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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e192e3e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66837 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66837) diff --git a/old/66837-0.txt b/old/66837-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 19a24d7..0000000 --- a/old/66837-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8389 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Portrait of a Man with Red Hair, by -Hugh Walpole - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Portrait of a Man with Red Hair - A Romantic Macabre - -Author: Hugh Walpole - -Release Date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66837] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED -HAIR *** - - -PORTRAIT OF A MAN -WITH RED HAIR - -A ROMANTIC MACABRE - - - - -By - -HUGH WALPOLE - - - - -_NEW YORK_ - -_GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY_ - - - - -COPYRIGHT, 1925, - -BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - -COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE -COMPANY, INC. (HARPER'S BAZAAR) - -PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED HAIR - ---A-- - -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -TO MY FRIENDS -ETHEL AND ARTHUR FOWLER - - - - -DEDICATORY LETTER. - - -BRACKENBURN, -_April_ 1925. - -DEAR ETHEL AND ARTHUR-- - - -It is appropriate, in a way, that I should give you this book when so -much of it was written under your roof. It is a romance, and this has -not been, during the last twenty years, a favourable time for romances. -But I like to give it to you because you know how it was written, in a -very happy summer after a long and arduous lecture tour during which, -more than ever before, I learned to love your country. - -I wrote it as a rest and a refreshment, and I will tell you frankly that -I have enjoyed writing it very much. But I do not know whether, in these -stern days, stories are intended to be enjoyed either by the writer of -them or the reader. - -I have noticed sometimes that people speak rather scornfully of a story -as "readable." But if it be not first of all "readable" what afterwards -can it be? Surely dead before it is born. - -I hope then, and I believe, that this tale is "readable" at least. I -know no more than that what it is--fancy, story allegory, what you will. -I might invoke the great names of Hoffmann and Hawthorne for its -Godfathers. I might recall a story much beloved by me, _Sintram and His -Companions_, did I not, most justly, fear the comparison! - -But the word allegory is, in these days, a dangerous one, and some one -will soon be showing me that we have, each one of us, his Sea-Fog, his -White Tower, and that it is the fault of his own weakness if he does not -fling out of the window his Red-Haired man. - -No, no, God forbid. This is a tale and nothing but a tale, and all I ask -is that once beginning it you will find it hard to lay down unfinished-- - -and that you will think of me always as - -Your affectionate friend - -HUGH. - - - - -. . . Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be -permitted to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he -then keeps within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprise the -reader the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm -him. - -As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the -Bathos, "The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in -order to join the credible with the surprising." - -For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of -probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters or his -incidents should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every -street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home articles -of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many persons and -things which may possibly never have fallen within the knowledge of -great part of his readers. - -HENRY FIELDING. - - - - -CONTENTS - -PART I - -The Sea Like Bronze - -PART II - -The Dance Round the Town - -PART III - -Sea-fog - -PART IV - -The Tower - - - - -PART I: THE SEA LIKE BRONZE. . . . - - -I - - - You're my friend: - I was the man the Duke spoke to: - I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke too: - So here's the tale from beginning to end, - My friend! - - * * - * - - Ours is a great wild country; - If you climb to our castle's top, - I don't see where your eye can stop; - For when you've passed the cornfield country, - Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, - And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, - And cattle-tract to open-chase, - And open-chase to the very base - Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, - Round about, solemn and slow, - One by one, row after row, - Up and up the pine trees go, - Go, like black priests up, and so - Down the other side again - To another greater, wilder country. . . . - 'To another greater, wilder country . . . - 'To another greater . . .' - - -The soul of Charles Percy Harkness slipped, like a neat white -pocket-handkerchief, out through the carriage window into the -silver-blue air, hung there changing into a tiny white fleck against the -immensity, struggling for escape above the purple-pointed trees of the -dark wood, then, realising that escape was not yet, fluttered back into -the carriage again, was caught by Charles Percy, neatly folded up, and -put away. - -The Browning lines--old-fashioned surely?--had yielded it a moment's -hope. Those and some other lines from another outmoded book: - -"But the place reasserted its spell, marshalling once again its army, -its silver-belted knights, its castles of perilous frowning darkness, -its meadows of gold and silver streams. - -"The old spell working the same purpose. For how many times and for what -intent? That we may be reminded yet once again that there is the step -behind the door, the light beyond the window, the rustle on the stair, -and that it is for these things only that we must watch and wait?" - -For Harkness had committed the folly of having two books open on his -knee--a peek at one, a peek at another, a long, eager glance through the -window at the summer scene, but above all a sensuous state of slumber -hovering in the hot scented afternoon air just above him, waiting to -pounce . . . to pounce . . . - -First Browning, then this other, the old book in a faded red-brown -cover, "_To Paradise!_ Frederick Lester." At the bottom of the -title-page, 1892--how long ago! How faded and pathetic the old book was! -He alone in all the British Isles at that moment reading it--certainly -no other living soul--and he had crossed to Browning after Lester's -third page. - -He swung in mid-air. The open fields came swimming up to him like vast -green waves, gently to splash upon his face, hanging over him, laced -about the telegraph poles, rising and falling with them. . . . - -The voice of the old man with the long white beard, the only occupant of -the carriage with him, broke sharply in like a steel knife cutting -through blotting-paper. - -"Pardon me, but there is a spider on your neck!" - -Harkness started up. The two books slipped to the floor. He passed his -hand, damp with the afternoon warmth, over his cool neck. He hated -spiders. He shivered. His fingers were on the thing. With a shudder he -flung it out of the window. - -"Thank you," he said, blushing very slightly. - -"Not at all," the old man said severely; "you were almost asleep, and in -another moment it would have been down your back." - -He was not the old man you would have expected to see in an English -first-class carriage, save that now in these democratic days you may see -any one anywhere. But first-class fares are so expensive. Perhaps that -is why it is only the really poor who can afford them. The old man, who -was thin and wiry, had large shabby boots, loose and ancient trousers, a -flopping garden straw hat. His hands were gnarled like the knots of -trees. He was terribly clean. He had blue eyes. On his knees was a large -basket and from this he ate his massive luncheon--here an immense -sandwich with pieces of ham like fragments of banners, there a colossal -apple, a monstrous pear-- - -"Going far?" munched the old man. - -"No," said Harkness, blushing again. "To Treliss. I change at Trewth, I -believe. We should be there at 4.30." - -"_Should be_" said the old man, dribbling through his pear. "The train's -late. . . . Another tourist," he added suddenly. - -"I beg your pardon?" said Harkness. - -"Another of these damned tourists. You are, I mean. _I_ lived at -Treliss. Such as you drove me away." - -"I am sorry," said Harkness, smiling faintly. "I suppose I _am_ that if -by tourist you mean somebody who is travelling to a place to see what it -is like and enjoy its beauty. A friend has told me of it. He says it is -the most beautiful place in England." - -"Beauty," said the old man, licking his fingers--"a lot you tourists -think about beauty--with your char-à-bancs and oranges and babies and -Americans. If I had my way I'd make the Americans pay a tax, spoiling -our country as they do." - -"_I_ am an American," said Harkness faintly. - -The old man licked his thumb, looked at it, and licked it again. "I -wouldn't have thought it," he said. "Where's your accent?" - -"I have lived in this country a great many years off and on," he -explained, "and we don't all say 'I guess' every moment as novelists -make us do," he added, smiling. - -Smiling, yes. But how deeply he detested this unfortunate conversation! -How happy he had been, and now this old man with his rudeness and -violence had smashed the peace into a thousand fragments. But the old -man spoke little more. He only stared at Harkness out of his blue eyes, -and said: - -"Treliss is too beautiful a place for you. It will do you harm," and -fell instantly asleep. - - - - -II - - -Yes, Harkness thought, looking at the rise and fall of the old man's -beard, it is strange and indeed lamentable how deeply I detest a cross -word! That is why I am always creeping away from things, why, too, I -never make friends--not _real_ friends--why at thirty-five I am a -complete failure--that is, from the point of view of anything real. - -I am filled too with self-pity, he added as he opened _To Paradise_ -again and groped for page four, and self-pity is the most despicable of -all the vices. - -He was not unpleasing to the eye as he sat there thinking. He was -dressed with exceeding neatness, but his clothes had something of the -effect of chain armour. Was that partly because his figure was so slight -that he could never fill any suit of clothes adequately? That might be -so. His soft white collar, his pale blue tie, his mild blue eyes, his -long tranquil fingers, these things were all gentle. His chin protruded. -He was called "gaunt" by undiscerning friends, but that was a poor word -for him. He was too slight for that, too gentle, too unobtrusive. His -hair was already retreating deprecatingly from his forehead. No gaunt -man would smile so timidly. His neatness and immaculate spotless purity -of dress showed a fastidiousness that granted his cowardice an excuse. - -For I am a coward, he thought. This is yet another holiday that I am -taking alone. Alone after all these years. And Pritchard or Mason, Major -Stock or Henry Trenchard, Carstairs Willing or Falk Brandon--any one of -these might have wished to go if I had had courage . . . or even -Maradick himself might have come. - -The only companions, he reflected, that he had taken with him on this -journey were his etchings, kinder to him, more intimate with him, -rewarding him with more affection than any human being. His seven -etchings--the seven of his forty--Lepère's "Route de St. Gilles," -Legros's "Cabane dans les Marais," Rembrandt's "Flight into Egypt," -Muirhead Bone's "Orvieto," Whistler's "Drury Lane," Strang's "Portrait -of Himself Etching," and Meryon's "Rue des Chantres." His seven -etchings.--his greatest friends in the world, save of course Hetty and -Jane his sisters. Yes he reflected, you can judge a man by his friends, -and in my cowardice I have given all my heart to these things because -they can't answer me back, cannot fail me when I most eagerly expect -something of them, are always there when I call them, do not change nor -betray me. And yet it is not only cowardice. They are intimate and -individual as is no other form of graphic art. They are so personal that -every separate impression has a fresh character. They are so lovely in -soul that they never age nor have their moods. My Aldegrevers and -Penczs, he was reflecting. . . . He was a little happier now. . . . The -Browning and _To Paradise_ fell once more to the ground. I hope the old -man does not waken, he thought, and yet perhaps he will pass his -station. What a temper he will be in if he does that, and then I too -shall suffer! - -He read a line or two of the Browning: - - Ours is a great wild country; - If you climb to our castle's top, - I don't see where your eye can stop . . . - -How strange that the book should have opened again at that same place as -though it were that it wished him to read! - -And then _To Paradise_ a line or two, now page 376, "And the Silver -Button? Would his answer defy that too? Had he some secret magic? Was he -stronger than God Himself? . . ." - -And then, Harkness reflected, this business about being an American. He -had felt pride when he had told the old man that was his citizenship. He -was proud, yes, and yet he spent most of his life in Europe. And now as -always when he fell to thinking of America his eye travelled to his own -home there--Baker at the portals of Oregon. All the big trains passed it -on their way to the coast--three hundred and forty miles from Portland, -fifty from Huntington. He saw himself on that eager arrival coming out -by the 11.30 train from Salt Lake City, steaming in at 4.30 in the -afternoon, an early May afternoon perhaps with the colours violet in the -sky and the mountains elephant-dusk--so quiet and so gentle. And when -the train has gone on and you are left on the platform and you look -about you and find everything as it was when you departed a year -ago--the Columbia Café. The Antlers Hotel. The mountains still with -their snow caps. The Lumber Offices. The notice on the wall of the -café: "You can EAT HERE if you have NO MONEY." The Crabill Hotel. The -fresh sweet air, three thousand five hundred feet up. The soft pause of -the place. Baker did not grow very fast as did other places. It is true -that there had been but four houses when his father had first landed -there, but even now as towns went it was small and quiet and -unprogressive. Strange that his father with that old-cultured New -England stock should have gone there, but he had fled from mankind after -the death of his wife, Harkness's mother, fled with his three little -children, shut himself away, there under the mountains with his books, a -sad, severe man in that long, rambling ramshackle house. Still long, -still rambling, still ramshackle, although Hetty and Jane, who never -moved away from it, had made it as charming as they could. They were -darlings, and lived for the month every year when their brother came to -visit them. But he could not live there! No, he could not! It was exile -for him, exile from everything for which he most deeply cared. But -Europe was exile too. That was the tragedy of it! Every morning that he -waked he thought that perhaps to-day he would find that he was a true -European! But no, it was not so. Away from America, how deeply he loved -his country! How clearly he saw its idealism, its vitality, its -marvellous promise for the future, its loving contact with his own -youthful dreams. But back in America again it seemed crude and noisy and -materialistic. He longed for the Past. Exile in both with his New -England culture that was not enough, his half-cocked vitality that was -not enough. Never enough to permit his half-gods to go! But he loved -America always; he saw how little these Europeans truly knew or cared -about her, how hasty their visits to her, how patronising their -attitude, how