presented itself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> +He clung to the icy railings, hardly able to keep upright, +collapse very near—when suddenly a figure emerged from +the fog, paused a moment to stare at him, put out a hand +and caught him, and then spoke:</p> + +<p>“You’re ill, my dear sir,” said a man’s kindly voice. +“Can I be of any assistance? Come, let me help you.” He +had seen at once that it was not a case of drunkenness. +“Come, take my arm, won’t you? I’m a physician. +Luckily, too, you are just outside my very house. Come +in.” And he half dragged, half pushed O’Reilly, now bordering +on collapse, up the steps and opened the door with +his latch-key.</p> + +<p>“Felt ill suddenly—lost in the fog ... terrified, but +be all right soon, thanks awfully——” the Canadian stammered +his gratitude, but already feeling better. He sank +into a chair in the hall, while the other put down a paper +parcel he had been carrying, and led him presently into a +comfortable room; a fire burned brightly; the electric +lamps were pleasantly shaded; a decanter of whisky and a +siphon stood on a small table beside a big arm-chair; and +before O’Reilly could find another word to say the other +had poured him out a glass and bade him sip it slowly, +without troubling to talk till he felt better.</p> + +<p>“That will revive you. Better drink it slowly. You +should never have been out a night like this. If you’ve +far to go, better let me put you up——”</p> + +<p>“Very kind, very kind, indeed,” mumbled O’Reilly, recovering +rapidly in the comfort of a presence he already +liked and felt even drawn to.</p> + +<p>“No trouble at all,” returned the doctor. “I’ve been +at the front, you know. I can see what your trouble is—shell-shock, +I’ll be bound.”</p> + +<p>The Canadian, much impressed by the other’s quick +diagnosis, noted also his tact and kindness. He had made +no reference to the absence of a hat, for instance.</p> + +<p>“Quite true,” he said. “I’m with Dr. Henry, in Harley +Street,” and he added a few words about his case. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +whisky worked its effect, he revived more and more, feeling +better every minute. The other handed him a cigarette; +they began to talk about his symptoms and recovery; +confidence returned in a measure, though he still felt badly +frightened. The doctor’s manner and personality did +much to help, for there was strength and gentleness in the +face, though the features showed unusual determination, +softened occasionally by a sudden hint as of suffering in +the bright, compelling eyes. It was the face, thought +O’Reilly, of a man who had seen much and probably been +through hell, but of a man who was simple, good, sincere. +Yet not a man to trifle with; behind his gentleness lay +something very stern. This effect of character and personality +woke the other’s respect in addition to his gratitude. +His sympathy was stirred.</p> + +<p>“You encourage me to make another guess,” the man +was saying, after a successful reading of the impromptu +patient’s state, “that you have had, namely, a severe shock +quite recently, and”—he hesitated for the merest fraction +of a second—“that it would be a relief to you,” he went +on, the skilful suggestion in the voice unnoticed by his +companion, “it would be wise as well, if you could unburden +yourself to—someone—who would understand.” +He looked at O’Reilly with a kindly and very pleasant +smile. “Am I not right, perhaps?” he asked in his gentle +tone.</p> + +<p>“Someone who would understand,” repeated the +Canadian. “That’s my trouble exactly. You’ve hit it. +It’s all so incredible.”</p> + +<p>The other smiled. “The more incredible,” he suggested, +“the greater your need for expression. Suppression, +as you may know, is dangerous in cases like this. +You think you have hidden it, but it bides its time and +comes up later, causing a lot of trouble. Confession, you +know”—he emphasized the word—“confession is good for +the soul!”</p> + +<p>“You’re dead right,” agreed the other.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Now if you can, bring yourself to tell it to someone +who will listen and believe—to myself, for instance. I +am a doctor, familiar with such things. I shall regard +all you say as a professional confidence, of course; and, +as we are strangers, my belief or disbelief is of no particular +consequence. I may tell you in advance of your story, +however—I think I can promise it—that I shall believe all +you have to say.”</p> + +<p>O’Reilly told his story without more ado, for the suggestion +of the skilled physician had found easy soil to +work in. During the recital his host’s eyes never once +left his own. He moved no single muscle of his body. His +interest seemed intense.</p> + +<p>“A bit tall, isn’t it?” said the Canadian, when his +tale was finished. “And the question is——” he continued +with a threat of volubility which the other checked instantly.</p> + +<p>“Strange, yes, but incredible, no,” the doctor interrupted. +“I see no reason to disbelieve a single detail of +what you have just told me. Things equally remarkable, +equally incredible, happen in all large towns, as I know +from personal experience. I could give you instances.” +He paused a moment, but his companion, staring into his +eyes with interest and curiosity, made no comment. +“Some years ago, in fact,” continued the other, “I knew +of a very similar case—strangely similar.”</p> + +<p>“Really! I should be immensely interested——”</p> + +<p>“So similar that it seems almost a coincidence. <em>You</em> +may find it hard, in your turn, to credit it.” He paused +again, while O’Reilly sat forward in his chair to listen. +“Yes,” pursued the doctor slowly, “I think everyone connected +with it is now dead. There is no reason why I +should not tell it, for one confidence deserves another, you +know. It happened during the Boer War—as long ago +as that,” he added with emphasis. “It is really a very +commonplace story in one way, though very dreadful in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +another, but a man who has served at the front will understand +and—I’m sure—will sympathize.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure of that,” offered the other readily.</p> + +<p>“A colleague of mine, now dead, as I mentioned—a +surgeon, with a big practice, married a young and charming +girl. They lived happily together for several years. +His wealth made her very comfortable. His consulting-room, +I must tell you, was some distance from his house—just +as this might be—so that she was never bothered +with any of his cases. Then came the war. Like many +others, though much over age, he volunteered. He gave +up his lucrative practice and went to South Africa. His +income, of course, stopped; the big house was closed; his +wife found her life of enjoyment considerably curtailed. +This she considered a great hardship, it seems. She felt +a bitter grievance against him. Devoid of imagination, +without any power of sacrifice, a selfish type, she was +yet a beautiful, attractive woman—and young. The inevitable +lover came upon the scene to console her. They +planned to run away together. He was rich. Japan they +thought would suit them. Only, by some ill luck, the +husband got wind of it and arrived in London just in the +nick of time.”</p> + +<p>“Well rid of her,” put in O’Reilly, “<em>I</em> think.”</p> + +<p>The doctor waited a moment. He sipped his glass. +Then his eyes fixed upon his companion’s face somewhat +sternly.</p> + +<p>“Well rid of her, yes,” he continued, “only he determined +to make that riddance final. He decided to kill +her—and her lover. You see, he loved her.”</p> + +<p>O’Reilly made no comment. In his own country this +method with a faithless woman was not unknown. His +interest was very concentrated. But he was thinking, too, +as he listened, thinking hard.</p> + +<p>“He planned the time and place with care,” resumed +the other in a lower voice, as though he might possibly +be overheard. “They met, he knew, in the big house, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +closed, the house where he and his young wife had passed +such happy years during their prosperity. The plan failed, +however, in an important detail—the woman came at the +appointed hour, but without her lover. She found death +waiting for her—it was a painless death. Then her lover, +who was to arrive half an hour later, did not come at all. +The door had been left open for him purposely. The +house was dark, its rooms shut up, deserted; there was +no caretaker even. It was a foggy night, just like this.”</p> + +<p>“And the other?” asked O’Reilly in a failing voice. +“The lover——”</p> + +<p>“A man did come in,” the doctor went on calmly, “but +it was not the lover. It was a stranger.”</p> + +<p>“A stranger?” the other whispered. “And the surgeon—where +was he all this time?”</p> + +<p>“Waiting outside to see him enter—concealed in the +fog. He saw the man go in. Five minutes later he +followed, meaning to complete his vengeance, his act of +justice, whatever you like to call it. But the man who +had come in was a stranger—he came in by chance—just +as you might have done—to shelter from the fog—or——”</p> + +<p>O’Reilly, though with a great effort, rose abruptly to +his feet. He had an appalling feeling that the man facing +him was mad. He had a keen desire to get outside, fog +or no fog, to leave this room, to escape from the calm +accents of this insistent voice. The effect of the whisky +was still in his blood. He felt no lack of confidence. But +words came to him with difficulty.</p> + +<p>“I think I’d better be pushing off now, doctor,” he +said clumsily. “But I feel I must thank you very much +for all your kindness and help.” He turned and looked +hard into the keen eyes facing him. “Your friend,” he +asked in a whisper, “the surgeon—I hope—I mean, was +he ever caught?”</p> + +<p>“No,” was the grave reply, the doctor standing up in +front of him, “he was never caught.”</p> + +<p>O’Reilly waited a moment before he made another remark.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +“Well,” he said at length, but in a louder tone +than before, “I think—I’m glad.” He went to the door +without shaking hands.</p> + +<p>“You have no hat,” mentioned the voice behind him. +“If you’ll wait a moment I’ll get you one of mine. You +need not trouble to return it.” And the doctor passed him, +going into the hall. There was a sound of tearing paper, +O’Reilly left the house a moment later with a hat upon his +head, but it was not till he reached the Tube station half +an hour afterwards that he realized it was his own.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>XIV<br /> +<br /> +THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> curving strip of lane, fading into invisibility east +and west, had always symbolized life to her. In some +minds life pictures itself a straight line, uphill, downhill, +flat, as the case may be; in hers it had been, since childhood, +this sweep of country lane that ran past her cottage +door. In thick white summer dust, she invariably visualized +it, blue and yellow flowers along its untidy banks of +green. It flowed, it glided, sometimes it rushed. Without +a sound it ran along past the nut trees and the branches +where honeysuckle and wild roses shone. With every year +now its silent speed increased.</p> + +<p>From either end she imagined, as a child, that she +looked over into outer space—from the eastern end into the +infinity before birth, from the western into the infinity +that follows death. It was to her of real importance.</p> + +<p>From the veranda the entire stretch was visible, not +more than five hundred yards at most; from the platform +in her mind, whence she viewed existence, she saw her +own life, similarly, as a white curve of flowering lane, +arising she knew not whence, gliding whither she could not +tell. At eighteen she had paraphrased the quatrain with +a smile upon her red lips, her chin tilted, her strong grey +eyes rather wistful with yearning—</p> + +<div class="centered"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into this little lane, and why not knowing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out again—like dust along the waste,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></div></div></div> + +<p>At thirty she now repeated it, the smile still there, +but the lips not quite so red, the chin a trifle firmer, the +grey eyes stronger, clearer, but charged with a more wistful +and a deeper yearning.</p> + +<p>It was her turn of mind, imaginative, introspective, +querulous perhaps, that made the bit of running lane significant. +Food with the butcher’s and baker’s carts came +to her from its eastern, its arriving end, as she called it; +news with the postman, adventure with rare callers. Youth, +hope, excitement, all these came from the sunrise. Thence +came likewise spring and summer, flowers, butterflies, the +swallows. The fairies, in her childhood, had come that +way too, their silver feet and gossamer wings brightening +the summer dawns; and it was but a year ago that Dick +Messenger, his car stirring a cloud of thick white dust, had +also come into her life from the space beyond the sunrise.</p> + +<p>She sat thinking about him now—how he had suddenly +appeared out of nothing that warm June morning, +asked her permission about some engineering business on +the neighbouring big estate over the hill, given her a dog-rose +and a bit of fern-leaf, and eventually gone away with +her promise when he left. Out of the eastern end he +appeared; into the western end he vanished.</p> + +<p>For there was this departing end as well, where the +lane curved out of sight into the space behind the yellow +sunset. In this direction went all that left her life. Her +parents, each in turn, had taken that way to the churchyard. +Spring, summer, the fading butterflies, the restless +swallows, all left her round that western curve. Later the +fairies followed them, her dreams one by one, the vanishing +years as well—and now her youth, swifter, ever swifter, +into the region where the sun dipped nightly among pale +rising stars, leaving her brief strip of life colder, more +and more unlit.</p> + +<p>Just beyond this end she imagined shadows.</p> + +<p>She saw Dick’s car whirling towards her, whirling +away again, making for distant Mexico, where his treasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> +lay. In the interval he had found that treasure and realized +it. He was now coming back again. He had landed +in England yesterday.</p> + +<p>Seated in her deck-chair on the veranda, she watched +the sun sink to the level of the hazel trees. The last +swallows already flashed their dark wings against the fading +gold. Over that western end to-morrow or the next +day, amid a cloud of whirling white dust, would emerge, +again out of nothingness, the noisy car that brought Dick +Messenger back to her, back from the Mexican expedition +that ensured his great new riches, back into her heart and +life. In the other direction she would depart a week or so +later, her life in his keeping, and his in hers ... and the +feet of their children, in due course, would run up and +down the mysterious lane in search of flowers, butterflies, +excitement, in search of life.</p> + +<p>She wondered ... and as the light faded her wondering +grew deeper. Questions that had lain dormant for +twelve months became audible suddenly. Would Dick be +satisfied with this humble cottage which meant so much +to her that she felt she could never, never leave it? Would +not his money, his new position, demand palaces elsewhere? +He was ambitious. Could his ambitions set an +altar of sacrifice to his love? And she—could she, on the +other hand, walk happy and satisfied along the western +curve, leaving her lane finally behind her, lost, untravelled, +forgotten? Could she face this sacrifice for him? Was +he, in a word, <em>the</em> man whose appearance out of the sunrise +she had been watching and waiting for all these hurrying, +swift years?</p> + +<p>She wondered. Now that the decisive moment was so +near, unhappy doubts assailed her. Her wondering grew +deeper, spread, enveloped, penetrated her being like a +gathering darkness. And the sun sank lower, dusk crept +along the hedgerows, the flowers closed their little burning +eyes. Shadows passed hand in hand along the familiar +bend that was so short, so soon travelled over and left behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +that a mistake must ruin all its sweetest joy. To +wander down it with a companion to whom its flowers, its +butterflies, its shadows brought no full message, must turn +it chill, dark, lonely, colourless.... Her thoughts slipped +on thus into a soft inner reverie born of that scented +twilight hour of honeysuckle and wild roses, born too of +her deep self-questioning, of wonder, of yearning unsatisfied.