weary their stale conventions against her full, bursting -energy. And yet----! And yet----! He could not live there. After two -weeks of Baker, even though he had with him his etchings, his diary in -its dark blue cover, Frazer's _Golden Bough_, and some of the Loeb -Classics, life was not enough. Hetty and Jane bored him with their -goodness and little Culture Club. It was not enough for him that Hetty -had read a very good paper on "Archibald Marshall--the modern Trollope" -to the inhabitants of Baker and Haines. Nevertheless they seemed to him -finer women than the women of any other country, with their cheery -independence, their admirable common sense, their warm hearts, their -unselfishness, but--it was not enough--no, it was not enough . . . What -he wanted . . . - - - - -III - - -The old man awoke with a start. - -"And when you come to this Prohibition question," he said, "the -Americans have simply become a laughing stock. . . ." - -Harkness picked up the Browning firmly. "If you don't mind," he -remarked, "I have a piece of work here of some importance and I have but -little time. Pray excuse me. . . ." - - - - -IV - - -How had he dared? Never in all his life had he spoken to a stranger so. -How often had he envied and admired those who could be rude and -indifferent to people's feelings. It seemed to him that this was a -crisis with him, something that he would never forget, something that -might alter all his life. Perhaps already the charm of which Maradick -had spoken was working. He looked out of his window and always, -afterwards, he was to remember a stream that, now bright silver, now -ebony dark, ran straight to him from the heart of an emerald green field -like a greeting spirit. It laughed up to his window and was gone. - -He had asserted himself. The old man with the beard was reading the -_Hibbert Journal._ Strange old man--but defeated! Harkness felt a -triumph. Could he but henceforward assert himself in this fashion, all -might be easy for him. Instead of retreating he might advance, stretch -out his hand and take the things and the people that he wanted as he had -seen others do. He almost wished that the old man might speak to him -again, that he might once more be rude. - -He had had, ever since he could remember, the belief that one day, -suddenly, some magic door would open, some one step before him, some -magic carpet unroll at his feet, and all life would be changed. For many -years he had had no doubt of this. He would call it, perhaps, the coming -of romance, but as he had grown older he had come to distrust both -himself and life. He had always been interested in contemporary -literature. Every new book that he opened now seemed to tell him that he -was extremely foolish to expect anything of life at all. He was -swallowed by the modern realistic movement as a fly is swallowed by an -indifferent spider. These men, he said to himself, are very clever. They -know so much more about everything than I do that they must be right. -They are telling the truth at last about life as no one has ever done it -before. But when he had read a great many of these books (and every word -of Mr. Joyce's _Ulysses_), he found that he cared much less about truth -than he had supposed. He even doubted whether these writers were telling -the truth any more than the naïve and sentimental Victorians; and when -at last he heard a story all about an American manufacturer of washing -machines whose habit it was to strip himself naked on every possible -occasion before his nearest and dearest relations and friends, and when -the author told him that this was a typical American citizen, he, -knowing his own country people very well, frankly disbelieved it. These -realists, he exclaimed, are telling fairy stories quite as thoroughly as -Grimm, Fouqué, and De la Mare; the difference is that the realistic -fairy stories are depressing and discouraging, the others are not. He -determined to desert the realists and wait until something pleasanter -came along. Since it was impossible to have the truth about life anyway -let us have only the pleasant hallucinations. They are quite as likely -to be as true as the others. - -But he was lonely and desolate. The women whom he loved never loved him, -and indeed he never came sufficiently close to them to give them any -encouragement. He dreamt about them and painted them as they certainly -were not. He had his passions and his desires, but his Puritan descent -kept him always at one remove from experience. He never, in fact, seemed -to have contact with anything at all--except Baker in Oregon, his two -sisters, and his forty etchings. He was so shy that he was thought to be -conceited, so idealistic that he was considered cynical, so chaste that -he was considered a most immoral fellow with a secret double life. Like -the hero of "Flegeljahre," he "loved every dog and wanted every dog to -love him," but the dogs did not know enough about him to be interested; -he was so like so many other immaculately-dressed, pleasant-mannered, -and wandering American cosmopolitans that nobody had any permanent -feeling for him--fathered by Henry James, uncled by Howells, aunted -(severely) by Edith Wharton--one of a million cultured, kindly -impersonal Americans seen as shadows by the matter-of-fact unimaginative -British. Who knew or cared that he was lonely, longing for love, for -home, for some one to whom he might give his romantic devotion? He was -all these things, but no one minded. - -And then he met James Maradick. - - - - -V - - -The meeting was of the simplest. At the Reform Club one day he was -lunching with two men, one a novelist, Westcott, whom he knew very -slightly, the other a fellow American. Westcott, a dark thick-set man of -about forty, with a reputation that without being sensational was solid -and well merited, said very little. Harkness liked him and recognised in -him a kindly shyness rather like his own. After luncheon they moved into -the big smoking-room upstairs to drink their coffee. - -A large, handsome man of between fifty and sixty came up and spoke to -Westcott. He was obviously pleased to see him, putting his hand on his -shoulder, looking at him with kindly, smiling eyes. Westcott also -flushed with pleasure. The big man sat down with them and Harkness was -introduced to him. His name was Maradick--Sir James Maradick. A strange, -unreal kind of name for so real and solid a man. As he sat forward on -the sofa with his heavy shoulders, his deep chest, his thick neck, -red-brown colour, and clear open gaze, he seemed to Harkness to be the -typical rather naïve friendly but cautious British man of business. - -That impression soon passed. There was something in Maradick that almost -instantly warmed his heart. He responded--as do all American -men--immediately, even emotionally, to any friendly contact. The -reserves that were in his nature were from his superficial -cosmopolitanism; the native warm-hearted, eager and trusting Americanism -was as real and active as it ever had been. It was, in five minutes, as -though he had known this large kindly man always. His shyness dropped -from him. He was talking eagerly and with great happiness. - -Maradick did not patronise, did not check that American spontaneity with -traditional caution as so many Englishmen do; he seemed to like Harkness -as truly as Harkness liked him. - -Westcott had to go. The other American also departed, but Maradick and -Harkness sat on there, amused, and even absorbed. - -"If I am keeping you----" Harkness said suddenly, some of his shyness -for a moment returning. - -"Not at all," Maradick answered. "I have nothing urgent this afternoon. -I've got the very place for you, I believe." - -They had been speaking of places. Maradick had travelled, and together -they found some of the smaller places that they both knew and -loved--Dragör on the sea beyond Copenhagen, the woods north of -Helsingfors, the beaches of Ischia, the enchantment of Girgente with the -white goats moving over carpets of flowers through the ruined temples, -the silence and mystery of Mull. He knew America too--the places that -foreigners never knew; the teeth-shaped mountains at Las Cruces, the -lovely curve of Tacoma, the little humped-up hill of Syracuse, the -purple horizons beyond Nashville, the lone lake shore of Marquette---- - -"And then in this country there is Treliss," he said softly, staring in -front of him. - -"Treliss?" Harkness repeated after him, liking the name. - -"Yes. In North Cornwall. A beautiful place." - -He paused--sighed. - -"I was there more than ten years ago. I shall never go back." - -"Why not?" - -"I liked it too well. I daresay they've spoiled it now as they have many -others. Thanks to wretched novelists, the railway company and -char-à-bancs, Cornwall and Glebeshire are ruined. No, I dare not go -back." - -"Was it very beautiful?" Harkness asked. - -"Yes. Beautiful? Oh yes. Wonderful. But it wasn't that. Something -happened to me there."[1] - -"So that you dare not go back?" - -"Yes. Dare is the word. I believe that the same thing would happen -again. And I'm too old to stand it. In my case now it would be -ludicrous. It was nearly ludicrous then." Harkness said nothing. "How -old are you? If it isn't an impertinence----" - -"Thirty-five? You're young enough. I was forty. Have you ever noticed -about places----?" He broke off. "I mean---- Well, you know with people. -Suppose that you have been very intimate with some one and then you -don't see him or her for years, and then you meet again--don't you find -yourself suddenly producing the same set of thoughts, emotions, moods -that have, perhaps, lain dormant for years, and that only this one -person can call from you? And it is the same with places. Sometimes of -course in the interval something has died in you or in them, and the -second meeting produces nothing. Hands cross over a grave. But if those -things haven't died how wonderful to find them all alive again after all -those years, how you had forgotten the way they breathed and spoke and -had their being; how interesting to find yourself drawn back again into -that old current, perilous perhaps, but deep, real after all the -shams----" - -He broke off. "Places do the same, I think," he said. "If you have the -sort of things in you that stir them they produce in their turn _their_ -things . . . and always will for your kind . . . a sort of secret -society; I believe," he added, suddenly turning on Harkness and looking -him in the face, "that Treliss might give you something of the same -adventure that it gave me--if you want it to, that is--if you need it. -Do you _want_ adventure, romance, something that will pull you right out -of yourself and test you, show you whether you _are_ real or no, give -you a crisis that will change you for ever? Do you want it?" - -Then he added quietly, reflectively. "It changed _me_ more than the war -ever did." - -"Do I _want_ it?" Harkness was breathing deeply, driven by some -excitement that he could not stop to analyse. "I should say so. I want -nothing so much. It's just what I need, what I've been looking for----" - -"Then go down there. I believe you're just the kind--but go at the right -time. There's a night in August when they have a dance, when they dance -all round the town. That's the time for you to go. That will liberate -you if you throw yourself into it. It's in August. August the---- I'm -not quite sure of the date. I'll write to you if you'll give me your -address." - -Soon afterwards, with a warm clasp of the hand, they parted. - - -[Footnote 1: See _Maradick at Forty._] - - - - -VI - - -Two days later Harkness received a small parcel. Opening it he -discovered an old brown-covered book and a letter. - -The letter was as follows: - - -DEAR Mr. HARKNESS--In all probability in the cold light of reason, and -removed from the fumes of the Reform Club, our conversation of yesterday -will seem to you nothing but foolishness. Perhaps it was. The merest -chance led me to think of something that belongs, for me, to a life -quite dead and gone; not perhaps as dead, though, as I had fancied it. -In any case, I had not, until yesterday, thought directly of Treliss for -years. - -Let us put it on the simplest ground. If you want a beautiful place, -near at hand, for a holiday, that you have not yet seen, here it -is--Treliss, North Cornwall--take the morning train from Paddington and -change at Trewth. If you will be advised by me you really should go down -for August 6th, when they have their dance. I could see that you are -interested in local customs, and here is a most entertaining one -surviving from Druid times, I believe. Go down on the day itself and let -that be your first impression of the place. The train gets you in -between five and six. Take your room at the "Man-at-Arms" Hotel, ten -years ago the most picturesque inn in Great Britain. I cannot, of -course, vouch for what it may have become. I should get out at Trewth, -which you will reach soon after four, and walk the three miles to the -town. Well worth doing. - -One word more. I am sending you a book. A completely forgotten novel by -a completely forgotten novelist. Had he lived he would, I think, have -done work that would have lasted, but he was killed in the first year of -the war and his earlier books are uncertain. He hadn't found himself. -This book, as you will see from the inscription, he gave me. I was with -him down there. Some things in it seem to me to belong especially to the -place. Pages 102 and 236 will show you especially what I mean. When you -are at the "Man-at-Arms" go and look at the Minstrels' Gallery, if it -isn't pulled down or turned into a jazz dancing-hall. That too will show -you what I mean. - -Or go, as perhaps after all is wiser, simply to a beautiful place for a -week's holiday, forgetting me and anything I have said. - -Or, as is perhaps wiser still, don't go at all. In any case I am your -debtor for our delightful conversation of yesterday.--Sincerely yours, - -JAMES MARADICK. - - -What Maradick had said occurred. As the days passed the impression -faded. Harkness hoped that he would meet Maradick again. He did not do -so. During the first days he watched for him in the streets and in the -clubs. He devised plans that would give him an excuse to meet him once -more; the simplest of all would have been to invite him to luncheon. He -knew that Maradick would come. But his own distrust of himself now as -always forbade him. Why should Maradick wish to see him again? He had -been pleasant to him, yes, but he was of the type that would be -agreeable to any one, kindly, genial, and forgetting you immediately. -But Maradick had not forgotten him. He had taken the trouble to write to -him and send him a book. It had been a friendly letter too. Why not ask -Westcott and Maradick to dinner? But Westcott was married. Harkness had -met his wife, a charming and pretty English girl, younger a good deal -than her husband. Yes, all right about Mrs. Westcott, but then Harkness -must ask another woman. Maradick, he understood, was a widower. The -thing was becoming a party. They would have to go somewhere, to a -theatre or something. The thing was becoming elaborate, complicated, and -he shrank from it. So he always shrank from everything were he given -time to think. - -He paid all the gentle American's courtesy and attention to fine details -of conduct. Englishmen often shocked him by their casual inattention, -especially to ladies. He must do social things elaborately did he do -them at all. He was gathering around him already some of the fussy -observances of the confirmed bachelor. And therefore as Maradick became -to him something of a problem, he put him out of his mind just as he had -put so many other things and persons out of his mind because he was -frightened of them. - -Treliss too, as the days passed, lost some of the first magic of its -name. He had felt a strange excitement when Maradick had first mentioned -it, but soon it was the name of a beautiful but distant place, then a -seaside resort, then nowhere at all. He did not read Lester's book. - -Then an odd thing occurred. It was the last day in July and he was still -in London. Nearly every one had gone away--every one whom he knew. There -were still many millions of human beings on every side of him, but -London was empty for himself and his kind. His club was closed for -cleaning purposes, and the Reform Club was offering him and his -fellow-clubmen temporary hospitality. - -He had lunched alone, then had gone upstairs, sunk into an armchair and -read a newspaper. Read it or seemed to read it. It was time that he went -away. Where should he go? There was an uncle who had taken a -shooting-box in Scotland. He did not like that uncle. He had an -invitation from a kind lady who had a large house in Wiltshire. But the -kind lady had asked him because she pitied him, not because she liked -him. He knew that very well. - -There were several men who would, if he had caught them sooner, have -gone with him somewhere, but he had allowed things to drift and now they -had made their own plans. - -He felt terribly lonely, soused suddenly with that despicable self-pity -to which he was rather too easily prone. He thought of Baker--Lord! how -hot it must be there just now! He was half asleep. It was hot enough -here. Only one other occupant of the room, and he was fast asleep in -another armchair. Snoring. The room rocked with his snores. The papers -laid neatly one upon another wilted under the heat. The subdued London -roar came from behind the windows in rolling waves of heat. A faint -iridescence hovered above the enormous chairs and sofas that lay like -animals panting. - -He looked across the long room. Almost opposite him was a square of wall -that caught the subdued light like a pool of water. He stared at it as -though it had demanded his attention. The water seemed to move, to -shift. Something was stirring there. He looked more intently. Colours -came, shapes shifted. It was a scene, some place. Yes, a place. Houses, -sand, water. A bay. A curving bay. A long sea-line dark like the stroke -of a pencil against faint egg-shell blue. Water. A bay bordered by a -ring of saffron sand, and behind the sand, rising above it, a town. Tier -on tier of houses, and behind them again in the farthest distance a -fringe of dark wood. He could even see now little figures, black spots, -dotted upon the sand. The sea now was very clear, shimmering -mother-of-pearl. A scattering of white upon the shore as the long -wave-line broke and retreated. And the houses tier upon tier. He gazed, -filled with an overwhelming breathless excitement. He was leaning -forward, his hands pressing in upon the arms of the chair. It stayed, -trembling with a kind of personal invitation before him. Then, as though -it had nodded and smiled farewell to him, it vanished. Only the wall was -there. - -But the excitement remained, excitement quite unaccountable. - -He got up, his knees trembling. He looked at the stout bellying occupant -of the other chair, his mouth open, his snores reverberant. - -He went out. Six days later he was in the train for Treliss. - - - - -VII - - -Now too, of course, he had his reactions just as he always had. He could -explain the thing easily enough; for a moment or two he had slept, or, -if he had not, a trick of light on that warm afternoon and his own -thoughts about possible places had persuaded him. - -Nevertheless the picture remained strangely vivid--the sea, the shore, -the rising town, the little line of darkening wood. He would go down -there, and on the day that Maradick had suggested to him. Something -might occur. You never could tell. He packed his etchings--his St. -Gilles, Marais, his Flight into Egypt and Orvieto, his Whistler and -Strang and Meryon. They would protect him and see that he did nothing -foolish. - -He had special confidence in his St. Gilles. - -He had intended to read the Lester book all the way, but as we have -seen, managed only a bare line or two; the Browning he had not intended -even to have with him, but in some fashion, with the determined resolve -that books so often show, it had crept into his bag and then was on his -knee, he knew not whence, and soon out of self-defence against the old -man he was reading "The Flight of the Duchess," carried away on the -wings of its freedom, strength and colour. - -Nevertheless, that is the kind of man I am, he thought, even the books -force me to read them when I have no wish. And soon he had forgotten the -old man, the carriage, the warm weather. How many years since he had -read it? No matter. Wasn't it fine and touching and true? When he came -to the place: - - . . . the door opened and more than mortal - Stood, with a face where to my mind centred - All beauties I ever saw or shall see, - The Duchess--I stopped as if struck by palsy. - She was so different, happy and beautiful - I felt at once that all was best, - And that I had nothing to do, for the rest - But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. - Not that, in fact, there was any commanding, - --I saw the glory of her eye - And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, - And I was hers to live or to die. - -"Hurrah!" Harkness cried. - -"I beg your pardon?" the old man said, looking up. - -Harkness blushed. "I was reading something rather fine," he said, -smiling. - -"You'd better look out for what you're reading, to whom you're speaking, -where you're walking, what you're eating, everything, when you're in -Treliss," he remarked. - -"Why? Is it so dangerous a place?" asked Harkness. - -"It doesn't like tourists. I've seen it do funny things to tourists in -my time." - -"I think you're hard on tourists," Harkness said. "They don't mean any -harm. They admire places the best way they can." - -"Yes, and how long do they stay?" the old man replied. "Do you think you -can know a place in a week or a month? Do you think a real place likes -the dirt and the noise and the silly talk they bring with them?" - -"What do you mean by a real place?" Harkness asked. - -"Places have souls just like people. Some have more soul and some have -less. And some have none at all. Sometimes a place will creep away -altogether, it is so disgusted with the things people are trying to do -to it, and will leave a dummy instead, and only a few know the -difference. Why, up in the Welsh hills there are several places that -have gone up there in sheer disgust the way they've been treated, and -left substitutes behind them. Parts of London, for instance. Do you -think that's the real Chelsea you see in London? Not a bit of it. The -real Chelsea is living--well, I mustn't tell you where it is living--but -you'll never find it. However, Americans are the last to understand -these things. I am wasting my breath talking." - -The train had drawn now into Drymouth. The old man was silent, looking -out at the hurrying crowds on the platform. He was certainly a pessimist -and a hater of his kind. He was looking out at the innocent people with -a lowering brow as though he would slaughter the lot of them had he the -power. "Old Testament Moses" Harkness named him. After a while the train -slowly moved on. They passed above the mean streets, the boardings with -the cheap theatres, the lines with the clothes hanging in the wind, the -grimy windows. But even these things the lovely sky, shining, -transmuted. - -They came to the river. It lay on either side of the track, a broad -sheet of lovely water spreading, on the left, to the open sea. The -warships clustered in dark ebony shadows against the gold; the hills -rose softly, bending in kindly peace and happy watchfulness. - -"Silence! We're crossing!" the old man cried. He was sitting forward, -his gnarled hands on his broad knees, staring in front of him. - -The train drew in to a small wayside station, gay with flowers. The -trees blew about it in whispering clusters. The old man got up, gathered -his basket and lumbered out, neither looking at nor speaking to -Harkness. - -He was alone. He felt an overwhelming relief. He had not liked the old -man and very obviously the old man had not liked him. But it was not -only that he was alone that pleased him. There was something more than -that. - -It was indeed as though he were in a new country. The train seemed to be -going now more slowly, with a more casual air, as though it too felt a -relief and did not care what happened--time, engagements, schedules, all -these were now forgotten as they went comfortably lumbering, the curving -fields embracing them, the streams singing to them, the little houses -perched on the clear-lit skyline smiling down upon them. - -It would not be long now before they were in Trewth, where he must -change. He took his two books and put them away in his bag. Should he -send the bag on and walk as Maradick had advised him? Three miles. Not -far, and it was a most lovely day. He could smell the sea now through -the windows. It must be only over that ridge of hill. He was strangely, -oddly happy. London seemed far, far away. America too. Any country that -had a name, a date, a history. This country was timeless and without a -record. How beautifully the hills dipped into valleys. Streams seemed to -be everywhere, little secret coloured streams with happy thoughts. -Everything and every one surely here was happy. Then suddenly he saw a -deserted mine tower like a gaunt and ruined temple. Haggard and fierce -it stood against the skyline, and, as Harkness looked back to it, it -seemed to raise an arm to heaven in desperate protest. - -The train drew into Trewth. - - - - -VIII - - -Trewth was nothing more than a long wooden platform open to all the -winds of heaven, and behind it a sort of shed with a ticket collector's -box in one side of it. - -Harkness was annoyed to see that others besides himself climbed out and -scattered about the platform waiting for the Treliss train to come in. - -He resented these especially because they were grand and elegant, two -men, long, thin, in baggy knickerbockers, carrying themselves as though -all the world belonged to them with that indifferent assurance that only -Englishmen have; a large, stout woman, quietly but admirably dressed, -with a Pekinese and a maid to whom she spoke as Cleopatra to Charmian. -Five boxes, gun-cases, magnificent golf-bags, these things were -scattered about the naked bare platform. The wind came in from the sea -and sported everywhere, flipping at the stout lady's skirts, laughing at -the elegant sportsmen's thin calves, mocking at the pouting Pekinese. It -was fresh and lovely: all the cornfields were waving invitation. - -It was characteristic of Harkness that a fancied haughty glance from the -sportsmen's eye decided him. He's laughing at my clothes, Harkness -thought. How was it that Englishmen wore old things so carelessly and -yet were never wrong? Harkness bought his clothes from the best London -tailors, but they were always finally a little hostile. They never -surrendered to his personality, keeping their own proud reserve. - -I'll walk, he thought suddenly. He found a young porter who, in anxious -fashion, so unlike American porters who were always so superior to the -luggage that they conveyed, was wheeling magnificent trunks on a very -insecure barrow. - -"These two boxes of mine," Harkness said, stopping him. "I want to walk -over to Treliss. Can they be sent over?" - -"Happen they can," said the young porter doubtfully. - -"They are labeled to the 'Man-at-Arms' Hotel," Harkness said. - -"They'll be there as soon as you will," said the young porter, cheered -at the sight of an American tip which he put in his pocket, thinking in -his heart that these foreigners were "damn fools" to throw their money -around as they did. He advanced towards the stout lady hopefully. She -might also prove to be American. - -Harkness plunged out of the station into the broad white road. A sign -pointed "Treliss--Three Miles." So Maradick had been exactly right. - -As he left the village behind him and strode on between the cornfields -he felt a marvellous freedom. He was heading now directly for the sea. -The salt tang of it struck him in the face. Larks were circling in the -blue air above him, poppies scattered the corn with plashes of crimson. -Here and there gaunt rocks rose from the heart of the gold. No human -being was in sight. - -His love of etching had given him something of an etcher's eye, and he -saw here a spreading tree and a pool of dark shadow, there a distant -spire on the curving hill that he thought would have caught the fancy of -his beloved Lepère, or Legros. Here a wayside pool like brittle glass -that would have enchanted Appian, there a cottage with a sweeping field -that might have made Rembrandt happy. - -He seemed to be in unison with the whole of nature, and when the road -left the fields and dived into the heart of a common his happiness was -complete. He stood there, his feet pressing in upon the rough springing -turf. A lark, singing above him, came down as though welcoming him, then -circled up and up and up. He raised his head, staring into the pale -faint blue until he seemed himself to circle with the bird, the turf -pressing him upwards, his hands lifting him, he swinging into spaceless -ecstasy. Then his gaze fell again and swung out beyond, and--there was -the sea. - -The Down ran in a green wave to the blue line of the sky, but in front -of him it split, breaking into brown rocky patches, and between the -brown curves a pool of purple sea lay like water in a cup. - -He walked forward, deserting for a moment the road. He stood at the edge -of the cliff and looked down. The tide was high and the line of the sea -slipped up to the feet of the cliff, splashed there its white fringe of -spray, then very gently fell back. Sea-pinks starred the cliffs with -colour. Sea-gulls whirled, fragments of white foam, against the blue. -Just below him one bird sat, its head cocked, waiting. With a shrill cry -of vigour and assurance it flashed away, curving, circling, bending, -dipping, as though it were showing to Harkness what it could do. - -He walked along the cliff path happier than he had been for many, many -months. This was enough were there no more than this. For this at least -he must thank Maradick--this peace, this air, this silence. . . . - -Turning a bend of the cliff he saw the town. - - - - -IX - - -It was absolutely the town of his vision. He saw, with a strange -tightening of his heart as though he were being warned of something, -that was so. There was the curving bay with the faint fringe of white -pencilling the yellow sand, there the houses rising tier on tier above -the beach, there the fringe of dusky wood. - -What did it mean? Why had he a clutch of terror as though some one was -whispering to him that he must turn tail and run? Nothing could be more -lovely than that town basking in the mellow afternoon light, and yet he -was afraid at the sight of it--afraid so that his content and happiness -of a moment ago were all gone and of a sudden he longed for company. - -He was so well accustomed to his own reactions and so deeply despised -them that he shrugged his shoulders and walked forward. Never, it -seemed, was it possible for him to enjoy anything for more than a -moment. Trouble and regret always came. But this was not regret, it was -rather a kind of forewarning. He did not know that he had ever before -looked on a place for the first time with so odd a mingling of -conviction that he had already seen it, of admiration for its beauty, -and of some sort of alarmed dismay. Beautiful it was, more Italian than -English, with its white walls, its purple sea and warm scented air. - -So peaceful and of so happy a tranquillity. He tried to drive his fear -from him, but it hung on so that he was often turning back and looking -behind him over his shoulder. - -He struck the road again. It curved now, white and broad, down the hill -toward the town. At the very peak of the hill before the descent began a -man was standing watching something. - -Harkness walked forward, then also stood still. The man was so deeply -absorbed that his absorption held you. He was standing at the edge of -the road and Harkness must pass him. At the crunch of Harkness's step on -the gravel of the road the man turned and looked at him with startled -surprise. Harkness had