</p> + +<p>The lane, meanwhile, produced its customary few +figures, moving homewards through the dusk. She knew +them well, these familiar figures of the countryside, had +known them from childhood onwards—labourers, hedgers, +ditchers and the like, with whom now, even in her reverie, +she exchanged the usual friendly greetings across the +wicket-gate. This time, however, she gave but her mind +to them, her heart absorbed with its own personal and immediate +problem.</p> + +<p>Melancey had come and gone; old Averill, carrying his +hedger’s sickle-knife, had followed; and she was vaguely +looking for Hezekiah Purdy, bent with years and rheumatism, +his tea-pail always rattling, his shuffling feet making +a sorry dust, when the figure she did not quite recognize +came into view, emerging unexpectedly from the sunrise +end. Was it Purdy? Yes—no—yet, if not, who was it? +Of course it must be Purdy. Yet while the others, being +homeward bound, came naturally from west to east, with +this new figure it was otherwise, so that he was half-way +down the curve before she fully realized him. Out of the +eastern end the man drew nearer, a stranger therefore; +out of the unknown regions where the sun rose, and where +no shadows were, he moved towards her down the deserted +lane, perhaps a trespasser, an intruder possibly, but certainly +an unfamiliar figure.</p> + +<p>Without particular attention or interest, she watched +him drift nearer down her little semi-private lane of +dream, passing leisurely from east to west, the mere fact +that he was there establishing an intimacy that remained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +at first unsuspected. It was her eye that watched him, +not her mind. What was he doing here, where going, +whither come, she wondered vaguely, the lane both his +background and his starting-point? A little by-way, after +all, this haunted lane. The real world, she knew, swept +down the big high-road beyond, unconscious of the humble +folk its unimportant tributary served. Suddenly the burden +of the years assailed her. Had she, then, missed life +by living here?</p> + +<p>Then, with a little shock, her heart contracted as she +became aware of two eyes fixed upon her in the dusk. +The stranger had already reached the wicket-gate and now +stood leaning against it, staring at her over its spiked +wooden top. It was certainly not old Purdy. The blood +rushed back into her heart again as she returned the gaze. +He was watching her with a curious intentness, with an +odd sense of authority almost, with something that persuaded +her instantly of a definite purpose in his being +there. He was waiting for her—expecting her to come +down and speak with him, as she had spoken with the +others. Of this, her little habit, he made use, she felt. +Shyly, half-nervously, she left her deck-chair and went +slowly down the short gravel path between the flowers, +noticing meanwhile that his clothes were ragged, his hair +unkempt, his face worn and ravaged as by want and suffering, +yet that his eyes were curiously young. His eyes, +indeed, were full brown smiling eyes, and it was the surprise +of his youth that impressed her chiefly. That he +could be tramp or trespasser left her. She felt no fear.</p> + +<p>She wished him “Good evening” in her calm, quiet +voice, adding with sympathy, “And who are you, I wonder? +You want to ask me something?” It flashed across +her that his shabby clothing was somehow a disguise. Over +his shoulder hung a faded sack. “I can do something for +you?” she pursued inquiringly, as was her kindly custom. +“If you are hungry, thirsty, or——”</p> + +<p>It was the expression of vigour leaping into the deep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +eyes that stopped her. “If you need clothes,” she had +been going to add. She was not frightened, but suddenly +she paused, gripped by a wonder she could not understand.</p> + +<p>And his first words justified her wonder. “<em>I</em> have +something for you,” he said, his voice faint, a kind of stillness +in it as though it came through distance. Also, +though this she did not notice, it was an educated voice, +and it was the absence of surprise that made this detail +too natural to claim attention. She had expected it. +“Something to give you. I have brought it for you,” the +man concluded.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she replied, aware, again without comprehension, +that her courage and her patience were both summoned +to support her. “Yes,” she repeated more faintly, +as though this was all natural, inevitable, expected. She +saw that the sack was now lifted from his shoulder and +that his hand plunged into it, as it hung apparently loose +and empty against the gate. His eyes, however, never for +one instant left her own. Alarm, she was able to remind +herself, she did not feel. She only recognized that this +ragged figure laid something upon her spirit she could not +fathom, yet was compelled to face.</p> + +<p>His next words startled her. She drew, if unconsciously, +upon her courage:</p> + +<p>“A dream.”</p> + +<p>The voice was deep, yet still with the faintness as of +distance in it. His hand, she saw, was moving slowly +from the empty sack. A strange attraction, mingled with +pity, with yearning too, stirred deeply in her. The face, +it seemed, turned soft, the eyes glowed with some inner +fire of feeling. Her heart now beat unevenly.</p> + +<p>“Something—to—sell to me,” she faltered, aware that +his glowing eyes upon her made her tremble. The same +instant she was ashamed of the words, knowing they were +uttered by a portion of her that resisted, and this was +not the language he deserved.</p> + +<p>He smiled, and she knew her resistance a vain make-believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +he pierced too easily, though he let it pass in +silence.</p> + +<p>“There is, I mean, a price—for every dream,” she +tried to save herself, conscious delightfully that her heart +was smiling in return.</p> + +<p>The dusk enveloped them, the corncrakes were calling +from the fields, the scent of honeysuckle and wild +roses lay round her in a warm wave of air, yet at the same +time she felt as if her naked soul stood side by side with +this figure in the infinitude of space beyond the sunrise +end. The golden stars hung calm and motionless above +them. “That price”—his answer fell like a summons she +had actually expected—“you pay to another, not to me.” +The voice grew fainter, farther away, dropping through +empty space behind her. “All dreams are but a single +dream. You pay that price to——”</p> + +<p>Her interruption slipped spontaneously from her lips, +its inevitable truth a prophecy:</p> + +<p>“To myself!”</p> + +<p>He smiled again, but this time he did not answer. +His hand, instead, now moved across the gate towards +her.</p> + +<p>And before she quite realized what had happened, she +was holding a little object he had passed across to her. She +had taken it, obeying, it seemed, an inner compulsion +and authority which were inevitable, fore-ordained. Lowering +her face she examined it in the dusk—a small green +leaf of fern—fingered it with tender caution as it lay in +her palm, gazed for some seconds closely at the tiny +thing.... When she looked up again the stranger, +the seller of dreams, as she now imagined him, had moved +some yards away from the gate, and was moving still, a +leisurely quiet tread that stirred no dust, a shadowy outline +soft with dusk and starlight, moving towards the +sunrise end, whence he had first appeared.</p> + +<p>Her heart gave a sudden leap, as once again the burden +of the years assailed her. Her words seemed driven out:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Who are you? Before you go—your name! What is +your name?”</p> + +<p>His voice, now faint with distance as he melted from +sight against the dark fringe of hazel trees, reached her +but indistinctly, though its meaning was somehow clear:</p> + +<p>“The dream,” she heard like a breath of wind against +her ear, “shall bring its own name with it. I wait....” +Both sound and figure trailed off into the unknown space +beyond the eastern end, and, leaning against the wicket-gate +as usual, the white dust settling about his heavy boots, +the tea-pail but just ceased from rattling, was—old Purdy.</p> + +<p>Unless the mind can fix the reality of an event in the +actual instant of its happening, judgment soon dwindles +into a confusion between memory and argument. Five +minutes later, when old Purdy had gone his way again, +she found herself already wondering, reflecting, questioning. +Yearning had perhaps conjured with emotion to +fashion both voice and figure out of imagination, out of +this perfumed dusk, out of the troubled heart’s desire. +Confusion in time had further helped to metamorphose old +Purdy into some legendary shape that had stolen upon +her mood of reverie from the shadows of her beloved +lane.... Yet the dream she had accepted from a +stranger hand, a little fern leaf, remained at any rate to +shape a delightful certainty her brain might criticize while +her heart believed. The fern leaf assuredly was real. A +fairy gift! Those who eat of this fern-seed, she remembered +as she sank into sleep that night, shall see the fairies! And, +indeed, a few hours later she walked in dream along the +familiar curve between the hedges, her own childhood taking +her by the hand as she played with the flowers, the +butterflies, the glad swallows beckoning while they flashed. +Without the smallest sense of surprise or unexpectedness, +too, she met at the eastern end—two figures. They stood, +as she with her childhood stood, hand in hand, the seller +of dreams and her lover, waiting since time began, she +realized, waiting with some great unuttered question on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +their lips. Neither addressed her, neither spoke a word. +Dick looked at her, ambition, hard and restless, shining +in his eyes; in the eyes of the other—dark, gentle, piercing, +but extraordinarily young for all the ragged hair about +the face the shabby clothes, the ravaged and unkempt appearance—a +brightness as of the coming dawn.</p> + +<p>A choice, she understood, was offered to her; there was +a decision she must make. She realized, as though some +great wind blew it into her from outer space, another, a +new standard to which her judgment must inevitably conform, +or admit the purpose of her life evaded finally. The +same moment she knew what her decision was. No hesitation +touched her. Calm, yet trembling, her courage and +her patience faced the decision and accepted it. The hands +then instantly fell apart, unclasped. One figure turned +and vanished down the lane towards the departing end, but +with the other, now hand in hand, she rose floating, gliding +without effort, a strange bliss in her heart, to meet the +sunrise.</p> + +<p>“He has awakened ... so he cannot stay,” she heard, +like a breath of wind that whispered into her ear. “I, who +bring you this dream—I wait.”</p> + +<p>She did not wake at once when the dream was ended, +but slept on long beyond her accustomed hour, missing +thereby Melancey, Averill, old Purdy as they passed the +wicket-gate in the early hours. She woke, however, with +a new clear knowledge of herself, of her mind and heart, +to all of which in simple truth to her own soul she must +conform. The fern-seed she placed in a locket attached to +a fine gold chain about her neck. During the long, lonely, +expectant yet unsatisfied years that followed she wore it +day and night.</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>She had the curious feeling that she remained young. +Others grew older, but not she. She watched her contemporaries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +slowly give the signs, while she herself held +stationary. Even those younger than herself went past +her, growing older in the ordinary way, whereas her heart, +her mind, even her appearance, she felt certain, hardly +aged at all. In a room full of people she felt pity often +as she read the signs in their faces knowing her own unchanged. +Their eyes were burning out, but hers burned +on. It was neither vanity nor delusion, but an inner conviction +she could not alter.</p> + +<p>The age she held to was the year she had received the +fern-seed from old Purdy, or rather, from an imaginary +figure her reverie had set momentarily in old Purdy’s +place. That figure of her reverie, the dream that followed, +the subsequent confession to Dick Messenger, meeting his +own half-way—these marked the year when she stopped +growing older. To that year she seemed chained, gazing +into the sunrise end—waiting, ever waiting.</p> + +<p>Whether in her absent-minded reverie she had actually +plucked the bit of fern herself, or whether, after all, old +Purdy had handed it to her, was not a point that troubled +her. It was in her locket about her neck still, day and +night. The seller of dreams was an established imaginative +reality in her life. Her heart assured her she would +meet him again one day. She waited. It was very curious, +it was rather pathetic. Men came and went, she saw her +chances pass; her answer was invariably “No.”</p> + +<p>The break came suddenly, and with devastating effect. +As she was dressing carefully for the party, full of excited +anticipation like some young girl still, she saw +looking out upon her from the long mirror a face of plain +middle-age. A blackness rose about her. It seemed the +mirror shattered. The long, long dream, at any rate, fell +in a thousand broken pieces at her feet. It was perhaps +the ball dress, perhaps the flowers in her hair; it may have +been the low-cut gown that betrayed the neck and throat, +or the one brilliant jewel that proved her eyes now dimmed +beside it—but most probably it was the tell-tale hands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +whose ageing no artifice ever can conceal. The middle-aged +woman, at any rate, rushed from the glass and claimed her.</p> + +<p>It was a long time, too, before the signs of tears had +been carefully obliterated again, and the battle with herself—to +go or not to go—was decided by clear courage. +She would not send a hurried excuse of illness, but would +take the place where she now belonged. She saw herself, +a fading figure, more than half-way now towards the sunset +end, within sight even of the shadowed emptiness that lay +beyond the sun’s dipping edge. She had lingered over-long, +expecting a dream to confirm a dream; she had +been oblivious of the truth that the lane went rushing just +the same. It was now too late. The speed increased. She +had waited, waited for nothing. The seller of dreams was +a myth. No man could need her as she now was.</p> + +<p>Yet the chief ingredient in her decision was, oddly +enough, itself a sign of youth. A party, a ball, is ever +an adventure. Fate, with her destined eyes aglow, may +be bidden too, waiting among the throng, waiting for that +very one who hesitates whether to go or not to go. Who +knows what the evening may bring forth? It was this +anticipation, faintly beckoning, its voice the merest echo +of her shadowy youth, that tipped the scales between an +evening of sleepless regrets at home and hours of neglected +loneliness, watching the young fulfil the happy night. +This and her courage weighed the balance down against the +afflicting weariness of her sudden disillusion.</p> + +<p>Therefore she went, her aunt, in whose house she was +a visitor, accompanying her. They arrived late, walking +under the awning alone into the great mansion. Music, +flowers, lovely dresses, and bright happy faces filled the air +about them. The dancing feet, the flashing eyes, the swing +of the music, the throng of graceful figures expressed one +word—pleasure. Pleasure, of course, meant youth. Beneath +the calm summer stars youth realized itself prodigally, +reckless of years to follow. Under the same calm +stars, some fifty miles away in Kent, her stretch of deserted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +lane flowed peacefully, never pausing, passing relentlessly +out into unknown space beyond the edge of the +world. A girl and a middle-aged woman bravely watched +both scenes.</p> + +<p>“Dreadfully overcrowded,” remarked her prosaic aunt. +“When I was a young thing there was more taste—always +room to dance, at any rate.”</p> + +<p>“It is a rabble rather,” replied the middle-aged woman, +while the girl added, “but I enjoy it.” She had enjoyed +one duty-dance with an elderly man to whom her aunt had +introduced her. She now sat watching the rabble whirl +and laugh. Her friend, behind unabashed lorgnettes, +made occasional comments.</p> + +<p>“There’s Mabel. Look at her frock, will you—the +naked back. The way he holds her, too!”</p> + +<p>She looked at Mabel Messenger, exactly her own age, +wife of the successful engineer, yet bearing herself almost +like a girl.</p> + +<p>“<em>He’s</em> away in Mexico, as usual,” went on her aunt, +“with somebody else, also as usual.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t envy her,” mentioned the middle-aged woman, +while the girl added, “but she did well for herself, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a mistake to wait too long,” was a suggestion +she did not comment on.</p> + +<p>The host’s brother came up and carried off her aunt. +She was left alone. An old gentleman dropped into the +vacated chair. Only in the centre of the brilliantly lit +room was there dancing now; people stood and talked in +animated throngs, every seat along the walls, every chair +and sofa in alcove corners occupied. The landing outside +the great flung doors was packed; some, going on elsewhere, +were already leaving, but others arriving late still +poured up the staircase. Her loneliness remained unnoticed; +with many other women, similarly stationed behind +the whirling, moving dancers, she sat looking on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +an artificial smile of enjoyment upon her face, but the +eyes empty and unlit.</p> + +<p>Two pictures she watched simultaneously—the gay +ballroom and the lane that ran east and west.</p> + +<p>Midnight was past and supper over, though she had +not noticed it. Her aunt had disappeared finally, it +seemed. The two pictures filled her mind, absorbed her. +What she was feeling was not clear, for there was confusion +in her between the two scenes somewhere—as though +the brilliant ballroom lay set against the dark background +of the lane beneath the quiet stars. The contrast struck +her. How calm and lovely the night lane seemed against +this feverish gaiety, this heat, this artificial perfume, these +exaggerated clothes. Like a small, rapid cinema-picture +the dazzling ballroom passed along the dark throat of the +deserted lane. A patch of light, alive with whirling animalculć, +it shone a moment against the velvet background +of the midnight country-side. It grew smaller and smaller. +It vanished over the edge of the departing end. It was +gone.</p> + +<p>Night and the stars enveloped her, and her eyes became +accustomed to the change, so that she saw the sandy strip +of lane, the hazel bushes, the dim outline of the cottage. +Her naked soul, it seemed again, stood facing an infinitude. +Yet the scent of roses, of dew-soaked grass came to her. A +blackbird was whistling in the hedge. The eastern end +showed itself now more plainly. The tops of the trees +defined themselves. There came a glimmer in the sky, an +early swallow flashed past against a streak of pale sweet +gold. Old Purdy, his tea-pail faintly rattling, a stir of +thick white dust about his feet, came slowly round the +curve. It was the sunrise.</p> + +<p>A deep, passionate thrill ran through her body from +head to feet. There was a clap beside her—in the air it +seemed—as though the wings of the early swallow had +flashed past her very ear, or the approaching sunrise called +aloud. She turned her head—along the brightening lane,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +but also across the gay ballroom. Old Purdy, straightening +up his bent shoulders, was gazing over the wicket-gate +into her eyes.</p> + +<p>Something quivered. A shimmer ran fluttering before +her sight. She trembled. Over the crowd of intervening +heads, as over the spiked top of the little gate, a man was +gazing at her.</p> + +<p>Old Purdy, however, did not fade, nor did his outline +wholly pass. There was this confusion between two pictures. +Yet this man who gazed at her was in the London +ballroom. He was so tall and straight. The same moment +her aunt’s face appeared below his shoulder, only just visible, +and he turned his head, but did not turn his eyes, to +listen to her. Both looked her way; they moved, threading +their way towards her. It meant an introduction coming. +He had asked for it.</p> + +<p>She did not catch his name, so quickly, yet so easily +and naturally the little formalities were managed, and she +was dancing. The same sweet, dim confusion was about +her. His touch, his voice, his eyes combined extraordinarily +in a sense of complete possession to which she yielded +utterly. The two pictures, moreover, still held their place. +Behind the glaring lights ran the pale sweet gold of a +country dawn; woven like a silver thread among the strings +she heard the blackbirds whistling; in the stale, heated air +lay the subtle freshness of a summer sunrise. Their dancing +feet bore them along in a flowing motion that curved +from east to west.</p> + +<p>They danced without speaking; one rhythm took them; +like a single person they glided over the smooth, perfect +floor, and, more and more to her, it was as if the floor +flowed with them, bearing them along. Such dancing she +had never known. The strange sweetness of the confusion +that half-entranced her increased—almost as though she +lay upon her partner’s arms and that he bore her through +the air. Both the sense of weight and the touch of her feet +on solid ground were gone delightfully. The London room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +grew hazy, too; the other figures faded; the ceiling, half +transparent, let through a filtering glimmer of the dawn. +Her thoughts—surely he shared them with her—went out +floating beneath this brightening sky. There was a sound +of wakening birds, a smell of flowers.</p> + +<p>They had danced perhaps five minutes when both +stopped abruptly as with one accord.</p> + +<p>“Shall we sit it out—if you’ve no objection?” he suggested +in the very instant that the same thought occurred +to her. “The conservatory, among the flowers,” he added, +leading her to the corner among scented blooms and plants, +exactly as she herself desired. There were leaves and ferns +about them in the warm air. The light was dim. A streak +of gold in the sky showed through the glass. But for one +other couple they were alone.</p> + +<p>“I have something to say to you,” he began. “You +must have thought it curious—I’ve been staring at you so. +The whole evening I’ve been watching you.”</p> + +<p>“I—hadn’t noticed,” she said truthfully, her voice, as +it were, not quite her own. “I’ve not been dancing—only +once, that is.”</p> + +<p>But her heart was dancing as she said it. For the first +time she became aware of her partner more distinctly—of +his deep, resonant voice, his soldierly tall figure, his deferential, +almost protective manner. She turned suddenly +and looked into his face. The clear, rather penetrating +eyes reminded her of someone she had known.</p> + +<p>At the same instant he used her thought, turning it in +his own direction. “I can’t remember, for the life of me,” +he said quietly, “where I have seen you before. Your face +is familiar to me, oddly familiar—years ago—in my first +youth somewhere.”</p> + +<p>It was as though he broke something to her gently—something +he was sure of and knew positively, that yet +might shock and startle her.</p> + +<p>The blood rushed from her heart as she quickly turned +her gaze away. The wave of deep feeling that rose with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +a sensation of glowing warmth troubled her voice. “I find +in you, too, a faint resemblance to—someone I have met,” +she murmured. Without meaning it she let slip the added +words, “when I was a girl.”</p> + +<p>She felt him start, but he saved the situation, making +it ordinary again by obtaining her permission to smoke, +then slowly lighting his cigarette before he spoke.</p> + +<p>“You must forgive me,” he put in with a smile, “but +your name, when you were kind enough to let me be introduced, +escaped me. I did not catch it.”</p> + +<p>She told him her surname, but he asked in his persuasive +yet somehow masterful way for the Christian name +as well. He turned round instantly as she gave it, staring +hard at her with meaning, with an examining intentness, +with open curiosity. There was a question on his lips, but +she interrupted, delaying it by a question of her own. +Without looking at him she knew and feared his question. +Her voice just concealed a trembling that was in her +throat.</p> + +<p>“My aunt,” she agreed lightly, “is incorrigible. Do +you know I didn’t catch yours either? Oh—I meant your +surname,” she added, confusion gaining upon her when he +mentioned his first name only.</p> + +<p>He became suddenly more earnest, his voice deepened, +his whole manner took on the guise of deliberate intention +backed by some profound emotion that he could no longer +hide. The music, which had momentarily ceased, began +again, and a couple, who had been sitting out diagonally +across from them, rose and went out. They were now quite +alone. The sky was brighter.</p> + +<p>“I must tell you,” he went on in a way that compelled +her to look up and meet his intent gaze. “You really must +allow me. I feel sure somehow you’ll understand. At any +rate,” he added like a boy, “you won’t laugh.”</p> + +<p>She believes she gave the permission and assurance. +Memory fails her a little here, for as she returned his gaze, +it seemed a curious change came stealing over him, yet at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +first so imperceptibly, so vaguely, that she could not say +when it began, nor how it happened.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she murmured, “please——” The change defined +itself. She stopped dead.</p> + +<p>“I know now where I’ve seen you before. I remember.” +His voice vibrated like a wind in big trees. It enveloped +her.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she repeated in a whisper, for the hammering +of her heart made both a louder tone or further words +impossible. She knew not what he was going to say, yet +at the same time she knew with accuracy. Her eyes gazed +helplessly into his. The change absorbed her. Within his +outline she watched another outline grow. Behind the immaculate +evening clothes a ragged, unkempt figure rose. +A worn, ravaged face with young burning eyes peered +through his own. “Please, please,” she whispered again +very faintly. He took her hand in his.</p> + +<p>His voice came from very far away, yet drawing nearer, +and the scene about them faded, vanished. The lane that +curved east and west now stretched behind him, and she +sat gazing towards the sunrise end, as years ago when the +girl passed into the woman first.</p> + +<p>“I knew—a friend of yours—Dick Messenger,” he was +saying in this distant voice that yet was close beside her, +“knew him at school, at Cambridge, and later in Mexico. +We worked in the same mines together, only he was contractor +and I was—in difficulties. That made no difference. +He—he told me about a girl—of his love and admiration, +an admiration that remained, but a love that had +already faded.”</p> + +<p>She saw only the ragged outline within the well-groomed +figure of the man who spoke. The young eyes +that gazed so piercingly into hers belonged to him, the +seller of her dream of years before. It was to this ragged +stranger in her lane she made her answer:</p> + +<p>“I, too, now remember,” she said softly. “Please go +on.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> + +<p>“He gave me his confidence, asking me where his +duty lay, and I told him that the real love comes once +only; it knows no doubt, no fading. I told him this——”</p> + +<p>“We both discovered it in time,” she said to herself, +so low it was scarcely audible, yet not resisting as he laid +his other hand upon the one he already held.</p> + +<p>“I also told him there was only one true dream,” the +voice continued, the inner face drawing nearer to the outer +that contained it. “I asked him, and he told me—everything. +I knew all about this girl. Her picture, too, he +showed me.”</p> + +<p>The voice broke off. The flood of love and pity, of sympathy +and understanding that rose in her like a power +long suppressed, threatened tears, yet happy, yearning +tears like those of a girl, which only the quick, strong +pressure of his hands prevented.</p> + +<p>“The—little painting—yes, I know it,” she faltered.</p> + +<p>“It saved me,” he said simply. “It changed my life. +From that moment I began—living decently again—living +for an ideal.” Without knowing that she did so, the pressure +of her hand upon his own came instantly. “He—he +gave it to me,” the voice went on, “to keep. He said he +could neither keep it himself nor destroy it. It was the +day before he sailed. I remember it as yesterday. I said +I must give him something in return, or it would cut +friendship. But I had nothing in the world to give. We +were in the hills. I picked a leaf of fern instead. ‘Fern-seed,’ +I told him, ‘it will make you see the fairies and find +your true dream.’ I remember his laugh to this day—a sad, +uneasy laugh. ‘I shall give it to her,’ he told me, ‘when +I give her my difficult explanation.’ But I said, ‘Give it +with my love, and tell her that I wait.’ He looked at me +with surprise, incredulous. Then he said slowly, ‘Why +not? If—if only you hadn’t let yourself go to pieces like +this!’”</p> + +<p>An immensity of clear emotion she could not understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +passed over her in a wave. Involuntarily she moved +closer against him. With her eyes unflinchingly upon his +own, she whispered: “You were hungry, thirsty, you had +no clothes.... You waited!”</p> + +<p>“You’re reading my thoughts, as I knew one day you +would.” It seemed as if their minds, their bodies too, were +one, as he said the words. “You, too—you waited.” His +voice was low.</p> + +<p>There came a glow between them as of hidden fire; +their faces shone; there was a brightening as of dawn +upon their skins, within their eyes, lighting their very hair. +Out of this happy sky his voice floated to her with the +blackbird’s song:</p> + +<p>“And that night I dreamed of you. I dreamed I met +you in an English country lane.”</p> + +<p>“We did,” she murmured, as though it were quite natural.</p> + +<p>“I dreamed I gave you the fern leaf—across a wicket-gate—and +in front of a little house that was our home. +In my dream—I handed to you—a dream——”</p> + +<p>“You did.” And as she whispered it the two figures +merged into one before her very eyes. “See,” she added +softly, “I have it still. It is in my locket at this moment, +for I have worn it day and night through all these years +of waiting.” She began fumbling at her chain.</p> + +<p>He smiled. “Such things,” he said gently, “are beyond +me rather. I have found you. That’s all that matters. +That”—he smiled again—“is real at any rate.”</p> + +<p>“A vision,” she murmured, half to herself and half to +him, “I can understand. A dream, though wonderful, is +a dream. But the little fern you gave me,” drawing the +fine gold chain from her bosom, “the actual leaf I have +worn all these years in my locket!”</p> + +<p>He smiled as she held the locket out to him, her fingers +feeling for the little spring. He shook his head, but so +slightly she did not notice it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I will prove it to you,” she said. “I must. Look!” +she cried, as with trembling hand she pressed the hidden +catch. “There! There!”</p> + +<p>With heads close together they bent over. The tiny +lid flew open. And as he took her for one quick instant +in his arms the sun flashed his first golden shaft upon +them, covering them with light. But her exclamation of +incredulous surprise he smothered with a kiss. For inside +the little locket there lay—nothing. It was quite empty.</p> +<hr class="l1" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>XV<br /> +<br /> +“VENGEANCE IS MINE”</h2> + + +<h3>1</h3> + +<p class="cap"><span class="upper">An</span> active, vigorous man in Holy orders, yet compelled +by heart trouble to resign a living in Kent +before full middle age, he had found suitable work with +the Red Cross in France; and it rather pleased a strain of +innocent vanity in him that Rouen, whence he derived +his Norman blood, should be the scene of his activities.</p> + +<p>He was a gentle-minded soul, a man deeply read and +thoughtful, but goodness perhaps his out-standing quality, +believing no evil of others. He had been slow, for instance, +at first to credit the German atrocities, until the evidence +had compelled him to face the appalling facts. With acceptance, +then, he had experienced a revulsion which other +gentle minds have probably also experienced—a burning +desire, namely, that the perpetrators should be fitly punished.</p> + +<p>This primitive instinct of revenge—he called it a lust—he +sternly repressed; it involved a descent to lower levels +of conduct irreconcilable with the progress of the race he +so passionately believed in. Revenge pertained to savage +days. But, though he hid away the instinct in his heart, +afraid of its clamour and persistency, it revived from +time to time, as fresh horrors made it bleed anew. It +remained alive, unsatisfied; while, with its analysis, his +mind strove unconsciously. That an intellectual nation +should deliberately include frightfulness as a chief item +in its creed perplexed him horribly; it seemed to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +conscious spiritual evil openly affirmed. Some genuine +worship of Odin, Wotan, Moloch lay still embedded in +the German outlook, and beneath the veneer of their pretentious +culture. He often wondered, too, what effect the +recognition of these horrors must have upon gentle minds +in other men, and especially upon imaginative minds. +How did they deal with the fact that this appalling thing +existed in human nature in the twentieth century? Its +survival, indeed, caused his belief in civilization as a whole +to waver. Was progress, his pet ideal and cherished +faith, after all a mockery? Had human nature not advanced...?