come across the soft turf of the Down, and his -sudden step must have been an alarm. The fellow was broad-shouldered, -medium height, clean-shaven, tanned, young, under thirty at least, -dressed in a suit of dark blue. He had something of a naval air. - -Harkness was passing, when the man said: - -"Have you the right time on you, sir?" His voice was fresh, pleasant, -well-educated. - -Harkness looked at his watch. "Quarter past five," he said. He was -moving forward when the man, hesitating, spoke again: - -"You don't see any one coming up the road?" - -Harkness stared down the white, sun-bleached expanse. - -"No," he said after a moment, "I don't." - -They looked for a while standing side by side silently. - -After all he wasn't more than a boy--not a day more than -twenty-five--but with that grave reserved look that so many British boys -who were old enough to have been in the war had. - -"Sure you don't see anybody?" he asked again, "coming up that farther -bend?" - -"No," said Harkness, shading his eyes with his hand against the sun; -"can't say as I do." - -"Damn nuisance," the boy said. "He's half an hour late now." - -The boy stood as though to attention, his figure set, his hands at his -side. - -"Ah, there's some one," said Harkness. But it was only an old man with -his cart. He slowly pressed up the hill past them urging his horses with -a thick guttural cry, an old man brown as a berry. - -"I beg your pardon," the boy turned to Harkness. "You'll think it an -awful impertinence--but--are you in a terrible hurry?" - -"No," said Harkness, "not terrible. I want to be at the 'Man-at-Arms' by -dinner time. That's all." - -"Oh, you've got lots of time," the boy said eagerly. "Look here. This is -desperately important for me. The man ought to have been here half an -hour ago. If he doesn't come in another twenty minutes I don't know what -I shall do. It's just occurred to me. There's another way up this -hill--a short cut. He may have chosen that. He may not have understood -where it was that I wanted him to meet me. Would you mind--would you do -me the favour of just standing here while I go over the hill there to -see whether he's waiting on the other side? I won't be away more than -five minutes; I'd be so awfully grateful." - -"Why, of course," said Harkness. - -"He's a fisherman with a black beard. You can't mistake him. And if he -comes if you'd just ask him to wait for a moment until I'm back." - -"Certainly," said Harkness. - -"Thanks most awfully. Very decent of you, sir." - -The boy touched his cap, climbed the hill and vanished. - -Harkness was alone again--not a sound anywhere. The town shimmered below -him in the heat. He waited, absorbed by the picture spread in front of -him, then apprehensive again and conscious that he was alone. The alarm -that he had originally felt at sight of the town had not left him. -Suppose the boy did not return? Was he playing some joke on him perhaps? -No, whatever else it was, it was not that. The boy had been deeply -serious, plunged into some crisis that was of tremendous importance to -him. - -Harkness decided that he would wait until the shadow of a solitary tree -to his right reached him and then go. The shadow crept slowly to his -feet. At the same moment a figure turned the bend, a man with a black -beard. He was walking quickly up the hill as though he knew that he was -late. - -Harkness went forward to meet him. The man stopped as though surprised. -"I beg your pardon," said Harkness; "were you expecting to meet some one -here?" - -"I was--yes," said the man. - -"He will be back in a moment. He was afraid that you might come up the -other way. He went over the hill to see." - -"Aye," said the man, standing, his legs apart, quite unconcerned. He was -a handsome fellow, broad-shouldered, wearing dark blue trousers and a -knitted jersey. "You'll be a friend of Mr. Dunbar's maybe?" - -"No, I'm not," Harkness explained. "I was passing and he asked me to -wait for a moment and catch you if you came while he was away." - -"Aye," said the fisherman, taking out a large wedge of tobacco and -filling his pipe, "I'm a bit later than I said I'd be. Wife kept me." - -"Fine evening," said Harkness. - -"Aye," said the man. - -At that moment the boy came over the hill and joined them. "Very good of -you, sir," he said. "You're late, Jabez!" - -"Good night," said Harkness, and moved down the hill. He could see the -two in urgent conversation as he moved forward. The incident occupied -his mind. Why had the matter seemed of such importance to the boy? Why a -meeting so elaborately appointed out there on the hillside? The -fisherman too had seemed surprised that he, a stranger, should be -concerned in the matter. - -Had he been in America the affair would have been at once -explained--boot-legging of course. But here in England. . . . - - - - -X - - -When he reached the bottom of the hill he found that he was in the -environs of the town. He was walking now along a road shaded by thick -trees and close to the seashore. - -The cottages, white-washed, crooked and, many of them, thatched, ran -down to the road, their gardens like little coloured carpets spreading -in front of them. The evening air was thick with the scent of flowers, -above all of roses. He had never smelt such roses, no, not in -California. - -There was a breeze from the sea, and it seemed to blow the roses into -his very heart, so that they seemed to be all about him, dark crimson, -burning white, scattering their petals over his head. He could hear the -tune of the sea upon the sand beyond the trees. - -He stood for a moment inhaling the scent--delicious, wonderful. He -seemed to be crushing multitudes of the petals between his hands. - -After a while the road broke away and he saw a path that led directly -through the trees to the sea. - -So soon as he had taken some steps across the soft sand he seemed to be -alone in a world that was watching every movement that he made. It was -as though he were committing some intrusion. He stopped and looked -behind him: the thin line of trees had retreated, the cottages vanished. -Before him was a waste of yellow sand, the deep purple of the sea rose -like a wall to his right, hiding, as it were, some farther scene, the -sky stretching over it a pale blue curtain tightly held. - -A mist was rising, veiling the town. No living person was in sight. He -reached a stretch of hard firm sand, thin rivulets of water lacing it. -The air was wonderfully mild and sweet. - -Never before in his life had he known such a feeling of anticipation. It -was as though he knew the stretch of sand to be the last brook to cross -before he would come into some mysterious country. - -How commonplace this will all seem to me to-morrow, he said to himself, -when, over my eggs and bacon at a prosperous modern hotel, I shall be -reading my _Daily Mail_ and hearing of the trippers at Eastbourne and -who has taken "shooting" in Scotland and whether Yorkshire has beaten -Surrey at cricket. He wanted to keep this moment, not to enter the town, -even he had a mad impulse to walk on the sand for an hour, to see the -colour fade from the sky and the sea change to a ghostly grey, then to -return up the hill to Trewth and catch the night train back to London. - -It would be wonderful like that; to have only the impression of the walk -from the station, the talk with the boy on the hill, the scent of the -roses and the afternoon sky. Everything is destroyed if you go into it -too closely, or it is so for me. I should have a memory that would last -me all my life. - -But now the town was advancing towards him. His steps made no sound so -that it seemed that he himself stood still, waiting to be seized. He -took one last look at the sea. Then he was caught up and the houses -closed about him. - - - - -XI - - -Six was striking from some distant clock as he started up the street. At -the bottom of the hill there were fishermen's cottages, nets spread out -on the stones to dry, some boats drawn up above a wooden jetty. Then, as -the street spread out before him, some little shops began. Figures were -passing hither and thither all transmuted in the afternoon light. -Maradick need not have feared, he thought, this town has not been -touched at all. - -As he advanced yet further the houses delighted him with their broad -doorways, their overhanging eaves, crooked roof and worn flights of -steps. He came to a place where wooden stairs led to an upper path that -ran before a higher row of houses and under the steps there were shops. - -He could feel a stir and bustle in the place as though this were a night -of festivity. Groups were gathered at corners, women stood in doorways -laughing and whispering, a group of children was marching, wearing -cocked hats of paper, beating on a wooden box and blowing on penny -trumpets. - -Then on coming into the Square he paused in sheer delighted wonder. This -stands on a raised plateau above the sea, and the town hall, solid and -virtuous above its flight of wide grey steps, is its great glory. -Streets seemed to tumble in and out of the Square on every side. On a -far corner there was a merry-go-round and there were booths and wooden -trestles, some tents and flags waving above them. But just now it was -almost deserted, only a man or two, some children playing in and out of -the tents, a dog hunting among the scraps of paper that littered the -cobbles. - -A church of Norman architecture filled the right side of the Square, and -squeezed between its grey walls and the modern town hall was a tall old -tower of infinite age, with thin slits of windows and iron bars that -pushed out against the pale blue sky like pointing fingers. - -There were houses in the Square that were charming, houses with queer -bow-windows and protruding doors like pepper-pots, little balconies, and -here and there old carved figures on the walls, houses that Whistler -would have loved to etch. Harkness stopped a man. - -"Can you tell me where I shall find the 'Man-at-Arms' Hotel?" he asked. - -"Why, yes," the man answered as though he were surprised that Harkness -should not know. "Straight up that street in front of you. You'll find -it at the top." - -And he did find it at the top after what seemed to him an endless climb. -The houses fell away. An iron gate was in front of him as though he were -entering some private residence. Going up a long drive he passed -beautiful lawns that shone like silk, to the right the grass fell away -to a pond fringed with trees. Flowers were around him on every side and -again in his nostrils was the heavy scent of innumerable roses. - -The drive swept a wide circle before the great eighteenth-century house -that now confronted him. But it is not a hotel at all, he thought, and -he would have turned back had not, at that moment, a large hotel omnibus -swept up to the door and discharged a chattering heap of men and women, -who scattered over the steps screaming about their luggage, collecting -children. The spell was broken. He had not realized how alone he had -been during the last hour and with what domination his imagination had -been working, creating for him a world of his own, encouraging in him -what hopes, fears and anticipations! - -He slipped in after the rest and stood shyly in the hall while the -others made their wants triumphantly felt. A man of about forty, stout -and round like an egg, but very shinily dressed, came forward and, -bending and bowing, smiled at the women and spoke deferentially to the -men. - -This must be Mr. Bannister--"the King of the Castle" Maradick had told -him in the Club. Not the original Mr. Bannister who has made the place -what it is. He is, alas, dead and gone. Had he been still there and you -had mentioned my name he would have done wonders for you. I don't know -this fellow, and for all I know he may have ruined the place. - -However, the original Bannister could not have been politer. Harkness -was always afraid of hotel officials, and it was only when the invasion -had broken up and begun to scatter that he came forward. But Mr. -Bannister knew all about him--indeed was expecting him. His luggage had -already arrived. He should be shown his room, and Mr. Bannister did hope -that it would be. . . . If anything in the least wasn't . . . - -Harkness started upstairs. There is a lift here, but if the gentleman -doesn't mind. . . . His room is only on the second floor and instead of -waiting. . . . Of course the gentleman doesn't mind. And still less does -he mind when he sees his room. - -This is mine absolutely, Harkness said, as though it had been waiting -for me for years and years with its curved bow-window, its view over -that enchanting garden and the line of sea beyond, its white wall -unbroken by those coloured prints that hotel managers in my own country -find it so necessary always to provide. Those chintz curtains with the -roses are delicious. Just enough furniture. "There is no private bath of -course?" - -"The bathroom is just across the passage. Very convenient," said the -man. - -"Yes, in England we haven't reached the private bathroom yet, although -we are supposed to be so fond of bathing." - -"No, sir," said the man. "Anything else I can do for you?" - -"No, thank you," said Harkness, smiling, as he looked on the white -sunlit walls and checking the tip that, American fashion, he was about -to give. "How strong the smell of the roses. It is very late for them, -isn't it?" - -"They are just about over, sir." - -"So I should have thought." - -Left alone he slowly unpacked. He liked unpacking and putting things -away. It was packing that he detested. He had a few things with him that -he always carried when he travelled--a red leather writing-case, a -little Japanese fisherman in coloured ivory, two figures in red amber, -photographs of his sisters in a silver frame. He put out these little -things on a table of white wood near his bed, not from any affectation, -but because when they were there the room seemed to understand him, to -settle about him with a little sigh as though it granted him -citizenship--for so long as he wished to stay. Then there were his -prints. He took out four, the Lepère "St. Gilles," Strang's "Etcher," -the Rembrandt "Flight into Egypt" and the Whistler "Drury Lane." The -Strang he had on one side of the looking-glass, the "Drury Lane" on the -other, the "Flight into Egypt" at the back of the writing-table, whither -he might glance across the room at it as he lay in bed, the "St. Gilles" -close to him near to the red writing-case and the ivory fisherman. - -He sighed with satisfaction as, sitting down on his bed, he looked at -them. He felt that he needed them to-night as he had never needed them -before. The sense of excited anticipation that had increased with him -all day was now surely approaching its climax. That excitement had in it -the strangest mixture of delight, sensuous thrill and something that was -nothing but panicky terror. Yes, he was frightened. Of what? Of whom? He -could not tell. But only as he looked across the room at those familiar -scenes, at the massive dark tree of the "St. Gilles" with the hot road, -the high comfortable hedge, the happy figures, at the adorable face of -the donkey in the Rembrandt, at the little beings so marvellously placed -under the dancing butterfly in the Whistler, at the strong, homely, -friendly countenance of Strang himself, he felt as he had so often felt -before, that those beautiful things were trying themselves to reassure -him, to tell him, that they did not change nor alter and that where he -would be there they would be too. - -He took Maradick's letter from his pocket and read it again. Here he -was--now what must happen next? He would dress now at once for dinner -and then walk in the garden before the light began to fail. Or no. -Wasn't he to go down into the town after dinner and to see this dance, -to share in it even? Hadn't Maradick said that was what, above all else, -he must do? - -And then what was this about a Minstrels' Gallery somewhere? He would -have a bath, change his linen, and then begin his explorations. He -undressed, found the bathroom, enjoyed himself for twenty minutes or -more, then slipped back across