</p> + +<p>His work in the great hospitals and convalescent camps +beyond the town was tiring; he found little time for recreation, +much less for rest; a light dinner and bed by ten +o’clock was the usual way of spending his evenings. He +had no social intercourse, for everyone else was as busy as +himself. The enforced solitude, not quite wholesome, was +unavoidable. He found no outlet for his thoughts. First-hand +acquaintance with suffering, physical and mental, was +no new thing to him, but this close familiarity, day by day, +with maimed and broken humanity preyed considerably on +his mind, while the fortitude and cheerfulness shown by +the victims deepened the impression of respectful, yearning +wonder made upon him. They were so young, so fine and +careless, these lads whom the German lust for power had +robbed of limbs, and eyes, of mind, of life itself. The sense +of horror grew in him with cumulative but unrelieved +effect.</p> + +<p>With the lengthening of the days in February, and +especially when March saw the welcome change to summer +time, the natural desire for open air asserted itself. Instead +of retiring early to his dingy bedroom, he would stroll out +after dinner through the ancient streets. When the air +was not too chilly, he would prolong these outings, starting +at sunset and coming home beneath the bright mysterious +stars. He knew at length every turn and winding of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +old-world alleys, every gable, every tower and spire, from +the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vieux Marché</i>, where Joan of Arc was burnt, to the +busy quays, thronged now with soldiers from half a dozen +countries. He wandered on past grey gateways of crumbling +stone that marked the former banks of the old tidal +river. An English army, five centuries ago, had camped +here among reeds and swamps, besieging the Norman capital, +where now they brought in supplies of men and material +upon modern docks, a mighty invasion of a very different +kind. Imaginative reflection was his constant mood.</p> + +<p>But it was the haunted streets that touched him most, +stirring some chord his ancestry had planted in him. The +forest of spires thronged the air with strange stone flowers, +silvered by moonlight as though white fire streamed from +branch and petal; the old church towers soared; the cathedral +touched the stars. After dark the modern note, paramount +in the daylight, seemed hushed; with sunset it +underwent a definite night-change. Although the darkened +streets kept alive in him the menace of fire and death, the +crowding soldiers, dipped to the face in shadow, seemed +somehow negligible; the leaning roofs and gables hid them +in a purple sea of mist that blurred their modern garb, +steel weapons, and the like. Shadows themselves, they entered +the being of the town; their feet moved silently; there +was a hush and murmur; the brooding buildings absorbed +them easily.</p> + +<p>Ancient and modern, that is, unable successfully to +mingle, let fall grotesque, incongruous shadows on his +thoughts. The spirit of medićval days stole over him, +exercising its inevitable sway upon a temperament already +predisposed to welcome it. Witchcraft and wonder, pagan +superstition and speculation, combined with an ancestral +tendency to weave a spell, half of acceptance, half of +shrinking, about his imaginative soul in which poetry and +logic seemed otherwise fairly balanced. Too weary for +critical judgment to discern clear outlines, his mind, during +these magical twilight walks, became the playground of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +opposing forces, some power of dreaming, it seems, too +easily in the ascendant. The soul of ancient Rouen, stealing +beside his footsteps in the dusk, put forth a shadowy +hand and touched him.</p> + +<p>This shadowy spell he denied as far as in him lay, +though the resistance offered by reason to instinct lacked +true driving power. The dice were loaded otherwise in +such a soul. His own blood harked back unconsciously to +the days when men were tortured, broken on the wheel, +walled up alive, and burnt for small offences. This +shadowy hand stirred faint ancestral memories in him, +part instinct, part desire. The next step, by which he saw +a similar attitude flowering full blown in the German +frightfulness, was too easily made to be rejected. The +German horrors made him believe that this ignorant +cruelty of olden days threatened the world now in a modern, +organized shape that proved its survival in the human +heart. Shuddering, he fought against the natural desire +for adequate punishment, but forgot that repressed emotions +sooner or later must assert themselves. Essentially +irrepressible, they may force an outlet in distorted fashion. +He hardly recognized, perhaps, their actual claim, yet it +was audible occasionally. For, owing to his loneliness, the +natural outlet, in talk and intercourse, was denied.</p> + +<p>Then, with the softer winds, he yearned for country +air. The sweet spring days had come; morning and evening +were divine; above the town the orchards were in +bloom. Birds blew their tiny bugles on the hills. The +midday sun began to burn.</p> + +<p>It was the time of the final violence, when the German +hordes flung like driven cattle against the Western line +where free men fought for liberty. Fate hovered dreadfully +in the balance that spring of 1918; Amiens was +threatened, and if Amiens fell, Rouen must be evacuated. +The town, already full, became now over-full. On his +way home one evening he passed the station, crowded +with homeless new arrivals. “Got the wind up, it seems,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +in Amiens!” cried a cheery voice, as an officer he knew +went by him hurriedly. And as he heard it the mood of +the spring became of a sudden uppermost. He reached +a decision. The German horror came abruptly closer. This +further overcrowding of the narrow streets was more than +he could face.</p> + +<p>It was a small, personal decision merely, but he <em>must</em> +get out among woods and fields, among flowers and wholesome, +growing things, taste simple, innocent life again. +The following evening he would pack his haversack with +food and tramp the four miles to the great <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Foręt Verte</i>—delicious +name!—and spend the night with trees and stars, +breathing his full of sweetness, calm and peace. He was too +accustomed to the thunder of the guns to be disturbed by +it. The song of a thrush, the whistle of a blackbird, would +easily drown that. He made his plan accordingly.</p> + +<p>The next two nights, however, a warm soft rain was +falling; only on the third evening could he put his little +plan into execution. Anticipatory enjoyment, meanwhile, +lightened his heart; he did his daily work more competently, +the spell of the ancient city weakened somewhat. +The shadowy hand withdrew.</p> + + +<h3>2</h3> + +<p>Meanwhile, a curious adventure intervened.</p> + +<p>His good and simple heart, disciplined these many +years in the way a man should walk, received upon its imaginative +side, a stimulus that, in his case, amounted to a +shock. That a strange and comely woman should make +eyes at him disturbed his equilibrium considerably; that +he should enjoy the attack, though without at first responding +openly—even without full comprehension of its +meaning—disturbed it even more. It was, moreover, no +ordinary attack.</p> + +<p>He saw her first the night after his decision when, in +a mood of disappointment due to the rain, he came down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +to his lonely dinner. The room, he saw, was crowded with +new arrivals, from Amiens, doubtless, where they had “the +wind up.” The wealthier civilians had fled for safety to +Rouen. These interested and, in a measure, stimulated +him. He looked at them sympathetically, wondering what +dear home-life they had so hurriedly relinquished at the +near thunder of the enemy guns, and, in so doing, he +noticed, sitting alone at a small table just in front of his +own—yet with her back to him—a woman.</p> + +<p>She drew his attention instantly. The first glance +told him that she was young and well-to-do; the second, +that she was unusual. What precisely made her unusual +he could not say, although he at once began to study her +intently. Dignity, atmosphere, personality, he perceived +beyond all question. She sat there with an air. The becoming +little hat with its challenging feather slightly +tilted, the set of the shoulders, the neat waist and slender +outline; possibly, too, the hair about the neck, and the faint +perfume that was wafted towards him as the serving girl +swept past, combined in the persuasion. Yet he felt it as +more than a persuasion. She attracted him with a subtle +vehemence he had never felt before. The instant he set +eyes upon her his blood ran faster. The thought rose passionately +in him, almost the words that phrased it: “I +wish I knew her.”</p> + +<p>This sudden flash of response his whole being certainly +gave—to the back of an unknown woman. It was both vehement +and instinctive. He lay stress upon its instinctive +character; he was aware of it before reason told him why. +That it was “in response” he also noted, for although he +had not seen her face and she assuredly had made no sign, +he felt that attraction which involves also invitation. So +vehement, moreover, was this response in him that he felt +shy and ashamed the same instant, for it almost seemed he +had expressed his thought in audible words. He flushed, +and the flush ran through his body; he was conscious of +heated blood as in a youth of twenty-five, and when a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +past forty knows this touch of fever he may also know, +though he may not recognize it, that the danger signal +which means possible abandon has been lit. Moreover, as +though to prove his instinct justified, it was at this very +instant that the woman turned and stared at him deliberately. +She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers. +He knew a moment’s keen distress, a sharpest possible discomfort, +that after all he <em>had</em> expressed his desire audibly. +Yet, though he blushed, he did not lower his eyes. The embarrassment +passed instantly, replaced by a thrill of +strangest pleasure and satisfaction. He knew a tinge of +inexplicable dismay as well. He felt for a second helpless +before what seemed a challenge in her eyes. The eyes were +too compelling. They mastered him.</p> + +<p>In order to meet his gaze she had to make a full turn +in her chair, for her table was placed directly in front of +his own. She did so without concealment. It was no mere +attempt to see what lay behind by making a half-turn and +pretending to look elsewhere; no corner of the eye business; +but a full, straight, direct, significant stare. She +looked into his soul as though she called him, he looked +into hers as though he answered. Sitting there like a +statue, motionless, without a bow, without a smile, he returned +her intense regard unflinchingly and yet unwillingly. +He made no sign. He shivered again.... It was perhaps +ten seconds before she turned away with an air as if she +had delivered her message and received his answer, but in +those ten seconds a series of singular ideas crowded his +mind, leaving an impression that ten years could never +efface. The face and eyes produced a kind of intoxication +in him. There was almost recognition, as though she said: +“Ah, there you are! I was waiting; you’ll have to come, of +course. You must!” And just before she turned away she +smiled.</p> + +<p>He felt confused and helpless.</p> + +<p>The face he described as unusual; familiar, too, as with +the atmosphere of some long forgotten dream, and if beauty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +perhaps was absent, character and individuality were supreme. +Implacable resolution was stamped upon the features, +which yet were sweet and womanly, stirring an emotion +in him that he could not name and certainly did not +recognize. The eyes, slanting a little upwards, were full +of fire, the mouth voluptuous but very firm, the chin and +jaw most delicately modelled, yet with a masculine strength +that told of inflexible resolve. The resolution, as a whole, +was the most relentless he had ever seen upon a human +countenance. It dominated him. “How vain to resist the +will,” he thought, “that lies behind!” He was conscious +of enslavement; she conveyed a message that he must obey, +admitting compliance with her unknown purpose.</p> + +<p>That some extraordinary wordless exchange was registered +thus between them seemed very clear; and it was +just at this moment, as if to signify her satisfaction, that +she smiled. At his feeling of willing compliance with +some purpose in her mind, the smile appeared. It was +faint, so faint indeed that the eyes betrayed it rather than +the mouth and lips; but it was there; he saw it and he +thrilled again to this added touch of wonder and enchantment. +Yet, strangest of all, he maintains that with the +smile there fluttered over the resolute face a sudden arresting +tenderness, as though some wild flower lit a granite +surface with its melting loveliness. He was aware in the +clear strong eyes of unshed tears, of sympathy, of self-sacrifice +he called maternal, of clinging love. It was this +tenderness, as of a soft and gracious mother, and this implacable +resolution, as of a stern, relentless man, that left +upon his receptive soul the strange impression of sweetness +yet of domination.</p> + +<p>The brief ten seconds were over. She turned away as +deliberately as she had turned to look. He found himself +trembling with confused emotions he could not disentangle, +could not even name; for, with the subtle intoxication of +compliance in his soul lay also a vigorous protest that included +refusal, even a violent refusal given with horror.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +This unknown woman, without actual speech or definite +gesture, had lit a flame in him that linked on far away and +out of sight with the magic of the ancient city’s medićval +spell. Both, he decided, were undesirable, both to be resisted.</p> + +<p>He was quite decided about this. She pertained to forgotten +yet unburied things, her modern aspect a mere disguise, +a disguise that some deep unsatisfied instinct in him +pierced with ease.</p> + +<p>He found himself equally decided, too, upon another +thing which, in spite of his momentary confusion, stood +out clearly: the magic of the city, the enchantment of the +woman, both attacked a constitutional weakness in his +blood, a line of least resistance. It wore no physical aspect, +breathed no hint of ordinary romance; the mere male and +female, moral or immoral touch was wholly absent; yet +passion lurked there, tumultuous if hidden, and a tract of +consciousness, long untravelled, was lit by sudden ominous +flares. His character, his temperament, his calling in life +as a former clergyman and now a Red Cross worker, being +what they were, he stood on the brink of an adventure not +dangerous alone but containing a challenge of fundamental +kind that involved his very soul.</p> + +<p>No further thrill, however, awaited him immediately. +He left his table before she did, having intercepted no +slightest hint of desired acquaintanceship or intercourse. +He, naturally, made no advances; she, equally, made no +smallest sign. Her face remained hidden, he caught no +flash of eyes, no gesture, no hint of possible invitation. +He went upstairs to his dingy room, and in due course +fell asleep. The next day he saw her not, her place in +the dining-room was empty; but in the late evening of the +following day, as the soft spring sunshine found him prepared +for his postponed expedition, he met her suddenly +on the stairs. He was going down with haversack and in +walking kit to an early dinner, when he saw her coming +up; she was perhaps a dozen steps below him; they must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +meet. A wave of confused, embarrassed pleasure swept +him. He realized that this was no chance meeting. She +meant to speak to him.</p> + +<p>Violent attraction and an equally violent repulsion +seized him. There was no escape, nor, had escape been +possible, would he have attempted it. He went down four +steps, she mounted four towards him; then he took one +and she took one. They met. For a moment they stood +level, while he shrank against the wall to let her pass. He +had the feeling that but for the support of that wall he +must have lost his balance and fallen into her, for the +sunlight from the landing window caught her face and lit +it, and she was younger, he saw, than he had thought, and +far more comely. Her atmosphere enveloped him, the +sense of attraction and repulsion became intense. She +moved past him with the slightest possible bow of recognition; +then, having passed, she turned.</p> + +<p>She stood a little higher than himself, a step at most, +and she thus looked down at him. Her eyes blazed into +his. She smiled, and he was aware again of the domination +and the sweetness. The perfume of her near presence +drowned him; his head swam. “We count upon you,” +she said in a low firm voice, as though giving a command; +“I know ... we may. We do.” And, before he knew +what he was saying, trembling a little between deep pleasure +and a contrary impulse that sought to choke the utterance, +he heard his own voice answering. “You can count +upon me....” And she was already half-way up the +next flight of stairs ere he could move a muscle, or attempt +to thread a meaning into the singular exchange.</p> + +<p>Yet meaning, he well knew, there was.</p> + +<p>She was gone; her footsteps overhead had died away. +He stood there trembling like a boy of twenty, yet also +like a man of forty in whom fires, long dreaded, now blazed +sullenly. She had opened the furnace door, the draught +rushed through. He felt again the old unwelcome spell; +he saw the twisted streets ’mid leaning gables and shadowy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +towers of a day forgotten; he heard the ominous murmurs +of a crowd that thirsted for wheel and scaffold and fire; +and, aware of vengeance, sweet and terrible, aware, too, +that he welcomed it, his heart was troubled and afraid.</p> + +<p>In a brief second the impression came and went; following +it swiftly, the sweetness of the woman swept him: +he forgot his shrinking in a rush of wild delicious pleasure. +The intoxication in him deepened. She had recognized +him! She had bowed and even smiled; she had spoken, +assuming familiarity, intimacy, including him in her secret +purposes! It was this sweet intimacy cleverly injected, +that overcame the repulsion he acknowledged, winning +complete obedience to the unknown meaning of her words. +This meaning, for the moment, lay in darkness; yet it +was a portion of his own self, he felt, that concealed it +of set purpose. He kept it hid, he looked deliberately another +way; for, if he faced it with full recognition, he knew +that he must resist it to the death. He allowed himself +to ask vague questions—then let her dominating spell confuse +the answers so that he did not hear them. The challenge +to his soul, that is, he evaded.</p> + +<p>What is commonly called sex lay only slightly in his +troubled emotions; her purpose had nothing that kept +step with chance acquaintanceship. There lay meaning, +indeed, in her smile and voice, but these were no hand-maids +to a vulgar intrigue in a foreign hotel. Her will +breathed cleaner air; her purpose aimed at some graver, +mightier climax than the mere subjection of an elderly +victim like himself. That will, that purpose, he felt certain, +were implacable as death, the resolve in those bold +eyes was not a common one. For, in some strange way, +he divined the strong maternity in her; the maternal instinct +was deeply, even predominantly, involved; he felt +positive that a divine tenderness, deeply outraged, was a +chief ingredient too. In some way, then, she needed him, +yet not she alone, for the pronoun “we” was used, and +there were others with her; in some way, equally, a part<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> +of him was already her and their accomplice, an unresisting +slave, a willing co-conspirator.</p> + +<p>He knew one other thing, and it was this that he kept +concealed so carefully from himself. His recognition of +it was sub-conscious possibly, but for that very reason true: +her purpose was consistent with the satisfaction at last of +a deep instinct in him that clamoured to know gratification. +It was for these odd, mingled reasons that he stood trembling +when she left him on the stairs, and finally went +down to his hurried meal with a heart that knew wonder, +anticipation, and delight, but also dread.</p> + + +<h3>3</h3> + +<p>The table in front of him remained unoccupied; his +dinner finished, he went out hastily.</p> + +<p>As he passed through the crowded streets, his chief desire +was to be quickly free of the old muffled buildings and +airless alleys with their clinging atmosphere of other days. +He longed for the sweet taste of the heights, the smells of +the forest whither he was bound. This <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Foręt Verte</i>, he +knew, rolled for leagues towards the north, empty of houses +as of human beings; it was the home of deer and birds +and rabbits, of wild boar too. There would be spring +flowers among the brushwood, anemones, celandine, oxslip, +daffodils. The vapours of the town oppressed him, the +warm and heavy moisture stifled; he wanted space and +the sight of clean simple things that would stimulate his +mind with lighter thoughts.</p> + +<p>He soon passed the Rampe, skirted the ugly villas of +modern Bihorel and, rising now with every step, entered +the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Route Neuve</i>. He went unduly fast; he was already +above the Cathedral spire; below him the Seine meandered +round the chalky hills, laden with war-barges, and across a +dip, still pink in the afterglow, rose the blunt Down of +Bonsecours with its anti-aircraft batteries. Poetry and +violent fact crashed everywhere; he longed to top the hill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> +and leave these unhappy reminders of death behind him. +In front the sweet woods already beckoned through the twilight. +He hastened. Yet while he deliberately fixed his +imagination on promised peace and beauty, an undercurrent +ran sullenly in his mind, busy with quite other +thoughts. The unknown woman and her singular words, +the following mystery of the ancient city, the soft beating +wonder of the two together, these worked their incalculable +magic persistently about him. Repression merely added +to their power. His mind was a prey to some shadowy, +remote anxiety that, intangible, invisible, yet knocked with +ghostly fingers upon some door of ancient memory.... +He watched the moon rise above the eastern ridge, in the +west the afterglow of sunset still hung red. But these did +not hold his attention as they normally must have done. +Attention seemed elsewhere. The undercurrent bore him +down a siding, into a backwater, as it were, that clamoured +for discharge.</p> + +<p>He thought suddenly, then, of weather, what he called +“German weather”—that combination of natural conditions +which so oddly favoured the enemy always. It had +often occurred to him as strange; on sea and land, mist, +rain and wind, the fog and drying sun worked ever on +<em>their</em> side. The coincidence was odd, to say the least. And +now this glimpse of rising moon and sunset sky reminded +him unpleasantly of the subject. Legends of pagan +weather-gods passed through his mind like hurrying +shadows. These shadows multiplied, changed form, vanished +and returned. They came and went with incoherence, +a straggling stream, rushing from one point to +another, manœuvring for position, but all unled, unguided +by his will. The physical exercise filled his brain with +blood, and thought danced undirected, picture upon picture +driving by, so that soon he slipped from German weather +and pagan gods to the witchcraft of past centuries, of its +alleged association with the natural powers of the elements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +and thus, eventually, to his cherished beliefs that humanity +had advanced.</p> + +<p>Such remnants of primitive days were grotesque superstition, +of course. But had humanity advanced? Had +the individual progressed after all? Civilization, was it +not the merest artificial growth? And the old perplexity +rushed through his mind again—the German barbarity and +blood-lust, the savagery, the undoubted sadic impulses, the +frightfulness taught with cool calculation by their highest +minds, approved by their professors, endorsed by their +clergy, applauded by their women even—all the unwelcome, +undesired thoughts came flocking back upon him, +escorted by the trooping shadows. They lay, these questions, +still unsolved within him; it was the undercurrent, +flowing more swiftly now, that bore them to the surface. +It had acquired momentum; it was leading somewhere.</p> + +<p>They were a thoughtful, intellectual race, these Germans; +their music, literature, philosophy, their science—how +reconcile the opposing qualities? He had read that +their herd-instinct was unusually developed, though betraying +the characteristics of a low wild savage type—the +lupine. It might be true. Fear and danger wakened this +collective instinct into terrific activity, making them blind +and humourless; they fought best, like wolves, in contact; +they howled and whined and boasted loudly all together to +inspire terror; their Hymn of Hate was but an elaboration +of the wolf’s fierce bark, giving them herd-courage; and +a savage discipline was necessary to their lupine type.</p> + +<p>These reflections thronged his mind as the blood +coursed in his veins with the rapid climbing; yet one and +all, the beauty of the evening, the magic of the hidden +town, the thoughts of German horror, German weather, +German gods, all these, even the odd detail that they revived +a pagan practice by hammering nails into effigies +and idols—all led finally to one blazing centre that nothing +could dislodge nor anything conceal; a woman’s voice and +eyes. To these he knew quite well, was due the undesired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +intensification of the very mood, the very emotions, the +very thoughts he had come out on purpose to escape.</p> + +<p>“It is the night of the vernal equinox,” occurred to him +suddenly, sharp as a whispered voice beside him. He had +no notion whence the idea was born. It had no particular +meaning, so far as he remembered.</p> + +<p>“It had <em>then</em> ...” said the voice imperiously, rising, +it seemed, directly out of the under-current in his soul.</p> + +<p>It startled him. He increased his pace. He walked +very quickly, whistling softly as he went.</p> + +<p>The dusk had fallen when at length he topped the +long, slow hill, and left the last of the atrocious straggling +villas well behind him. The ancient city lay far below +in murky haze and smoke, but tinged now with the silver +of the growing moon.</p> + + +<h3>4</h3> + +<p>He stood now on the open plateau. He was on the +heights at last.</p> + +<p>The night air met him freshly in the face, so that he +forgot the fatigue of the long climb uphill, taken too fast +somewhat for his years. He drew a deep draught into +his lungs and stepped out briskly.</p> + +<p>Far in the upper sky light flaky clouds raced through +the reddened air, but the wind kept to these higher strata, +and the world about him lay very still. Few lights showed +in the farms and cottages, for this was the direct route of +the Gothas, and nothing that could help the German hawks +to find the river was visible.</p> + +<p>His mind cleared pleasantly; this keen sweet air held +no mystery; he put his best foot foremost, whistling still, +but a little more loudly than before. Among the orchards +he saw the daisies glimmer. Also, he heard the guns, a +thudding concussion in the direction of the coveted +Amiens, where, some sixty miles as the crow flies, they +roared their terror into the calm evening skies. He cursed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +the sound, in the town below it was not audible. Thought +jumped then to the men who fired them, and so to the +prisoners who worked on the roads outside the hospitals +and camps he visited daily. He passed them every morning +and night, and the N.C.O. invariably saluted his Red +Cross uniform, a salute he returned, when he could not +avoid it, with embarrassment.</p> + +<p>One man in particular stood out clearly in this memory; +he had exchanged glances with him, noted the expression +of his face, the number of his gang printed on coat +and trousers—“82.” The fellow had somehow managed +to establish a relationship; he would look up and smile or +frown; if the news, from his point of view, was good, he +smiled; if it was bad, he scowled; once, insolently enough—when +the Germans had taken Albert, Péronne, Bapaume—he +grinned.</p> + +<p>Something about the sullen, close-cropped face, typically +Prussian, made the other shudder. It was the visage +of an animal, neither evil nor malignant, even good-natured +sometimes when it smiled, yet of an animal that could be +fierce with the lust of happiness, ferocious with delight. +The sullen savagery of a human wolf lay in it somewhere. +He pictured its owner impervious to shame, to normal human +instinct as civilized people know these. Doubtless he +read his own feelings into it. He could imagine the man +doing anything and everything, regarding chivalry and +sporting instinct as proof of fear or weakness. He could +picture this member of the wolf-pack killing a woman or +a child, mutilating, cutting off little hands even, with the +conscientious conviction that it was right and sensible to +destroy <em>any</em> individual of an enemy tribe. It was, to him, +an atrocious and inhuman face.</p> + +<p>It now cropped up with unpleasant vividness, as he +listened to the distant guns and thought of Amiens with +its back against the wall, its inhabitants flying——</p> + +<p>Ah! Amiens...! He again saw the woman staring +into his obedient eyes across the narrow space between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +the tables. He smelt the delicious perfume of her dress +and person on the stairs. He heard her commanding voice, +her very words: “We count on you.... I know we +can ... we do.” And her background was of twisted +streets, dark alley-ways and leaning gables....</p> + +<p>He hurried, whistling loudly an air that he invented +suddenly, using his stick like a golf club at every loose +stone his feet encountered, making as much noise as possible. +He told himself he was a parson and a Red Cross +worker. He looked up and saw that the stars were out. +The pace made him warm, and he shifted his haversack +to the other shoulder. The moon, he observed, now cast +his shadow for a long distance on the sandy road.</p> + +<p>After another mile, while the air grew sharper and +twilight surrendered finally to the moon, the road began to +curve and dip, the cottages lay farther out in the dim +fields, the farms and barns occurred at longer intervals. A +dog barked now and again; he saw cows lying down for +the night beneath shadowy fruit-trees. And then the scent +in the air changed slightly, and a darkening of the near +horizon warned him that the forest had come close.</p> + +<p>This was an event. Its influence breathed already a +new perfume; the shadows from its myriad trees stole out +and touched him. Ten minutes later he reached its actual +frontier cutting across the plateau like a line of sentries +at attention. He slowed down a little. Here, within sight +and touch of his long-desired objective, he hesitated. It +stretched, he knew from the map, for many leagues to the +north, uninhabited, lonely, the home of peace and silence; +there were flowers there, and cool sweet spaces where the +moonlight fell. Yet here, within scent and touch of it, +he slowed down a moment to draw breath. A forest on the +map is one thing; visible before the eyes when night has +fallen, it is another. It is real.</p> + +<p>The wind, not noticeable hitherto, now murmured towards +him from the serried trees that seemed to manufacture +darkness out of nothing. This murmur hummed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> +about him. It enveloped him. Piercing it, another sound +that was not the guns just reached him, but so distant that +he hardly noticed it. He looked back. Dusk suddenly +merged in night. He stopped.</p> + +<p>“How practical the French are,” he said to himself—aloud—as +he looked at the road running straight as a ruled +line into the heart of the trees. “They waste no energy, +no space, no time. Admirable!”</p> + +<p>It pierced the forest like a lance, tapering to a faint +point in the misty distance. The trees ate its undeviating +straightness as though they would smother it from sight, as +though its rigid outline marred their mystery. He admired +the practical makers of the road, yet sided, too, with +the poetry of the trees. He stood there staring, waiting, +dawdling.... About him, save for this murmur of the +wind, was silence. Nothing living stirred. The world lay +extraordinarily still. That other distant sound had died +away.