the passage into his room again. It was -now nearly seven o'clock. As he was dressing the sun was getting low in -the sky. A beam of sunshine caught the intent gaze of Strang, who seemed -to lean across his etching board as though to tell him, to reassure him, -to warn him. . . . - -He slipped out of his room and began his explorations. - - - - -XII - - -For a while he wandered, lost in a maze of passages. He understood that -the Minstrels' Gallery was at the top of the house. He did not use the -lift, but climbed the stairs, meeting no one; then he was on a floor -that must, he thought, be servants' quarters. It had another air, -something less arranged, less handsome, old-fashioned, as though it were -even now as it had been two hundred years ago--a survival as the old -grey tower in the market-place was a survival. - -For a little while he stood hesitating. The passage was dark and he did -not wish to plunge into a servant's room. Strange that up here there was -no sound at all--an absolute deathly stillness! - -He walked down to the end of the passage then, turning, came to a door -that was larger than the others. He could see as he looked at it more -closely that there was some faint carving on the woodwork above it. He -turned the handle, entered the room, then stopped with a little cry of -surprise and pleasure. - -Truly Maradick had been right. Here was a room that, if there was -nothing more to come, made the journey sufficiently of value. An -enchanting room! On the left side of it were broad bright windows, and -at the farther end, under the Minstrels' Gallery, windows again. There -were no curtains to the windows--the whole room had an empty deserted -air--but the more for that reason the place was illuminated with the -glow of the evening light. The first thing that he realised was the -view--and what a view! - -The windows were deep set and hung forward, it seemed, over the hill, so -that town, gardens, trees, were all lost and you saw only the sea. - -At this hour you seemed to swing in space; the division lost between sea -and sky in the now nearly horizontal rays of the sun--only a golden glow -covering the blue with a dazzling blaze of colour. He stood there -drinking it in, then sat in one of the window-seats, his hands clasped, -lost in happiness. - -After a while he turned back to the room. Flecks of dust, changed into -gold by the evening light, floated in mid-air. The room was disregarded -indeed. The walls were panelled. The little Minstrels' Gallery was -supported on two heavy pillars. The floor was bare of carpet and had -even a faint waxen sheen, as though, in spite of the room's general -neglect, it was used, once and again, for dances. - -But what pathos the room had! He did not know that almost fifteen years -before Maradick had felt that same thing. How vastly now that pathos was -increased, how greatly since Maradick's day the world's history had -relentlessly cut away those earlier years. He saw that round the -platform of the gallery was intricate carving, and, going forward more -closely to examine, saw that in every square was set the head of a -grinning lion. Some high-backed, quaintly-shaped chairs, that looked as -though they might be of great age, were ranged against the wall. - -Being now right under the gallery he saw some little wooden steps. He -climbed up them and then from the gallery's shadow looked down across -the room. How clearly he could picture that old scene, something -straight from Jane Austen with Miss Bates and Mrs. Norris, stiff-backed, -against the wall, and Anne Elliott and Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. Collins and -the rest. The fiddlers scraping, the negus for refreshment, the night -darkening, the carriages with their lights gathering. . . . - -The door at the far end of the room closed with a gentle click. He -started, not imagining that any one would choose that room at such an -hour. - -Two figures were there in the shadow beyond the end room. The light fell -on the man's face--Harkness could see it very clearly. The other was a -woman wearing a white dress. He could not see her face. - -For an instant they were silent, then the man said something that -Harkness could not hear. - -The girl at once broke out: "No, no. Oh, please, Herrick." - -She must be a very young girl. The voice was that of a child. It had in -it a desperate note that held Harkness's attention instantly. - -The man said something again, very low. - -"But if you don't care," the girl's voice pleaded, "then let me go back. -Oh, Herrick, let me go! Let me go!" - -"My father does not wish it." - -"But I am not married to your father. It is to you." - -"My father and I are the same. What he says I must do, I do." - -"But you can't be the same." Her voice now was trembling in its urgency. -"No one could love their father more than I do and yet we are not the -same." - -"Nevertheless you did what your father asked you to do. So must I." - -"But I didn't know. I didn't know. And he didn't know. He has never seen -me frightened of anything, and now I am frightened. . . . I've never -said I was to any one before, but now . . . now . . ." - -She was crying, softly, terribly, with the terrified crying of real and -desperate fear. - -Harkness had been about to move. He did not, unseen and his presence -unrealised, wish to overhear, but her tears checked him. Although he -could not see her he had detected in her voice a note of pride. He -fancied that she would wish anything rather than to be thus seen by a -stranger. He stayed where he was. He could see the man's face, thin, -white, the nose long pointed, a dark, almost grotesque shadow. - -"Why are you frightened?" - -"I don't know. I can't tell. I have never been frightened before." - -"Have I been unkind to you?" - -"No, but you don't love me." - -"Did I ever pretend to love you? Didn't you know from the very first -that no one in the world matters to me except my father?" - -"It is of your father that I am afraid. . . . These last three days in -that terrible house. . . . I'm so frightened, Herrick. I want to go home -only for a little while. Just for a week before we go abroad." - -"All our plans are made now. You know that we are sailing to-morrow -evening." - -"Yes, but I could come afterwards. . . . Forgive me, Herrick. You may do -anything to me if I can only go home for just some days. . . . You may -do anything. . . ." - -"I don't want to do anything, Hesther. No one wishes to do you any harm. -But whatever my father wishes that every one must do. It has always been -so." - -She seemed to be seized by an absolute frenzy of fear; Harkness could -see her white shadow quivering. It appeared to him as though she caught -the man by the arm. Her voice came in little breathless stifled cries, -infinitely pitiful to hear. - -"Please, please, Herrick. I dare not speak to your father. I don't dare. -I don't dare. But you--let me go--Oh! let me go--just this once, -Herrick. Only this once. I'll only be home for a few days and then I'll -come back. Truly I'll come back. I'll just see father and Bobby and then -I'll come back. They'll be missing me. I know they will. And I'll be -going to a foreign country--such a long way. And they'll be wanting me. -Bobby's so young, Herrick, only a baby. He's never had any one to do -anything for him but me. . . ." - -"You should have thought of that before you married me, you cannot leave -me now." - -"I won't leave you. I've never broken my word to any one. I won't break -it now. It's only for a few days." - -"How can you be so selfish, Hesther, as to want to upset every one's -plans just for a whim of your own? For myself I don't care. You could go -home for ever for all I care. I didn't want to marry any one. But what -my father wished had to be." - -She clung to him then, crying again and again between her sobs: - -"Oh, let me go home! Let me go home! Let me go home!" - -Harkness fancied that the man put his hands on her shoulders. His voice, -cold, lifeless, impersonal, crossed the room. - -"That is enough. He is waiting for us downstairs. He will be wondering -where we are." - -The little white shadow seemed to turn to the window, towards the -limitless expanse of sunlit sea. Then a voice, small, proud, empty of -emotion, said: - -"Father wished me----" - -Harkness was once more alone in the room. - - - - -XIII - - -They had gone but the girl's fear remained. It was there as truly as the -two figures had been and its reality was stronger than their reality. - -Harkness had the sense of having been caught, and it was exactly as -though now, as he stood alone there in the gallery staring down into the -room, some Imp had touched him on the shoulder, crying, "Now you're in -for it! Now you're in for it! The situation has got you now." - -He was, of course, not "in for it" at all. How many such conversations -between human beings there were: it simply was that he had happened -against his will to overhear a fragment of one of them. Yes, "against -his will." How desperately he wished that he hadn't been there. What -induced them to choose that room and that time for their secret -confidences? He felt still in the echo of their voices the effect of -their urgency. - -They had chosen that room because there was some one watching their -every movement and they had had only a few moments. The child--for -surely she could not be more--had almost driven her companion into that -two minutes' conversation, and Harkness could realise how desperate she -must have been to have taken such a course. - -But after all it _was_ no business of his! Girls married every day men -whom they did not love and, although apparently in this case, the man -also did not love her and they were both of them in evil plight, still -that too had happened before and nothing very terrible had come of it. - -It _was_ no business of his, and yet he did wish, all the same, that he -could get the ring of the girl's voice out of his ears. He had never -been able to bear the sight, sound or even inference of any sort of -cruelty to helpless humans or to animals. Perhaps because he was so -frantic a coward himself about physical pain! And yet not altogether -that. He had on several occasions taken risks of pretty savage pain to -himself in order to save a horse a beating or a dog a kicking. -Nevertheless, those had been spontaneous emotions roused at the instant; -there was something lingering, a sad and tragic echo, in the voice that -was still with him. - -The very pathos of the room that he was in--the lingering of so many old -notes that had been rung and rung again, notes of anticipation, triumph, -disappointment, resignation, made this fresh, living sound the harder to -escape. - -By Jupiter, the child _was_ frightened--that was the final ringing of it -upon Harkness's heart and soul. But he was going to have his life -sufficiently full were he to step in and rescue every girl frightened by -matrimony! Rescue! No, there was no question of rescue. It wasn't, once -again, his affair. But he did wish that he could just take her hand and -tell her not to worry, that it would all come right in the end. But -would it? He hadn't at all cared for the fragment of countenance that -fellow had shown to him, and he had liked still less the tone of his -voice, cold, unfeeling, hard. Poor child! And suddenly the thought of -his Browning's "Duchess" came to him: - - I was the man the Duke spoke to: - I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke too; - So, here's the tale from beginning to end, - My friend! - -Well, here was a tale with which he had definitely nothing to do. Let -him remember that. He was here in a most beautiful place for a -holiday--that was his purpose, that his intention--what were these -people to him or he to them? - -Nevertheless the voice lingered in his ear, and to be rid of it he left -the room. He stepped carefully down the wooden steps, and then at the -bottom of them, under the dark lee of the gallery, he paused. He was so -foolishly frightened that he could not move a step. - -He waited. At last he whispered "Is any one there?" - -There was no answer. He pushed his way then out of the shadow, his heart -drumming against his shirt. There was no one there. Of course there was -not. - -In his room once more with his friend Strang and the Rembrandt Donkey to -take him home he sat on his bed holding his hands between his knees. - -He was positively afraid of going down to dinner. Afraid of what? Afraid -of being drawn in. Drawn into what? That was precisely what he did not -know, but something that ever since his first glimpse of Maradick at the -Reform Club had been preparing. It was that he saw, as he sat there -thinking of it, that he feared--this Something that was piling up -outside him and with which he had nothing to do at all. - -Why should he mind because he had heard a girl say that she was -frightened and wanted to go home? And yet he did mind--minded terribly -and with increasing violence from every moment that passed. The thought -of that child without a friend and on the very edge of an experience -that might indeed be fatal for her, the thought of it was more than he -could endure. - -He was clever at escaping things did they only give him a moment's -pause, but in this case the longer he thought about it the harder it was -to escape from. It was as though the girl had made her personal appeal -to himself. - -But what an old scamp her father must be, Harkness thought, to give her -up like this to a man for whom she has no love, who doesn't love her. -Why did she do it? And what kind of a man is the father-in-law of whom -she is so afraid and who dominates his son so absolutely? In any case I -must go down to dinner. I must just take what comes. . . - -Yes, but his prudence whispered, don't meddle in this affair actively. -It isn't the kind of thing in which you are likely to distinguish -yourself. - -"No, by Jove, it isn't." - -"Well, then, be careful." - -"I mean to be." Then suddenly the girl's voice came sharp and clear. -"Damn it, I'll do anything I can," he cried aloud, jumped from the bed -and went downstairs. - - - - -XIV - - -As he went downstairs he felt a tremendous sense of liberation. It was -as though he had, after many hesitations and fears, passed through the -first room successfully and closed the door behind him. Now there was -the second room to be confronted. - -What he immediately confronted was the garden of the hotel. The sun was -slowly setting in the west, and great amber clouds, spreading out in -swathes of colour, ate up the blue. - -The amber flung out arms as though it would embrace the whole world. The -deep blue ebbed from the sea, was pale crystal, then from length to -length a vast bronze shield. The amber receded as though it had done its -work, and myriads of little flecks of gold ran up into the pale -blue-white, thousands of scattered fragments like coins flung in some -God-like largesse. - -The bronze sea was held rigid as though it were truly of metal. The town -caught the gold and all the windows flashed. In the fresh evening light -the grass of the lawn seemed to shine with a fresh iridescence--the -farther hills were coldly dark. - -Several people were walking up and down the gravel paths pausing before -going in to dinner. In the golden haze only those things stood out that -were more important for the scene, nature, as always, being more -theatrical than any man-contrived theatre. The stage being set, the -principal actor made his entrance. - -A window running to the gravel path caught the level rays of the setting -sun. A man stepped before this, stopping to light a cigarette and then, -being there, stayed like an oriental image staring out into the garden. - -Harkness looked casually, then looked again, then, fascinated, remained -watching. He had never before seen such red hair nor so white a face, -nor so large a stone as the green one that shone in a ring on the finger -of his raised hand. He was lighting his cigarette--it was after this -that he fell into rigid immobility, and the fire of the match caught the -ring until, like a great eye, it seemed to open, wink at Harkness, and -then regard him with a contemptuous stare. - -The