</p> + +<p>He lit his pipe, glad that the match blew out and the +damp tobacco needed several matches before the pipe drew +properly. His puttees hurt him a little, he stooped to +loosen them. His haversack swung round in front as he +straightened up again, he shifted it laboriously to the +other shoulder. A tiny stone in his right boot caused +irritation. Its removal took a considerable time, for he +had to sit down, and a log was not at once forthcoming. +Moreover, the laces gave him trouble, and his fingers had +grown thick with heat and the knots were difficult to +tie....</p> + +<p>“There!” He said it aloud, standing up again. “Now +at last, I’m ready!” Then added a mild imprecation, for +his pipe had gone out while he stooped over the recalcitrant +boot, and it had to be lighted once again. “Ah!” he gasped +finally with a sigh as, facing the forest for the third time, +he shuffled his tunic straight, altered his haversack once +more, changed his stick from the right hand to the left—and +faced the foolish truth without further pretence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> + +<p>He mopped his forehead carefully, as though at the +same time trying to mop away from his mind a faint +anxiety, a very faint uneasiness, that gathered there. Was +someone standing near him? Had somebody come close? +He listened intently. It was the blood singing in his ears, +of course, that curious distant noise. For, truth to tell, +the loneliness bit just below the surface of what he found +enjoyable. It seemed to him that somebody was coming, +someone he could not see, so that he looked back over his +shoulder once again, glanced quickly right and left, then +peered down the long opening cut through the woods in +front—when there came suddenly a roar and a blaze of +dazzling light from behind, so instantaneously that he +barely had time to obey the instinct of self-preservation +and step aside. He actually leapt. Pressed against the +hedge, he saw a motor-car rush past him like a whirlwind, +flooding the sandy road with fire; a second followed it; +and, to his complete amazement, then, a third.</p> + +<p>They were powerful, private cars, so-called. This struck +him instantly. Two other things he noticed, as they dived +down the throat of the long white road—they showed no +tail-lights. This made him wonder. And, secondly, the +drivers, clearly seen, were women. They were not even in +uniform—which made him wonder even more. The occupants, +too, were women. He caught the outline of toque +and feather—or was it flowers?—against the closed windows +in the moonlight as the procession rushed past him.</p> + +<p>He felt bewildered and astonished. Private motors +were rare, and military regulations exceedingly strict; the +danger of spies dressed in French uniform was constant; +cars armed with machine guns, he knew, patrolled the +countryside in all directions. Shaken and alarmed, he +thought of favoured persons fleeing stealthily by night, +of treachery, disguise and swift surprise; he thought of +various things as he stood peering down the road for ten +minutes after all sight and sound of the cars had died +away. But no solution of the mystery occurred to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> +Down the white throat the motors vanished. His pipe had +gone out; he lit it, and puffed furiously.</p> + +<p>His thoughts, at any rate, took temporarily a new direction +now. The road was not as lonely as he had imagined. +A natural reaction set in at once, and this proof of practical, +modern life banished the shadows from his mind +effectually. He started off once more, oblivious of his former +hesitation. He even felt a trifle shamed and foolish, +pretending that the vanished mood had not existed. The +tobacco had been damp. His boot had really hurt +him.</p> + +<p>Yet bewilderment and surprise stayed with him. The +swiftness of the incident was disconcerting; the cars arrived +and vanished with such extraordinary rapidity; their +noisy irruption into this peaceful spot seemed incongruous; +they roared, blazed, rushed and disappeared; silence resumed +its former sway.</p> + +<p>But the silence persisted, whereas the noise was gone.</p> + +<p>This touch of the incongruous remained with him as +he now went ever deeper into the heart of the quiet forest. +This odd incongruity of dreams remained.</p> + + +<h3>5</h3> + +<p>The keen air stole from the woods, cooling his body +and his mind; anemones gleamed faintly among the brushwood, +lit by the pallid moonlight. There were beauty, +calm and silence, the slow breathing of the earth beneath +the comforting sweet stars. War, in this haunt of ancient +peace, seemed an incredible anachronism. His thoughts +turned to gentle happy hopes of a day when the lion and +the lamb would yet lie down together, and a little child +would lead them without fear. His soul dwelt with peaceful +longings and calm desires.</p> + +<p>He walked on steadily, until the inflexible straightness +of the endless road began to afflict him, and he longed for +a turning to the right or left. He looked eagerly about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +him for a woodland path. Time mattered little; he could +wait for the sunrise and walk home “beneath the young +grey dawn”; he had food and matches, he could light a +fire, and sleep—— No!—after all, he would not light a +fire, perhaps; he might be accused of signalling to hostile +aircraft, or a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">garde forestičre</i> might catch him. He would +not bother with a fire. The night was warm, he could enjoy +himself and pass the time quite happily without artificial +heat; probably he would need no sleep at all.... +And just then he noticed an opening on his right, where a +seductive pathway led in among the trees. The moon, now +higher in the sky, lit this woodland trail enticingly; it +seemed the very opening he had looked for, and with a +thrill of pleasure he at once turned down it, leaving the +ugly road behind him with relief.</p> + +<p>The sound of his footsteps hushed instantly on the +leaves and moss; the silence became noticeable; an unusual +stillness followed; it seemed that something in his mind +was also hushed. His feet moved stealthily, as though +anxious to conceal his presence from surprise. His steps +dragged purposely; their rustling through the thick dead +leaves, perhaps, was pleasant to him. He was not sure.</p> + +<p>The path opened presently into a clearing where the +moonlight made a pool of silver, the surrounding brushwood +fell away; and in the centre a gigantic outline rose. +It was, he saw, a beech tree that dwarfed the surrounding +forest by its grandeur. Its bulk loomed very splendid +against the sky, a faint rustle just audible in its myriad +tiny leaves. Dipped in the moonlight, it had such majesty +of proportion, such symmetry, that he stopped in admiration. +It was, he saw, a multiple tree, five stems springing +with attempted spirals out of an enormous trunk; it was +immense; it had a presence, the space framed it to perfection. +The clearing, evidently, was a favourite resting +place for summer picknickers, a playground, probably, for +city children on holiday afternoons; woodcutters, too, had +been here recently, for he noticed piled brushwood ready<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> +to be carted. It indicated admirably, he felt, the limits of +his night expedition. Here he would rest awhile, eat +his late supper, sleep perhaps round a small—— No! +again—a fire he need <em>not</em> make; a spark might easily set +the woods ablaze, it was against both forest and military +regulations. This idea of a fire, otherwise so natural, was +distasteful, even repugnant, to him. He wondered a little +why it recurred. He noticed this time, moreover, something +unpleasant connected with the suggestion of a fire, +something that made him shrink; almost a ghostly dread +lay hidden in it.</p> + +<p>This startled him. A dozen excellent reasons, supplied +by his brain, warned him that a fire was unwise; but the +true reason, supplied by another part of him, concealed +itself with care, as though afraid that reason might detect +its nature and fix the label on. Disliking this reminder +of his earlier mood, he moved forward into the clearing, +swinging his stick aggressively and whistling. He approached +the tree, where a dozen thick roots dipped into +the earth. Admiring, looking up and down, he paced +slowly round its prodigious girth, then stood absolutely +still. His heart stopped abruptly, his blood became congealed. +He saw something that filled him with a sudden +emptiness of terror. On this western side the shadow lay +very black; it was between the thick limbs, half stem, half +root, where the dark hollows gave easy hiding-places, that +he was positive he detected movement. A portion of the +trunk had moved.</p> + +<p>He stood stock still and stared—not three feet from the +trunk—when there came a second movement. Concealed +in the shadows there crouched a living form. The movement +defined itself immediately. Half reclining, half +standing, a living being pressed itself close against the +tree, yet fitting so neatly into the wide scooped hollows, +that it was scarcely distinguishable from its ebony background. +But for the chance movement he must have +passed it undetected. Equally, his outstretched fingers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> +might have touched it. The blood rushed from his heart, +as he saw this second movement.</p> + +<p>Detaching itself from the obscure background, the +figure rose and stood before him. It swayed a little, then +stepped out into the patch of moonlight on his left. Three +feet lay between them. The figure then bent over. A +pallid face with burning eyes thrust forward and peered +straight into his own.</p> + +<p>The human being was a woman. The same instant he +recognized the eyes that had stared him out of countenance +in the dining-room two nights ago. He was petrified. +She stared him out of countenance now.</p> + +<p>And, as she did so, the under-current he had tried to +ignore so long swept to the surface in a tumultuous flood, +obliterating his normal self. Something elaborately built +up in his soul by years of artificial training collapsed like +a house of cards, and he knew himself undone.</p> + +<p>“They’ve got me...!” flashed dreadfully through +his mind. It was, again, like a message delivered in a +dream where the significance of acts performed and language +uttered, concealed at the moment, is revealed much +later only.</p> + +<p>“After all—they’ve got me...!”</p> + + +<h3>6</h3> + +<p>The dialogue that followed seemed strange to him only +when looking back upon it. The element of surprise again +was negligible if not wholly absent, but the incongruity +of dreams, almost of nightmare, became more marked. +Though the affair was unlikely, it was far from incredible. +So completely were this man and woman involved in some +purpose common to them both that their talk, their meeting, +their instinctive sympathy at the time seemed natural. +The same stream bore them irresistibly towards the same +far sea. Only, as yet, this common purpose remained concealed. +Nor could he define the violent emotions that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> +troubled him. Their exact description was in him, but +so deep that he could not draw it up. Moonlight lay upon +his thought, merging clear outlines.</p> + +<p>Divided against himself, the cleavage left no authoritative +self in control; his desire to take an immediate decision +resulted in a confused struggle, where shame and +pleasure, attraction and revulsion mingled painfully. Incongruous +details tumbled helter-skelter about his mind: +for no obvious reason, he remembered again his Red Cross +uniform, his former holy calling, his nationality too; he +was a servant of mercy, a teacher of the love of God; he +was an English gentleman. Against which rose other details, +as in opposition, holding just beyond the reach of +words, yet rising, he recognized well enough, from the +bed-rock of the human animal, whereon a few centuries +have imposed the thin crust of refinement men call civilization. +He was aware of joy and loathing.</p> + +<p>In the first few seconds he knew the clash of a dreadful +fundamental struggle, while the spell of this woman’s +strange enchantment poured over him, seeking the reconciliation +he himself could not achieve. Yet the reconciliation +<em>she</em> sought meant victory or defeat; no compromise +lay in it. Something imperious emanating from her already +dominated the warring elements towards a coherent +whole. He stood before her, quivering with emotions he +dared not name. Her great womanhood he recognized, +acknowledging obedience to her undisclosed intentions. +And this idea of coming surrender terrified him. Whence +came, too, that queenly touch about her that made him +feel he should have sunk upon his knees?</p> + +<p>The conflict resulted in a curious compromise. He +raised his hand; he saluted; he found very ordinary words.</p> + +<p>“You passed me only a short time ago,” he stammered, +“in the motors. There were others with you——”</p> + +<p>“Knowing that you would find us and come after. We +count on your presence and your willing help.” Her voice +was firm as with unalterable conviction. It was persuasive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> +too. He nodded, as though acquiescence seemed the only +course.</p> + +<p>“We need your sympathy; we must have your power +too.”</p> + +<p>He bowed again. “My power!” Something exulted +in him. But he murmured only. It was natural, he felt; +he gave consent without a question.</p> + +<p>Strange words he both understood and did not understand. +Her voice, low and silvery, was that of a gentle, +cultured woman, but command rang through it with a +clang of metal, terrible behind the sweetness. She moved +a little closer, standing erect before him in the moonlight, +her figure borrowing something of the great tree’s majesty +behind her. It was incongruous, this gentle and yet sinister +air she wore. Whence came, in this calm peaceful +spot, the suggestion of a wild and savage background to +her? Why were there tumult and oppression in his heart, +pain, horror, tenderness and mercy, mixed beyond disentanglement? +Why did he think already, but helplessly, +of escape, yet at the same time burn to stay? Whence +came again, too, a certain queenly touch he felt in her?</p> + +<p>“The gods have brought you,” broke across his turmoil +in a half whisper whose breath almost touched his face. +“You belong to us.”</p> + +<p>The deeps rose in him. Seduced by the sweetness and +the power, the warring divisions in his being drew together. +His under-self more and more obtained the mastery +she willed. Then something in the French she used +flickered across his mind with a faint reminder of normal +things again.</p> + +<p>“Belgian——” he began, and then stopped short, as +her instant rejoinder broke in upon his halting speech and +petrified him. In her voice sang that triumphant tenderness +that only the feminine powers of the Universe may +compass: it seemed the sky sang with her, the mating +birds, wild flowers, the south wind and the running +streams. All these, even the silver birches, lent their fluid,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +feminine undertones to the two pregnant words with which +she interrupted him and completed his own unfinished sentence:</p> + +<p>“—— and mother.”</p> + +<p>With the dreadful calm of an absolute assurance, she +stood and watched him.</p> + +<p>His understanding already showed signs of clearing. +She stretched her hands out with a passionate appeal, a +yearning gesture, the eloquence of which should explain +all that remained unspoken. He saw their grace and symmetry, +exquisite in the moonlight, then watched them fold +together in an attitude of prayer. Beautiful mother hands +they were; hands made to smooth the pillows of the world, +to comfort, bless, caress, hands that little children everywhere +must lean upon and love-perfect symbol of protective, +self-forgetful motherhood.</p> + +<p>This tenderness he noted; he noted next—the strength. +In the folded hands he divined the expression of another +great world-power, fulfilling the implacable resolution of +the mouth and eyes. He was aware of relentless purpose, +more—of merciless revenge, as by a protective motherhood +outraged beyond endurance. Moreover, the gesture held +appeal; these hands, so close that their actual perfume +reached him, sought his own in help. The power in himself +as man, as male, as father—this was required of him +in the fulfillment of the unknown purpose to which this +woman summoned him. His understanding cleared still +more.</p> + +<p>The couple faced one another, staring fixedly beneath +the giant beech that overarched them. In the dark of his +eyes, he knew, lay growing terror. He shivered, and the +shiver passed down his spine, making his whole body +tremble. There stirred in him an excitement he loathed, +yet welcomed, as the primitive male in him, answering the +summons, reared up with instinctive, dreadful glee to shatter +the bars that civilization had so confidently set upon +its freedom. A primal emotion of his under-being, ancient<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> +lust that had too long gone hungry and unfed, leaped +towards some possible satisfaction. It was incredible; it +was, of course, a dream. But judgment wavered; increasing +terror ate his will away. Violence and sweetness, relief +and degradation, fought in his soul, as he trembled before +a power that now slowly mastered him. This glee and +loathing formed their ghastly partnership. He could have +strangled the woman where she stood. Equally, he could +have knelt and kissed her feet.</p> + +<p>The vehemence of the conflict paralysed him.</p> + +<p>“A mother’s hands ...” he murmured at length, the +words escaping like bubbles that rose to the surface of a +seething cauldron and then burst.</p> + +<p>And the woman smiled as though she read his mind +and saw his little trembling. The smile crept down from +the eyes towards the mouth; he saw her lips part slightly; +he saw her teeth.</p> + +<p>But her reply once more transfixed him. Two syllables +she uttered in a voice of iron:</p> + +<p>“Louvain.”</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The sound acted upon him like a Word of Power in +some Eastern fairy tale. It knit the present to a past that +he now recognized could never die. Humanity had <em>not</em> +advanced. The hidden source of his secret joy began to +glow. For this woman focused in him passions that life +had hitherto denied, pretending they were atrophied, and +the primitive male, the naked savage rose up, with glee in +its lustful eyes and blood upon its lips. Acquired civilization, +a pitiful mockery, split through its thin veneer and +fled.</p> + +<p>“Belgian ... Louvain ... Mother ...” he whispered, +yet astonished at the volume of sound that now left +his mouth. His voice had a sudden fullness. It seemed +a cave-man roared the words.</p> + +<p>She touched his hand, and he knew a sudden intensification +of life within him; immense energy poured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span> +through his veins; a medićval spirit used his eyes; great +pagan instincts strained and urged against his heart, +against his very muscles. He longed for action.</p> + +<p>And he cried aloud: “I am with you, with you to the +end!”</p> + +<p>Her spell had vivified beyond all possible resistance +that primitive consciousness which is ever the bed-rock of +the human animal.</p> + +<p>A racial memory, inset against the forest scenery, +flashed suddenly through the depths laid bare. Below a +sinking moon dark figures flew in streaming lines and +groups; tormented cries went down the wind; he saw torn, +blasted trees that swayed and rocked; there was a leaping +fire, a gleaming knife, an altar. He saw a sacrifice.</p> + +<p>It flashed away and vanished. In its place the woman +stood, with shining eyes fixed on his face, one arm outstretched, +one hand upon his flesh. She shifted slightly, and +her cloak swung open. He saw clinging skins wound closely +about her figure; leaves, flowers and trailing green hung +from her shoulders, fluttering down the lines of her triumphant +physical beauty. There was a perfume of wild +roses, incense, ivy bloom, whose subtle intoxication drowned +his senses. He saw a sparkling girdle round the waist, a +knife thrust through it tight against the hip. And his +secret joy, the glee, the pleasure of some unlawful and +unholy lust leaped through his blood towards the abandonment +of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>The moon revealed a glimpse, no more. An instant +he saw her thus, half savage and half sweet, symbol of +primitive justice entering the present through the door +of vanished centuries.</p> + +<p>The cloak swung back again, the outstretched hand +withdrew, but from a world he knew had altered.</p> + +<p>To-day sank out of sight. The moon shone pale with +terror and delight on Yesterday.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>7</h3> + +<p>Across this altered world a faint new sound now +reached his ears, as though a human wail of anguished +terror trembled and changed into the cry of some captured +helpless animal. He thought of a wolf apart from the +comfort of its pack, savage yet abject. The despair of a +last appeal was in the sound. It floated past, it died away. +The woman moved closer suddenly.</p> + +<p>“All is prepared,” she said, in the same low, silvery +voice; “we must not tarry. The equinox is come, the tide +of power flows. The sacrifice is here; we hold him fast. +We only awaited you.” Her shining eyes were raised to +his. “Your soul is with us now?” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“My soul is with you.”</p> + +<p>“And midnight,” she continued, “is at hand. We use, +of course, their methods. Henceforth the gods—their old-world +gods—shall work on our side. They demand a +sacrifice, and justice has provided one.”</p> + +<p>His understanding cleared still more then; the last veil +of confusion was drawing from his mind. The old, old +names went thundering through his consciousness—Odin, +Wotan, Moloch—accessible ever to invocation and worship +of the rightful kind. It seemed as natural as though he +read in his pulpit the prayer for rain, or gave out the +hymn for those at sea. That was merely an empty form, +whereas this was real. Sea, storm and earthquake, all +natural activities, lay under the direction of those elemental +powers called the gods. Names changed, the principle +remained.</p> + +<p>“Their weather shall be ours,” he cried, with sudden +passion, as a memory of unhallowed usages he had thought +erased from life burned in him; while, stranger still, resentment +stirred—revolt—against the system, against the +very deity he had worshipped hitherto. For these had +never once interfered to help the cause of right; their +feebleness was now laid bare before his eyes. And a two-fold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +lust rose in him. “Vengeance is ours!” he cried in +a louder voice, through which this sudden loathing of the +cross poured hatred. “Vengeance and justice! Now bind +the victim! Bring on the sacrifice!”</p> + +<p>“He is already bound.” And as the woman moved +a little, the curious erection behind her caught his eye—the +piled brushwood he had imagined was the work of +woodmen, picnickers, or playing children. He realized its +true meaning.</p> + +<p>It now delighted and appalled him. Awe deepened in +him, a wind of ice passed over him. Civilization made one +more fluttering effort. He gasped, he shivered; he tried +to speak. But no words came. A thin cry, as of a frightened +child, escaped him.</p> + +<p>“It is the only way,” the woman whispered softly. “We +steal from them the power of their own deities.” Her head +flung back with a marvellous gesture of grace and power; +she stood before him a figure of perfect womanhood, gentle +and tender, yet at the same time alive and cruel with the +passions of an ignorant and savage past. Her folded hands +were clasped, her face turned heavenwards. “I am a +mother,” she added, with amazing passion, her eyes glistening +in the moonlight with unshed tears. “We all”—she +glanced towards the forest, her voice rising to a wild and +poignant cry—“all, all of us are mothers!”</p> + +<p>It was then the final clearing of his understanding +happened, and he realized his own part in what would +follow. Yet before the realization he felt himself not +merely ineffective, but powerless. The struggling forces +in him were so evenly matched that paralysis of the will +resulted. His dry lips contrived merely a few words of +confused and feeble protest.</p> + +<p>“Me!” he faltered. “My help——?”</p> + +<p>“Justice,” she answered; and though softly uttered, it +was as though the medićval towers clanged their bells. +That secret, ghastly joy again rose in him; admiration, +wonder, desire followed instantly. A fugitive memory of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +Joan of Arc flashed by, as with armoured wings, upon the +moonlight. Some power similarly heroic, some purpose +similarly inflexible, emanated from this woman, the savour +of whose physical enchantment, whose very breath, rose to +his brain like incense. Again he shuddered. The spasm +of secret pleasure shocked him. He sighed. He felt alert, +yet stunned.</p> + +<p>Her words went down the wind between them:</p> + +<p>“You are so weak, you English,” he heard her terrible +whisper, “so nobly forgiving, so fine, yet so forgetful. You +refuse the weapon <em>they</em> place within your hands.” Her +face thrust closer, the great eyes blazed upon him. “If we +would save the children”—the voice rose and fell like wind—“we +must worship where they worship, we must sacrifice +to their savage deities....”</p> + +<p>The stream of her words flowed over him with this +nightmare magic that seemed natural, without surprise. +He listened, he trembled, and again he sighed. Yet in +his blood there was sudden roaring.</p> + +<p>“... Louvain ... the hands of little children ... +we have the proof,” he heard, oddly intermingled with +another set of words that clamoured vainly in his brain +for utterance; “the diary in his own handwriting, his +gloating pleasure ... the little, innocent hands....”</p> + +<p>“Justice is mine!” rang through some fading region +of his now fainting soul, but found no audible utterance.</p> + +<p>“... Mist, rain and wind ... the gods of German +Weather.... We all ... are mothers....”</p> + +<p>“I will repay,” came forth in actual words, yet so low +he hardly heard the sound. But the woman heard.</p> + +<p>“<em>We!”</em> she cried fiercely, “<em>we</em> will repay!”...</p> + +<p>“God!” The voice seemed torn from his throat. “Oh +God—<em>my</em> God!”</p> + +<p>“<em>Our</em> gods,” she said steadily in that tone of iron, “are +near. The sacrifice is ready. And <em>you</em>—servant of mercy, +priest of a younger deity, and English—you bring the +power that makes it effectual. The circuit is complete.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was perhaps the tears in her appealing eyes, perhaps +it was her words, her voice, the wonder of her presence; +all combined possibly in the spell that finally then struck +down his will as with a single blow that paralysed his last +resistance. The monstrous, half-legendary spirit of a +primitive day recaptured him completely; he yielded to +the spell of this tender, cruel woman, mother and avenging +angel, whom horror and suffering had flung back upon +the practices of uncivilized centuries. A common desire, +a common lust and purpose, degraded both of them. They +understood one another. Dropping back into a gulf of +savage worship that set up idols in the place of God, they +prayed to Odin and his awful crew....</p> + +<p>It was again the touch of her hand that galvanized +him. She raised him; he had been kneeling in slavish +wonder and admiration at her feet. He leaped to do the +bidding, however terrible, of this woman who was priestess, +queen indeed, of a long-forgotten orgy.</p> + +<p>“Vengeance at last!” he cried, in an exultant voice that +no longer frightened him. “Now light the fire! Bring +on the sacrifice!”</p> + +<p>There was a rustling among the nearer branches, the +forest stirred; the leaves of last year brushed against advancing +feet. Yet before he could turn to see, before even +the last words had wholly left his lips, the woman, whose +hand still touched his fingers, suddenly tossed her cloak +aside, and flinging her bare arms about his neck, drew +him with impetuous passion towards her face and kissed +him, as with delighted fury of exultant passion, full upon +the mouth. Her body, in its clinging skins, pressed close +against his own; her heat poured into him. She held him +fiercely, savagely, and her burning kiss consumed his modern +soul away with the fire of a primal day.</p> + +<p>“The gods have given you to us,” she cried, releasing +him. “Your soul is ours!”</p> + +<p>She turned—they turned together—to look for one +upon whose last hour the moon now shed her horrid silver.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>8</h3> + +<p>This silvery moonlight fell upon the scene.</p> + +<p>Incongruously he remembered the flowers that soon +would know the cuckoo’s call; the soft mysterious stars +shone down; the woods lay silent underneath the sky.</p> + +<p>An amazing fantasy of dream shot here and there. +“I am a man, an Englishman, a padre!” ran twisting +through his mind, as though <em>she</em> whispered them to emphasize +the ghastly contrast of reality. A memory of his own +Kentish village with its Sunday school fled past, his dream +of the Lion and the Lamb close after it. He saw children +playing on the green.... He saw their happy little +hands....</p> + +<p>Justice, punishment, revenge—he could not disentangle +them. No longer did he wish to. The tide of violence was +at his lips, quenching an ancient thirst. He drank. It +seemed he could drink forever. These tender pictures +only sweetened horror. That kiss had burned his modern +soul away.</p> + +<p>The woman waved her hand; there swept from the +underbrush a score of figures dressed like herself in skins, +with leaves and flowers entwined among their flying hair. +He was surrounded in a moment. Upon each face he noted +the same tenderness and terrible resolve that their commander +wore. They pressed about him, dancing with enchanting +grace, yet with full-blooded abandon, across the +chequered light and shadow. It was the brimming energy +of their movements that swept him off his feet, waking the +desire for fierce rhythmical expression. His own muscles +leaped and ached; for this energy, it seemed, poured into +him from the tossing arms and legs, the shimmering bodies +whence hair and skins flung loose, setting the very air +awhirl. It flowed over into inanimate objects even, so that +the trees waved their branches although no wind stirred—hair, +skins and hands, rushing leaves and flying fingers +touched his face, his neck, his arms and shoulders, catching<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> +him away into this orgy of an ancient, sacrificial ritual. +Faces with shining eyes peered into his, then sped away; +grew in a cloud upon the moonlight; sank back in +shadow; reappeared, touched him, whispered, vanished. +Silvery limbs gleamed everywhere. Chanting rose in a +wave, to fall away again into forest rustlings; there were +smiles that flashed, then fainted into moonlight, red lips +and gleaming teeth that shone, then faded out. The secret +glade, picked from the heart of the forest by the moon, +became a torrent of tumultuous life, a whirlpool of passionate +emotions Time had not killed.</p> + +<p>But it was the eyes that mastered him, for in their +yearning, mating so incongruously with the savage grace—in +the eyes shone ever tears. He was aware of gentle +women, of womanhood, of accumulated feminine power +that nothing could withstand, but of feminine power in +majesty, its essential protective tenderness roused, as by +tribal instinct, into a collective fury of implacable revenge. +He was, above all, aware of motherhood—of mothers. And +the man, the male, the father in him rose like a storm to +meet it.</p> + +<p>From the torrent of voices certain sentences emerged; +sometimes chanted, sometimes driven into his whirling +mind as though big whispers thrust them down his ears. +“You are with us to the end,” he caught. “We have the +proof. And punishment is ours!”</p> + +<p>It merged in wind, others took its place:</p> + +<p>“We hold him fast. The old gods wait and listen.”</p> + +<p>The body of rushing whispers flowed like a storm-wind +past.</p> + +<p>A lovely face, fluttering close against his own, paused +an instant, and starry eyes gazed into his with a passion +of gratitude, dimming a moment their stern fury with a +mother’s tenderness: “For the little ones ... it is necessary, +it is the only way.... Our own children....” +The face went out in a gust of blackness, as the chorus rose +with a new note of awe and reverence, and a score of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> +throats uttered in unison a single cry: “The raven! The +White Horses! His signs! Great Odin hears!”</p> + +<p>He saw the great dark bird flap slowly across the clearing, +and melt against the shadow of the giant beech; he +heard its hoarse, croaking note; the crowds of heads bowed +low before its passage. The White Horses he did not see; +only a sound as of considerable masses of air regularly +displaced was audible far overhead. But the veiled light, +as though great thunder-clouds had risen, he saw distinctly. +The sky above the clearing where he stood, panting and +dishevelled, was blocked by a mass that owned unusual outline. +These clouds now topped the forest, hiding the moon +and stars. The flowers went out like nightlights blown. +The wind rose slowly, then with sudden violence. There +was a roaring in the tree-tops. The branches tossed and +shook.