man's hair was _en brosse_, standing straight on end as Loge's used -to do in the old pre-war Bayreuth "Ring." It was, like Loge's, a flaming -red, short, harsh, instantly arresting. Evening dress. One small black -pearl in his shirt. Very small feet in shining shoes. - -There had stuck in Harkness's mind a phrase that he had encountered once -in George Moore's description of Verlaine in _Memories and Opinions_--"I -shall not forget the glare of the bald prominent forehead (_une tête -glabre_). . . ." That was the phrase now, _une tête glabre_--the -forehead glaring like a challenge, the red hair springing from it like -something alive of its own independence. For the rest this interesting -figure had a body round, short and fat like a ball. Over his protruding -stomach stretched a white waistcoat with three little plain black -buttons. - -The colour of his face had an unnatural pallor, something theatrical -like the clown in _Pagliacci_, or again, like one of Benda's masks. Yes, -this was the truer comparison, because through the mask the eyes were -alive and beautiful, dark, tender, eloquent, but spoilt because above -them the eyebrows were so faint as to be scarcely visible. The mouth in -the white of the face was a thin hard red scratch. The eyes stared into -the garden. The body soon became painted into the window behind it, the -round short limbs, the shining shoes, the little black pearl in the -gleaming shirt. - -Harkness, from the shadow where he stood, looked and looked again. Then, -fearing that he might be perceived and his stare be held offensive, he -moved forward. The man saw him and, to Harkness's surprise, stepped -forward and spoke to him. - -"I beg your pardon," he said; "but do you happen to have a light? My -cigarette did not catch properly and I have used my last match." - -Here was another surprise for Harkness. The voice was the most beautiful -that he had ever heard from man. Soft, exquisitely melodious, with an -inflection in it of friendliness, courtesy and culture that was -enchanting. Absolutely without affectation. - -"Why, yes. Certainly," said Harkness. - -He felt for his little gold matchbox, found it, produced a match and, -guarding it with his hand, struck it. In the light the other's forehead -suddenly sprang up again like a live thing. For an instant two of his -fingers rested on Harkness's hand. They seemed to be so soft as to be -quite boneless. - -"Thank you. What an exquisite evening!" - -"Yes," said Harkness. "This is a very beautiful place." - -"Yes," said the other, "is it not? And this is incidentally the best -hotel in England." - -The voice was so beautiful to Harkness, who was exceedingly sensitive to -sound, that his only desire was that by some means he should prolong the -conversation so that he might indulge himself in the luxury of it. - -"I have only just arrived," he said; "I came only an hour ago, and it is -my first visit." - -"Is that so? Then you have a great treat in store for you. This is -splendid country round here, and although every one has been doing their -best to spoil it there are still some lovely places. Treliss is the only -town in Southern England where the place is still triumphant over modern -improvements." - -There was a pause, then the man said: - -"Will you be here for long?" - -"I have made no plans," Harkness replied. - -"I wish I could show you around a little. I know this country very well. -There is nothing I enjoy more than showing off some of our beauties. -But, unfortunately, I leave for abroad early to-morrow morning." - -Harkness thanked him. They were soon talking very freely, walking up and -down the gravel path. The exquisite modulation of the man's voice, its -rhythm, gentleness, gave Harkness such delight that he could listen for -ever. They spoke of foreign countries. Harkness had travelled much and -remembered what he had seen. This man had been apparently everywhere. - -Suddenly a gong sounded. "Ah, there's dinner." They paused. The stranger -said: "I beg your pardon. You tell me that you are American, and I know -therefore that you are not hampered by ridiculous conventionalities. Are -you alone?" - -"I am," said Harkness. - -"Well, then--why not dine with us? There is myself, my son and a -charming girl to whom he has lately been married. Do me that pleasure. -Or, if people are a bore to you be quite frank and say so." - -"I shall be delighted," said Harkness. - -"Good. My name is Crispin." - -"Harkness is mine." - -They walked in together. - - - - -XV - - -He had, as he walked into the hall, an overwhelming sense that -everything that was occurring to him had happened to him before, and it -was only part of this dream-conviction that Crispin should pause and -say: - -"Here they are, waiting for us," and lead him up to the girl who, half -an hour before, had been with him in the little gallery. He had even a -moment of protesting panic crying to the little imp whose voice he had -already heard that evening: "Let me out of this. I am not so passive as -you fancy. It is a holiday I am here for. There is no knight errantry in -me--you have caught the wrong man for that." - -But the girl's face stopped him. She was beautiful. He had from the -first instant of seeing her no doubt of that, and it was as though her -voice had already built her up for him in that dim room. - -Straight and dark, her face had child-like purity in its rounded cheeks, -its large brow and wondering eyes, its mouth set now in proud -determination, but trembling a little behind that pride, its cheeks very -soft and faintly coloured. Her hair was piled up as though it were only -recently that it had come to that distinction. She was wearing a very -simple white frock that looked as though it had been made by some little -local dressmaker of her own place. She had been proud of it, delighted -with it, Harkness could be sure, perhaps only a week or two ago. Now -experiences were coming to her thick and fast. She was clutching them -all to her, determined to face them whatever they might be, finding -them, as Harkness knew from what he had overheard, more terrible than -she had ever conceived. - -She had been crying, as he knew, only half an hour ago, but now there -were no traces of tears, only a faint shell-like flush on her cheeks. - -The man standing beside her was not much more than a boy, but Harkness -thought that he had seldom perceived an uglier countenance. A large -broad nose, a long thin face like a hatchet, grey colourless eyes and a -bony body upon which the evening clothes sat awkwardly, here was -ugliness itself, but the true unpleasantness came from the cold -aloofness that lay in the unblinking eyes, the hard straight mouth. - -"He might be walking in his sleep," Harkness thought, "for all the life -he's showing. What a pair for the girl to be in the hands of!" Harkness -was introduced: - -"Hesther, my dear, this is Mr. Harkness who is going to give us the -pleasure of dining with us. Mr. Harkness, this is my boy, Herrick." - -The little man led the way, and it was interesting to perceive the -authoritative dignity with which he moved. He had a walk that admirably -surmounted the indignities that the short legs and stumpy body would, in -a less clever performer, have inevitably entailed. He did not strut, nor -trot, nor push out his stomach and follow it with proud resolve. - -His dignity was real, almost regal, and yet not absurd. He walked -slowly, looking about him as he went. He stopped at the entrance of the -dining-hall now crowded with people, spoke to the head waiter, a stout -pompous-looking fellow, who was at once obsequious, and started down the -room to a reserved table. - -The diners looked up and watched their progress, but Harkness noticed -that no one smiled. When they came to their table in the middle of the -room, Mr. Crispin objected to it and they were at once shown to another -one beside the window and looking out to the sea. - -"It will amuse you to see the room, Hesther. You sit there. You can look -out of the window too when you are bored with people. Will you sit here, -Mr. Harkness, on my right?" - -Harkness was now opposite the girl and looking out to the sea that was -lit with a bronze flame that played on the air like a searchlight. The -window was slightly open, and he could hear the sounds from the town, -the merry-go-round, a harsh trumpet, and once and again a bell. - -"Do you mind that window?" Crispin asked him. "I think it is rather -pleasant. You don't mind it, Hesther dear? They are having festivities -down there this evening. The night of their annual ceremony when they -dance round the town--something as old as the hill on which the town is -built, I fancy. You ought to go down and look at them, Mr. Harkness." - -"I think I shall," Harkness replied, smiling. - -He noticed that now that the man was seated he did not look small. His -neck was thick, his shoulders broad, that forehead in the -brilliantly-lit room absolutely gleamed, the red hair springing up from -it like a challenge. The mention of the dance led Crispin to talk of -other strange customs that he had known in many parts of the world, -especially in the East. Yes, he had been in the East very often and -especially in China. The old China was going. You would have to hurry up -if you were to see it with any colour left. It was too bad that the West -could not leave the East alone. - -"The matter with the West, Mr. Harkness, is that it always must be -improving everything and everybody. It can't leave well alone. It must -be thrusting its morals and customs on people who have very nice ones of -their own--only they are not Western, that's all. We have too many -conventional ideas over here. Superstitious observances that are just as -foolish as any in the South Seas--more foolish indeed. Now I'm shocking -you, Hesther, I'm afraid. Hesther," he explained to Harkness, "is the -daughter of an English country doctor--a very fine fellow. But she -hasn't travelled much yet. She only married my son a month ago. This is -their honeymoon, and it is very nice of them to take their old father -along with them. He appreciates it, my dear." - -He raised his glass and bowed to her. She smiled very faintly, staring -at him for an instant with her large brown eyes, then looking down at -her plate. - -"I have been driven," Crispin explained, "into the East by my -collector's passions as much as anything. You know, perhaps, what it is -to be a collector, not of anything especial, but a collector. Something -in the blood worse than drugs or drink. Something that only death can -cure. I don't know whether you care for pretty things, Mr. Harkness, but -I have some pieces of jade and amber that would please you, I think. I -have, I think, one of the best collections of jade in Europe." - -Harkness said something polite. - -"The trouble with the collector is that he is always so much more deeply -interested in his collection than any one else is, and he is not so -interested in a thing when he owns it as he was when he was wondering -whether he could afford it. - -"However, women like my jade. Their fingers itch. It is pleasant to see -them. Have you ever felt the collector's passion yourself?" - -"In a tiny way only," said Harkness. "I have always loved prints very -dearly, etchings especially. But I have so small and unimportant a -collection that I never dream of showing it to anybody. I have not the -means to make a real collection, but if I were a millionaire it is in -that direction that I think I would go. Etchings are so marvellously -human, unaccountably personal." - -"Why, Herrick, listen to that! Mr. Harkness cares about etchings! We -must show him some of ours. I have a 'Hundred Guilders' and a 'De -Jonghe' that are truly superb. Do you know my favourite etcher in the -world? I am sure that you will never guess." - -"There is a large field to choose from," said Harkness, smiling. - -"There is indeed. But Samuel Palmer is the man for me. You will say that -he goes oddly enough with my jade, but whenever I travel abroad 'The -Bellman' and 'The Ruined Tower' go with me. And then Lepère--what a -glorious artist! and Legros's woolly trees and our old friend -Callot--yes, we have an enthusiasm in common there." - -For the first time Harkness addressed the girl directly: - -"Do you also care about etchings, Mrs. Crispin?" - -She flushed as she answered him: "I am afraid that I know nothing about -them. Our things at home were not very valuable, I am afraid--except to -us," she added. - -She spoke so softly that Harkness scarcely caught her words. "Ah, but -Hesther will learn," Crispin said. "She has a fine taste already. It -needs only some more experience. You are learning already, are you not, -Hesther?" - -"Yes," she answered almost in a whisper, then looked up directly at -Harkness. He could not mistake her glance. It was an appeal absolutely -for help. He could see that she was at the end of her control. Her hand -was trembling against the cloth. She had been drinking some of her -Burgundy, and he guessed that this was a desperate measure. He divined -that she was urging herself to some act from which, during all these -weeks, she had been shuddering. - -His own heart was beating furiously. The food, the wine, the lights, -Crispin's strange and beautiful voice were accompaniments to some act -that he saw now hanging in front of him, or rather waiting, as a -carriage waits, into which now of his own free-will he is about to step -to be whirled to some terrific destination. - -He tried to put purpose into his glance back to her as though he would -say "Let me be of some use to you. I am here for that. You can trust -me." - -He felt that she knew that she could. She might, such was her case, -trust any one at this crisis, but she had been watching him, he felt -sure, throughout the meal, listening to his voice, studying his -movements, wondering, perhaps, whether he too were in this conspiracy -against her. - -He had the sudden conviction that on an instant she had resolved that -she could trust him, and had he had time to do as was usual with him, to -step back and regard himself, he would have been amazed at his own -happiness. - -They had come to the dessert. Crispin, as though he had no purpose in -life but to make every one happy, was cracking walnuts for his -daughter-in-law and talking about a thousand things. There was nothing -apparently that he did not know and nothing that he did not wish to hand -over to his dear friends. - -"It is too bad that I can't show you my 'Hundred Guilders.'" He cracked -a walnut, and his soft boneless fingers seemed suddenly to be endued -with an amazing strength. "But why shouldn't I? What are you doing this -evening?" - -"I have no plans," said Harkness; "I thought I would go perhaps down to -the market and look at the fun." - -"Yes--well. . . . Let me see. But that will fit splendidly. We have an -engagement for an hour or two--to say good-bye to an old friend. Why not -join us here at--say--half-past ten? I have my car here. It is only half -an hour's drive. Come out for an hour or two and see my things. It will -give me so much pleasure to show you what I have. I can offer you a good -cigar too and some brandy that should please you. What do you say?" - -Harkness looked across at the girl. "Thank you," he said gravely, "I -shall be delighted." - -"That's splendid. Very good of you. The house also should interest you. -Very old and curious. It has a history too. I have rented it for the -last year. I shall be quite sorry to leave it." - -Then, smiling, he lent across--"What do you say, Hesther? Shall we have -our coffee outside?" - -"Yes, thank you," she answered, with a curious childish inflection as -though she were repeating some lesson that was only half remembered. - -She rose and started down the room. Harkness followed her. Half-way to -the door Crispin was stopped for a moment by the head waiter and stayed -with his son. - -Harkness spoke rapidly. "There is no time at all, but I want you to know -that I was in the room at the top of the house just now when you were -there. I heard everything. I apologise for overhearing. I could not -escape, but I want you to know that if there's anything I can -do--anything in the world--I will do it. Tell me if there is. We have -only a moment." - -On looking back afterwards he thought it marvellous of her that, -realising who was behind them, she scarcely turned her head, showed no -emotion, but speaking swiftly, answered: - -"Yes, I am in great trouble--desperate trouble. I am sure you are kind. -There is a thing you can do." - -"Tell me," he urged. They were now nearly by the door and the two men -were coming up. - -"I have a friend. I told him that if I would agree to his plan I would -send a message to him to-night. I did not mean to agree, but now--I'm -not brave enough to go on. He is to be at half-past nine at a little -hotel--'The Feathered Duck'--on the sea-front. Any one will tell you -where it is. His name is Dunbar. He is young, short, you can't mistake -him. He will be waiting there. Go to him. Tell him I agree. I'll never -forget . . ." - -Crispin's forehead confronted them. "What do you say to this? Here is a -sheltered corner." - -Dunbar? Dunbar? Where had he heard the name before? - -They all sat down. - - - - -PART II: THE DANCE ROUND THE -TOWN - - - - -I - - -Quarter of an hour later he left them, making his excuses, promising to -return at half-past ten. He could not have stayed another moment, -sitting there quietly in his wicker armchair looking out on the -darkening garden, listening to Crispin's pleasure in Peter Breughel, -without giving some kind of vent to his excitement. - -He must get away and be by himself. Because--yes, he knew it, and -nothing could alter the vehement pulsating truth of it--he was in love -for the first time in his life. - -As he threaded his way along the garden paths that was at first all that -he could see--that he was in love with that child in the shabby frock -who was married to that odious creature, that bag-of-bones, who had not -opened his mouth the whole evening long--that child terrified out of her -life and appealing to him, a stranger, in her despair, to help her. - -In love with a married woman, he, Charles Percy Harkness? What would his -two sisters, nay, what would the whole of Baker, Oregon, say did they -know? - -But, bless you, he was not in love with her like that--no hero of a -modern realistic novel he! He had no thought in that first ecstatic -glow, of any thought for himself at all--only his eyes were upon her, of -how he could help her, how serve her, now--at once--before it was too -late. - -He was deeply touched that she should trust him, but he also realised -that at that particular moment she would have trusted anybody. And yet -she had waited, watching him through all the first part of that meal, -making up her mind--there was some tribute to him at least in that! - -It was a considerable time before he could fight his way behind his own -singing happiness into any detailed consideration of the facts. - -He was in touch with real life at last, had it in both hands like a -magic ball of crystal, after which for so long he had been searching. - -Where had he been all his life, fancying that this was love and that? -That ridiculous touching of hands over a tea-cup, that fancied glance at -a crowded party, that half uttered suggested exchange of gimcrack -phrases? And this! Why, he could not have stopped himself had he wished! -None of the old considered caution to which he had now grown so -accustomed that it had seemed like part of his very soul, could have any -say in this. He was committed up to his very boots in the thing, and he -was glad, glad, glad! - -Meanwhile he had lost his way. He pulled himself up short. He had been -walking just in any direction. He was in a far part of the garden. A -lawn in the twilight like dark glass beneath whose surface green water -played, stretched between scattered trees and beds of flowers now grey -and shadowy. Sparks of fire were already scattered across a sky that was -smoky with coils of mist as though some giant train had but now -thundered through on its journey to Paradise. Little whistles of wind -stole about the garden making secret appointments among the trees. -Somewhere near to him a fountain was splashing, and behind the lingering -liquid sound of it he could hear the merry-go-round and the drum. He -cared little about the dance now, but in some fashion he must pass the -time until nine-thirty when he would see her friend and learn what he -might do. - -Her friend? A sudden agitation held him. Her friend? Had she a lover? -Was that all that there was behind this--that she had married in haste, -for money, luxury, to see the world, perhaps, and now that she had had a -month of it with that miserable bag-of-bones and his painted, talkative -father, discovered that she could not endure it and called to her aid -some earlier lover? Was that all that his fine knight-errantry came to -that he should assist in some vulgar ordinary intrigue? He stopped, -standing beside a small white gate that led out from the garden into the -road. It was as though the gate held him from the outer world and he -would never pass through it until this was decided for him. Her face -came before him as she had sat there on the other side of the table, as -it had been when their glances met. No, he did not doubt her for an -instant. - -Whatever her experiences of the last month she was pure in heart and -soul as some child at her mother's knee. She had her pride, her pluck, -her resolve, but also, above all else, her innocent simplicity, her -ignorance of all the evil in the world. And as though the most urgent -problem of all his life had been solved, he gave the little white gate -a push and stepped through it into the open road. - - - - -II - - -He was now in the country to the left of, and above, the town. He could -see its lights clustered, like gold coins thrown into some capacious -lap, there below him in the valley. - -He struck off along a path that led between deeply scented fields and -that led straight down the hill. He began now more soberly to consider -the facts of the case, and a certain depression stole about him. He -didn't after all see very well what he would be able to do. They were -going, on the following morning, the three of them, abroad, and once -there how was he to effect any sort of rescue? - -The girl was apparently quite legally married and, although the horrible -young Crispin had been silent and sinister, there were no signs that he -was positively cruel. The deeper Harkness looked into it the more he was -certain that the secret of the whole mystery lay in the older -Crispin--it was of him that the girl was terrified rather than the son. -Harkness did not know how he was sure of this, he could trace no actual -words or looks, but there--yes, there, the centre of the plot lay. - -The man was strange and queer enough to look at, but a more charming -companion you could not find. He had been nothing but amiable, friendly -and courteous. His attitude to his daughter-in-law had been everything -that any one could wish. He had seemed to consider her in every possible -way. - -Harkness, with his American naïveté of conduct, was fond of the word -"wholesome," or rather, had he not spent so much of his life in Europe, -would have found it his highest term of praise to call his fellow-man "a -regular feller!" Crispin Senior was _not_ "a regular feller" whatever -else he might be. There had, too, been one moment towards the end of -dinner when a waiter, passing, had jolted the little man's chair. There -had been for an instant a glance that Harkness now, in his general -survey of the situation, was glad to have caught--a glance that seemed -to tear the pale powdered mask away for the moment and to show a living -moving visage, something quite other, something the more alive in -contrast with its earlier immobility. Once, years before, Harkness had -seen in the Naples Aquarium two octopuses. They lay like grey slimy -stones at the bottom of the shining sun-lit tank. An attendant had let -down through the water a small frog at the end of a string. The frog had -nearly reached the bottom of the tank when in one flashing instant the -pile of shiny stone had been a whirling sickening monster, tentacles, -thousands of them it seemed, curving, two loathsome eyes glowing. In one -moment of time the frog was gone and in another moment the muddy pile -was immobile once again. An unpleasant sight. Were the etchings of -Samuel Palmer Crispin's only appetite? Harkness fancied not. - - - - -III - - -Plunging almost recklessly down the hill he was soon in the town and, -pushing his way through two or three narrow little streets, found -himself in the market-place. - -He caught his breath at the strange transformation of the place since -his last view of it more than three hours before. He learnt later that -this dance was held always as the Grand Finale of the Three Days' Annual -Fair, and on the last of the days there is an old custom that, from -four-thirty to six-thirty no trading shall be done, but that every one -shall entertain or be entertained within their homes. This pause had its -origin, I should fancy, in some kind of religious ceremony, to ask the -good God's blessing on the trading of the three days, but it had become -by now a most convenient interval for the purpose of drinking healths, -so that when, at seven o'clock, all the citizens of the town poured out -of their doors once again, they were truly and happily primed for the -fun of the evening. - -Harkness found, therefore, what at first seemed to be naked pandemonium -and, stepping into it, crossed into the third room of his house of -delivery. The old buildings--the town hall, the church, the old grey -tower--were lit up as though by some supernatural splendour, all the -lights of the booths, the hanging clusters of fairy lamps, and, in the -very middle of the place, a huge bonfire flinging arms of flame to -heaven. - -In one corner there was the merry-go-round. A twisting, heaving, -gesticulating monster screaming out "Coal Black Mammy of Mine," and -suddenly whooping with its own excitement, showing so much emotion that -it would not have been surprising to find it, at any moment, leap its -bearings and come hurtling down into the middle of the crowd. - -The booths were thick with buyers and sellers, and every one, to -Harkness's excited fancy, seemed to be screaming at the highest pitch of -his or her strident voice. - -Here was everything for sale--hats, feathers, coats, skirts, dolls, -wooden dolls, rag dolls, china dolls, monkeys on sticks, ribbons, -gloves, shoes, umbrellas, pies, puddings, cakes, jams, oranges, apples, -melons, cucumbers, potatoes, cabbages, cauliflowers, broaches, diamonds -(glass), rubies (glass), emeralds (glass), prayer books, bibles, -pictures (King George, Queen Mary), cups, plates, tea-pots, coffee-pots, -rabbits, white mice, dogs, sheep, pigs, one grey horse, tables, chairs, -beds, and one wooden house on wheels. More than these, much more. And -around them, about them, in and out of them, before them and beside them -and behind them men, women, children, singing, crying, shouting, -sneezing, laughing, hiccuping, quarrelling, kissing, arguing, denying, -confirming, whistling, and snoring. Men of the sea bronzed with dark -hair, flashing eyes, rings on their fingers and bells on their toes; men -of the fields, the soil interpenetrated with the very soul of their -being, bearded to the eyes, broad-shouldered, broad-buttocked, their -Sunday coats flapping over their corduroyed thighs, their rough thick -necks moving restlessly in their unaccustomed collars; women of the fair -with eyes like black coals; gipsy women straight from the tents with -crimson kerchiefs and black hair piled high under feathered hats; women -of the town with soft voices, sidling eyes and creeping hands; women of -the farm with gaze wondering and adrift, hands like leather, children at -their skirts; women householders with their purses carefully clutched, -their hands feeling the cabbages, pinching the cauliflowers, estimating -the chairs and tables, stroking the china; young boys and girls, -confidence in their gaze, timidity in their hearts, suddenly catching -hands, suddenly embracing, suddenly triumphant on their merry-go-round, -suddenly everything, conscious of the last penny burning deep down in -the pocket, conscious of love, conscious of appetite, conscious of -possible remorse, conscious of blood pounding in their veins. And the -magicians, the wonder workers, the steal-a-pennies, the old men with -white beards and trays of coloured treasures, the bold bad men with -their thimble and their penny, the little stumpy, fellow with -his cards, the long thin melancholy fellow with his medicines, -the thick jolly drunken fellow with his tales of the sea, the twisty -turn-his-head-both-ways fellow with his gold watches and silver chains, -the red wizard with his fortunes in envelopes, his magic on strings of -coloured paper, his mysterious signs and countersigns whispered into -blushing ears. And then the children that should have been in bed hours -ago--little children, large children, young children, old children, fat -children, thin children, children clinging-to-mother's-skirts, children -running in and out, like mice, between legs and trousers, children -riding on father's shoulder, children sticky with sweets and sucking -their thumbs, children screaming with pleasure, shrieking with terror, -howling with weariness--and one child all by itself on the steps of the -town hall, curled up and fast asleep. - -Away, to one side of the place, just as he had been there fifteen years -ago when Maradick had been present, was a preacher, aloft on an -overturned box, singing with hand raised, his thin earnest face -illumined with the lights, his scant hair blowing in the breeze. Around -him a thin scattering of people singing just as fifteen years ago they -had sung: - - So like little candles - We shall shine, - You in your small corner - And I in mine. - -The same recipé, the same cure, the same key offered to the unlocking -of the same mysterious door--and so it will be to the end of created -life--Amen! - -The hymn was over. The preacher's voice was raised. Children step to the -edge of the circle, looking up with wondering eyes, their fingers in -their mouths. - -"And so, dear friends, we have offered to us here the Blood of the Lamb -for our salvation. Can we refuse it? What right have we to disregard our -salvation? I tell you, my dear friends, that Judgment is upon us even -now. There cometh the night when no man may work. How shall we be found? -Sleeping? With our sins heavy upon us? There is yet time. The hour is -not yet. Let us remember that God is merciful--there is still time given -us for repentance----" - -The Town Hall clock stridently, with clanging reverberation, heard -clearly above all the din, struck nine. - - - - -IV - - -Even as the strokes sounded in the air the wide doors of the Town Hall -unfolded and a tall stout man, dressed in the cocked hat and the cape -and cloak of a Dickensian beadle, appeared. Flaming red they were, and -very fine and important he looked as he stood there on the steps, his -legs spread, holding his gold staff in his hands. He was attended by -several other gentlemen who looked down with benignant approval upon the -crowd, and by a drum, a trumpet, and a flute, these last being -instruments rather than men. - -A crowd began to gather at the foot of the steps and the beadle to -address them at the top of his voice, but unlike his rival, the -preacher, his voice did not carry very far. - -And now the Fair, having only five minutes more of life before it, -lifted itself into a final screaming manifestation. Now was the time for -which the wise and the cautious had been waiting throughout the three -days of the Fair--the moment when all the prices would tumble down with -a rush because it was now or never. The merry-go-round shrieked, the -animals bellowed, lowed, mooed and grunted, the purchasers argued, -quarrelled, shouted and triumphed, the preacher and his followers sang -and sang again, the bells clanged, the gas-jets flared, the bonfire rose -furiously to heaven. But meanwhile the crowd was growing larger and -larger around the Town Hall