</p> + +<p>“The White Horses!” cried the voices, in a frenzy of +adoration. “He is here!”</p> + +<p>It came swiftly, this collective mass; it was both apt +and terrible. There was an immense footstep. It was +there.</p> + +<p>Then panic seized him, he felt an answering tumult in +himself, the Past surged through him like a sea at flood. +Some inner sight, peering across the wreckage of To-day, +perceived an outline that in its size dwarfed mountains, a +pair of monstrous shoulders, a face that rolled through a +full quarter of the heavens. Above the ruin of civilization, +now fulfilled in the microcosm of his own being, the menacing +shadow of a forgotten deity peered down upon the +earth, yet upon one detail of it chiefly—the human group +that had been wildly dancing, but that now chanted in +solemn conclave about a forest altar.</p> + +<p>For some minutes a dead silence reigned; the pouring +winds left emptiness in which no leaf stirred; there was +a hush, a stillness that could be felt. The kneeling figures +stretched forth a level sea of arms towards the altar; from +the lowered heads the hair hung down in torrents, against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> +which the naked flesh shone white; the skins upon the +rows of backs gleamed yellow. The obscurity deepened +overhead. It was the time of adoration. He knelt as well, +arms similarly outstretched, while the lust of vengeance +burned within him.</p> + +<p>Then came, across the stillness, the stirring of big +wings, a rustling as the great bird settled in the higher +branches of the beech. The ominous note broke through +the silence; and with one accord the shining backs were +straightened. The company rose, swayed, parting into +groups and lines. Two score voices resumed the solemn +chant. The throng of pallid faces passed to and fro like +great fire-flies that shone and vanished. He, too, heard +his own voice in unison, while his feet, as with instinctive +knowledge, trod the same measure that the others trod.</p> + +<p>Out of this tumult and clearly audible above the chorus +and the rustling feet rang out suddenly, in a sweetly +fluting tone, the leader’s voice:</p> + +<p>“The Fire! But first the hands!”</p> + +<p>A rush of figures set instantly towards a thicket where +the underbrush stood densest. Skins, trailing flowers, +bare waving arms and tossing hair swept past on a burst +of perfume. It was as though the trees themselves sped +by. And the torrent of voices shook the very air in answer:</p> + +<p>“The Fire! But first—the hands!”</p> + +<p>Across this roaring volume pierced then, once again, +that wailing sound which seemed both human and non-human—the +anguished cry as of some lonely wolf in +metamorphosis, apart from the collective safety of the pack, +abjectly terrified, feeling the teeth of the final trap, and +knowing the helpless feet within the steel. There was +a crash of rending boughs and tearing branches. There +was a tumult in the thicket, though of brief duration—then +silence.</p> + +<p>He stood watching, listening, overmastered by a diabolical +sensation of expectancy he knew to be atrocious. +Turning in the direction of the cry, his straining eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> +seemed filled with blood; in his temples the pulses throbbed +and hammered audibly. The next second he stiffened into +a stone-like rigidity, as a figure, struggling violently yet +half collapsed, was borne hurriedly past by a score of eager +arms that swept it towards the beech tree, and then proceeded +to fasten it in an upright position against the trunk. +It was a man bound tight with thongs, adorned with +leaves and flowers and trailing green. The face was hidden, +for the head sagged forward on the breast, but he saw +the arms forced flat against the giant trunk, held helpless +beyond all possible escape; he saw the knife, poised and +aimed by slender, graceful fingers above the victim’s wrists +laid bare; he saw the—hands.</p> + +<p>“An eye for an eye,” he heard, “a tooth for a tooth!” +It rose in awful chorus. Yet this time, although the words +roared close about him, they seemed farther away, as if +wind brought them through the crowding trees from far +off.</p> + +<p>“Light the fire! Prepare the sacrifice!” came on a +following wind; and, while strange distance held the voices +as before, a new faint sound now audible was very close. +There was a crackling. Some ten feet beyond the tree a +column of thick smoke rose in the air; he was aware of +heat not meant for modern purposes; of yellow light that +was not the light of stars.</p> + +<p>The figure writhed, and the face swung suddenly sideways. +Glaring with panic hopelessness past the judge and +past the hanging knife, the eyes found his own. There +was a pause of perhaps five seconds, but in these five seconds +centuries rolled by. The priest of To-day looked +down into the well of time. For five hundred years he +gazed into those twin eyeballs, glazed with the abject terror +of a last appeal. They recognized one another.</p> + +<p>The centuries dragged appallingly. The drama of civilization, +in a sluggish stream, went slowly by, halting, +meandering, losing itself, then reappearing. Sharpest +pains, as of a thousand knives, accompanied its dreadful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span> +endless lethargy. Its million hesitations made him suffer +a million deaths of agony. Terror, despair and anger, all +futile and without effect upon its progress, destroyed a +thousand times his soul, which yet some hope—a towering, +indestructible hope—a thousand times renewed. This despair +and hope alternately broke his being, ever to fashion +it anew. His torture seemed not of this world. Yet hope +survived. The sluggish stream moved onward, forward....</p> + +<p>There came an instant of sharpest, dislocating torture. +The yellow light grew slightly brighter. He saw the eyelids +flicker.</p> + +<p>It was at this moment he realized abruptly that he +stood alone, apart from the others, unnoticed apparently, +perhaps forgotten; his feet held steady; his voice no longer +sang. And at this discovery a quivering shock ran through +his being, as though the will were suddenly loosened into +a new activity, yet an activity that halted between two terrifying +alternatives.</p> + +<p>It was as though the flicker of those eyelids loosed a +spring.</p> + +<p>Two instincts, clashing in his being, fought furiously +for the mastery. One, ancient as this sacrifice, savage as +the legendary figure brooding in the heavens above him, +battled fiercely with another, acquired more recently in +human evolution, that had not yet crystallized into permanence. +He saw a child, playing in a Kentish orchard +with toys and flowers the little innocent hands made living +... he saw a lowly manger, figures kneeling round it, and +one star shining overhead in piercing and prophetic beauty.</p> + +<p>Thought was impossible; he saw these symbols only, as +the two contrary instincts, alternately hidden and revealed, +fought for permanent possession of his soul. Each strove +to dominate him; it seemed that violent blows were struck +that wounded physically; he was bruised, he ached, he +gasped for breath; his body swayed, held upright only, it +seemed, by the awful appeal in the fixed and staring eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span></p> + +<p>The challenge had come at last to final action; the +conqueror, he well knew, would remain an integral portion +of his character, his soul.</p> + +<p>It was the old, old battle, waged eternally in every +human heart, in every tribe, in every race, in every period, +the essential principle indeed, behind the great world-war. +In the stress and confusion of the fight, as the eyes of +the victim, savage in victory, abject in defeat—the appealing +eyes of that animal face against the tree stared with +their awful blaze into his own, this flashed clearly over +him. It was the battle between might and right, between +love and hate, forgiveness and vengeance, Christ and the +Devil. He heard the menacing thunder of “an eye for +an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” then above its angry volume +rose suddenly another small silvery voice that pierced with +sweetness:—“Vengeance is mine, I will repay ...” sang +through him as with unimaginable hope.</p> + +<p>Something became incandescent in him then. He +realized a singular merging of powers in absolute opposition +to each other. It was as though they harmonized. +Yet it was through this small, silvery voice the apparent +magic came. The words, of course, were his own in memory, +but they rose from his modern soul, now reawakening.... +He started painfully. He noted again that he stood +apart, alone, perhaps forgotten of the others. The woman, +leading a dancing throng about the blazing brushwood, was +far from him. Her mind, too sure of his compliance, had +momentarily left him. The chain was weakened. The +circuit knew a break.</p> + +<p>But this sudden realization was not of spontaneous +origin. His heart had not produced it of its own accord. +The unholy tumult of the orgy held him too slavishly in +its awful sway for the tiny point of his modern soul to +have pierced it thus unaided. The light flashed to him +from an outside, natural source of simple loveliness—the +singing of a bird. From the distance, faint and exquisite, +there had reached him the silvery notes of a happy thrush,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> +awake in the night, and telling its joy over and over again +to itself. The innocent beauty of its song came through +the forest and fell into his soul....</p> + +<p>The eyes, he became aware, had shifted, focusing now +upon an object nearer to them. The knife was moving. +There was a convulsive wriggle of the body, the head +dropped loosely forward, no cry was audible. But, at the +same moment, the inner battle ceased and an unexpected +climax came. Did the soul of the bully faint with +fear? Did the spirit leave him at the actual touch +of earthly vengeance? The watcher never knew. In that +appalling moment when the knife was about to begin the +mission that the fire would complete, the roar of inner +battle ended abruptly, and that small silvery voice drew +the words of invincible power from his reawakening soul. +“Ye do it also unto me ...” pealed o’er the forest.</p> + +<p>He reeled. He acted instantaneously. Yet before he +had dashed the knife from the hand of the executioner, +scattered the pile of blazing wood, plunged through the +astonished worshippers with a violence of strength that +amazed even himself; before he had torn the thongs apart +and loosened the fainting victim from the tree; before +he had uttered a single word or cry, though it seemed to +him he roared with a voice of thousands—he witnessed a +sight that came surely from the Heaven of his earliest +childhood days, from that Heaven whose God is love and +whose forgiveness was taught him at his mother’s knee.</p> + +<p>With superhuman rapidity it passed before him and +was gone. Yet it was no earthly figure that emerged from +the forest, ran with this incredible swiftness past the +startled throng, and reached the tree. He saw the shape; +the same instant it was there; wrapped in light, as though +a flame from the sacrificial fire flashed past him over the +ground. It was of an incandescent brightness, yet brightest +of all were the little outstretched hands. These were +of purest gold, of a brilliance incredibly shining.</p> + +<p>It was no earthly child that stretched forth these arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> +of generous forgiveness and took the bewildered prisoner +by the hand just as the knife descended and touched the +helpless wrists. The thongs were already loosened, and the +victim, fallen to his knees, looked wildly this way and that +for a way of possible escape, when the shining hands were +laid upon his own. The murderer rose. Another instant +and the throng must have been upon him, tearing him +limb from limb. But the radiant little face looked down +into his own; she raised him to his feet; with superhuman +swiftness she led him through the infuriated concourse as +though he had become invisible, guiding him safely past +the furies into the cover of the trees. Close before his eyes, +this happened; he saw the waft of golden brilliance, he +heard the final gulp of it, as wind took the dazzling of its +fiery appearance into space. They were gone....</p> + + +<h3>9</h3> + +<p>He stood watching the disappearing motor-cars, wondering +uneasily who the occupants were and what their +business, whither and why did they hurry so swiftly +through the night? He was still trying to light his pipe, +but the damp tobacco would not burn.</p> + +<p>The air stole out of the forest, cooling his body and +his mind; he saw the anemones gleam; there was only +peace and calm about him, the earth lay waiting for the +sweet, mysterious stars. The moon was higher; he looked +up; a late bird sang. Three strips of cloud, spaced far +apart, were the footsteps of the South Wind, as she flew +to bring more birds from Africa. His thoughts turned to +gentle, happy hopes of a day when the lion and the lamb +should lie down together, and a little child should lead +them. War, in this haunt of ancient peace, seemed an +incredible anachronism.</p> + +<p>He did not go farther; he did not enter the forest; he +turned back along the quiet road he had come, ate his food +on a farmer’s gate, and over a pipe sat dreaming of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> +sure belief that humanity had advanced. He went home +to his hotel soon after midnight. He slept well, and next +day walked back the four miles from the hospitals, instead +of using the car. Another hospital searcher walked with +him. They discussed the news.</p> + +<p>“The weather’s better anyhow,” said his companion. +“In our favour at last!”</p> + +<p>“That’s something,” he agreed, as they passed a gang +of prisoners and crossed the road to avoid saluting.</p> + +<p>“Been another escape, I hear,” the other mentioned. +“He won’t get far. How on earth do they manage it? +The M.O. had a yarn that he was helped by a motor-car. +I wonder what they’ll do to him.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing much. Bread and water and extra work, +I suppose?”</p> + +<p>The other laughed. “I’m not so sure,” he said lightly. +“Humanity hasn’t advanced very much in that kind of +thing.”</p> + +<p>A fugitive memory flashed for an instant through the +other’s brain as he listened. He had an odd feeling for +a second that he had heard this conversation before somewhere. +A ghostly sense of familiarity brushed his mind, +then vanished. At dinner that night the table in front of +him was unoccupied. He did not, however, notice that it +was unoccupied.</p> + + +<p class="center r6">THE END</p> + + +<div class="tnote"> +<p class="tn">Transcriber’s notes</p> + +<p>Punctuation errors have been corrected. Also the following changes have been made, +on page</p> + +<p>39 “pleasel” changed to “pleased” (to what dream he +pleased.)</p> + +<p>107 “peform” changed to “perform” (father will perform +the sacrifice)</p> + +<p>124 “morever” changed to “moreover” (leisure, moreover. +Grimwood)</p> + +<p>126 “be” changed to “he” (where had he come from)</p> + +<p>182 “it” changed to “is” (the house is getting on)</p> + +<p>190 “hanging” changed to “banging” (the front door +banging)</p> + +<p>195 “saidly” changed to “sadly” (he said sadly)</p> + +<p>240 “implicity” changed to “implicitly” (had obeyed +implicitly, believing everything)</p> + +<p>254 “additioin” changed to “addition” (respect in +addition to his gratitude.)</p> + +<p>256 “yho” changed to “who” (but a man who has served)</p> + +<p>262 “sunride” changed to “sunrise” (from the sunrise +end.)</p> + +<p>266 “has” changed to “his” (Purdy had gone his way +again)</p> + +<p>278 “incredudous” changed to “incredulous” (of +incredulous surprise)</p> + +<p>286 “deliberatelly” changed to “deliberately” (away as +deliberately as she had turned to look</p> + +<p>307 “diety” changed to “deity” (against the very deity +he had worshipped).</p> + +<p>Otherwise the original text has been preserved, +including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wolves of God, by +Algernon Blackwood and Wilfred Wilson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOLVES OF GOD *** + +***** This file should be named 38310-h.htm or 38310-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/3/1/38310/ + +Produced by David Starner, eagkw and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + +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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