steps; they came with penny whistles and -horns and hand-bells and even tea-trays. Then suddenly, strong above the -babel, carried by men's stout voices, the song began: - - Now, gentles all, attend this song, - Tra-_la_, la-la, Tra-_la_, - It is but short, it can't be long, - Tra-_la_-la-la, Tra-_la_, - How Farmer Brown one summer day - Was in his field a-gathering hay, - When by there came a pretty maid - Who smiling sweetly to him said, - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la_, - - Then Farmer Brown, though forty year, - Tra-_la_, la-la, Tra-_la_, - When he that pretty voice did hear, - Tra-_la_-la-la, Tra-_la_, - He threw his fork the nearest ditch - And caught the maiden tightly, which - Was what she wanted him to do, - And so the same would all of you, - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la_, - - But she withdrew from his embrace, - Tra-_la_-la-la, Tra-_la_, - And mocked poor Farmer to his face, - Tra-_la_-la-la, Tra-_la_, - And danced away along the lane - And cried "Before I'm here again - Poor Farmer Brown you'll dance with Pain," - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la_, - - And that was true as you shall hear, - Tra-_la_, la-la, Tra-_la_, - Poor Farmer Brown danced many a year, - Tra-_la_-la-la, Tra-_la_, - But never once that maid did see, - He grew as aged as aged could be, - And danced in_to_ Eterni-tee, - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la_. - -The red-flaming beadle moved down the steps, and behind him came the -drum, the trumpet and the flute. The drum a stout fellow with wide -spreading legs, had from the practice of many a year, and his father and -grandfather having been drummers before him, caught the exact measure of -the tune. Along the market-place went the beadle, the drum, the trumpet -and the flute. - -For a moment a marvellous silence fell. - -To Harkness this silence was exquisite. The myriad stars, the high -buildings, their façades ruby-coloured with the leaping light, the dark -piled background, the crowd humming now with quiet, like water on the -boil, the glow of rich suffused colour sheltering everything with its -beautiful cloak, the rich voices tossing into the air the jolly song, -the sense of well-being and the tradition of the lasting old time and -the spirit of England eternally fresh and sturdy and strong; all this -sank into his very soul and seemed to give him some hint of the -deliverance that was, very soon, to come to him. - -Then the procession definitely formed. All the voices--men's, women's -and children's alike--caught it up. One--two--three, one--two--three. -The drum, the trumpet and the flute came to them through the air: - - How Farmer Brown one summer day - Was in his field a-gathering hay, - When by there came a pretty maid - Who smiling sweetly to him said, - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la._ - -He was never to be sure whether or no he had intended to join in the -dance. He was not aware of more than the colour, the lights, the rhythm -of the tune when a man like a mountain caught him by the arm, shouting, -"Now we're off, brother--now we're off," and he was carried along. - -There had always been a superstition about the dance that to join in it, -to be in it from the beginning to the end, meant the best of good luck, -and to miss it was misfortune. There was, therefore, now a flinging from -all sides of eager bodies into the fray. No one must be left out and as -the path between the line of bodies and houses was a narrow one, every -one was pressed close together, and as there had been much friendly -swilling of beer and ale, every one was in the highest humour, shouting, -laughing, singing, ringing their bells and blowing their whistles. - -Harkness was crushed in upon his enormous friend so completely that he -had no other impression for the moment but of a vast expanse of heaving, -leaping, corduroy waistcoat, of a hard brass button in his eye, and of -himself clutching with both hands to a shiny trouser that must hold -himself from falling. But they were off indeed! Four of them now in a -row and the song was swinging fine and strong. One--two--three, -one--two--three. Forward bend, one leg in air, backward bend, t'other -leg in air, forward bend again, down the market-place and round the -corner voices raised in one tremendous song. - -He was easier now and able more clearly to realise his position. One arm -was tightly wedged in that of his companion, and he could feel the thick -welling muscles taut through the stuff of the shirt. On the other side -of him was a girl, and he could feel her hand pressing on his sleeve. On -her side, again, was a young man--her lover. He said so, and shouted it -to the world. - -He leaned across her and cried out her beauties as they moved, and she -threw her head back and sang. - -The giant on the hitherside seemed to have taken Harkness into his -especial protection. He had been drinking well, but it had done him no -order of harm. Only he loved the world and especially Harkness. He felt, -he knew, that Harkness was a stranger from "up-along." On an average day -he would have resented him, been suspicious of him, and tried "to do him -out of some of his blasted money." But to-night he would be his friend -and protect him from the world. - -He would rather have had a girl crooked there under his arm, but the -girl he had intended to have had somehow missed him when the fun -began--but it didn't matter--the beer made everything glorious for -him--and after all he had two daughters "nigh grown up," and his old -missus was around somewhere, and it was just as good he didn't slip into -any sort of mischief which it was easy to do on a night like this--and -his name was Gideon. All this he confided to Harkness while the -procession halted, for a minute or two, at the corner of the -market-place to pull itself straight before it started down the hill. - -He had his arm around Harkness's neck and words poured from him. Gideon -what or something Gideon? It didn't matter. Gideon it was and Gideon it -would be so long as Harkness's memory remained. - -All the soil of the English country, all the deep lanes with their high -dark hedges, the russet cornfields with their sudden dips to the sea, -the high ridges with the white cottages perched like birds resting -against the sky, the smell of the earth, the savour of the leaves wet -after rain, the thick smoke and damp of the closed-in rooms, the mud, -the clay, the running streams, the wind through the thick-sheltering -trees, all these were in Gideon's speech as he stood, close pressed, -thigh to thigh with Harkness. - -He was happy although he knew not why, and Harkness was happy because he -was in love for the first time in his life and tingled from head to foot -with that knowledge. And up and down and all around it was the same. -This was the night of all the nights of the year when enmities were -forgotten and new friendships made. As Maradick once had felt the -current of love running strong and true through a thousand souls, so -Harkness felt it now, and, as with Maradick once, so with Harkness now, -it seemed strange that life might not be simply run, that the lion might -not lie down with the lamb, that nations might not be for ever at peace -the one with another, and that the Grand Millennium might not -immediately be at hand. - -All beer you say? Maybe, and yet not altogether so. Something anxious -and longing in the human heart was rising, free and strong, that night, -and would never again entirely leave some of the hearts that knew it. - -Harkness for one. There were to be many years in the future when he was -to feel again the beating of Gideon's heart under his arm. Something of -Gideon's was his, and something of his was Gideon's forevermore, though -they would never meet again. - - - - -V - - -And now the procession was arranged. Harkness looking back could see how -it stretched, a winding serpent black in the shadows of the leaping -bonfire, through the square. They were off again. The drum had started. -Down the hill they went, all packed together, all swinging with the -tune. A kind of divine frenzy united them all. Young and old, men and -women, married and single, good and evil, vicious and virtuous, all were -together bound in one chain. Harkness was with them. For the first time -in all his life restraint was flung aside. He did not smell the beer nor -did the sweat of the perspiring bodies offend his sensitive nostrils, -nor the dung from the fields, nor the fishy odours of the sea. With -Gideon on one side and a young man's girl on the other, he swung through -the town. - -Details for a time eluded him. He was singing the song at the top of his -voice, but what words he was singing he could not have told you; he was -dancing to the measure, but for the life of him he could not have -afterwards repeated the rhythm. - -They swung down into the heart of the town. The doors of all the houses -were crowded with the very aged and the very young who stood laughing -and crying out, pointing to their friends and acquaintances, laughing at -this and cheering at that. - -And always more were joining in, pushing their way, dancing the more -energetically because they had missed the first five minutes. Now they -were down on the fish-market all sprinkled with silver under the little -moon and the cloth of stars. Here the wind from the sea came to meet -them, and through the music and the singing and the laughter and the -press-press of the dancing crowd could be heard the faint breath of the -tide on the shore "seep-seep-sough-sough," wistful and powerful, -remaining for ever when they all were gone. The sheds of the fish-market -were gaunt and dark and deserted. For one moment all the naked place was -filled with colour and movement. Then up the hill they all pressed. - -It was difficult up the hill. There were breaths and pants and "Eh, -sirs," and "Oh, the poor worm," and "But my heart's beating," and "I -cannot! I cannot!" One woman fell, was picked up and planted by the side -of the road, a young man staying with melancholy kindness beside her. -The rest passed on. - -Soon they were at the top of the hill before they turned to the left -again back into the town. And this was Harkness's greatest moment. For -an instant the dance paused, and just then it happened that Harkness was -at the highest point of the climb. - -Catching his breath, his hand to his heart, for he was out of training, -and the going had been hard, he looked about him. Below him to the right -and to the left and to the farthest horizon the sea, a grey silk shadow, -hung, so soft, so gentle, that the stars that crackled above it seemed -to be taunting it with its lethargy. On the other side of the hill was -all the clustered town, and before him and behind him the dark -multitudes of human beings. Pressed close to Gideon, who was drinking -something out of a bottle, he was unconscious of any personality--only -that time had found for him, it seemed, a solution to the whole problem -of life. The sea-wind fanning his temples, the salt snap of the sea, the -pounding of his own heart in union with that other heart of his -companion who was with him--all these things together made of him who -had been always afraid and timorous and edged with caution, a triumphant -soul. - -And it was good that it was so because of all that he would be called -upon to do that night. - -Gideon put his arm around him, pressing him close to him, and pushed the -bottle up to his lips. "Drink, brother," he said. "Drink, then, my -dear." And Harkness drank. - -Now they were starting down the hill into the town once more, and the -dance reached the height of its madness. - - He threw his fork the nearest ditch - And caught the maiden tightly, which - Was what she wanted him to do-- - And so the same would all of you - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la._ - -They screamed, they shrieked, they tumbled on to one another, they held -on where they could, they swung from side to side. The red beadle -himself caught the frenzy, flinging his fat body now here, now there. -The very houses and the cobbles of the streets seemed to swing and sway -as the lights flashed and flared. All the bells of the town were -pealing. In the market-place they were setting off the fireworks, and -the rockets, green and red and gold, streaked the purple sky and fought -for rivalry with the stars. All the sky now was scattered with sparks of -gold. From the highest heaven to the lowest of man's ditches the world -crackled and split and sang. - -Now was the moment when all enemies were truly forgotten, when love was -declared without fear, when lips sought lips and hands clasped hands, -and heaven opened and all the human souls marched in. - - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la_ - Tra-_la_-la-la-Tra-_la._ - -Back into the market-place they all tumbled, then, standing in a serried -mass as the beadle and his followers mounted the Town Hall steps, they -shouted: - - "All together: One--two--three. - One--Two--Three. - One. Two. Three. - HURRAY! HURRAY! HURRAY!" - -The dance of all the hearts was, for one more year, at an end. - - - - -VI - - -Every one was splitting up into little groups, some to look at the -fireworks, some to have a last drink together, some to creep off into -the dark shadows and there confirm their vows, some to drive home on -their carts and waggons to their distant farms, some to sit in their -homes for a last chatting about all the news, some to go straight to -their beds--the common impulse was over although it would not be -forgotten. - -Harkness looked around to find Gideon, but that giant was gone nor was -he ever to see him again. He paused there panting, happy, forgetting for -an instant everything but the fun and freedom that he had just passed -through. Then, as though it would forcibly remind him, the Town Hall -clock struck half-past nine. - -He spoke to a man standing near him: - -"Can you kindly tell me where a hotel called the 'Feathered Duck' is?" -he asked. - -"Certainly," said the man, wiping the sweat from the hair matted on his -forehead. "It's out on the sea-front. Go down High Street--that'll take -you to the sea-front. Then walk to your right and it's about five houses -down." - -Harkness thanked him and hurried away. He had no difficulty in finding -the High Street, but there how strange to walk so quietly down it, -hearing your own foot tread, watched by all the silent houses, when only -five minutes ago you had been whirling in Dionysian frenzy! He was on -the sea-front and two steps afterwards was looking up at the quiet and -modest exterior of "The Feathered Duck." - -The long road stretched shining and sleek. Not a living soul about. The -little hotel offered a discreet welcome with plants in large green pots, -one on either side of the door, a light warm enough to greet you and not -too startling to frighten you, and the knob gleaming like an inviting -eye. - -Harkness pushed open the door and entered. The hall was anæmic and -dark, with the trap to catch visitors some way down on the right. There -seemed to be no one about. Harkness pushed open a door and at once found -himself in one of those little hotel drawing-rooms that are so -peculiarly British, compounded as they are of ferns and discretion, -convention and an untuned piano. In this little room a young man was -sitting alone. Harkness knew at once that his search was over. He knew -where it was that he had heard the name Dunbar before--this was his -young man of the high road, the wandering seaman and the serious -appointment, the young man of his expectant charge. - -There was yet, however, room for mistake and so he waited standing in -the doorway. The young man was bending forward in a red plush armchair, -eagerly watching. He recognised Harkness at once as his friend of the -afternoon. - -"Hullo!" he said, and then hurriedly, "why, what _has_ been happening to -you?" - -Harkness stepped forward into the room. "To me?" he said. - -"Why, yes. You're sweating. Your collar's undone. You look as though you -had run a mile." - -"Oh, that!" Harkness blushed, fingering his collar that had broken from -its stud. "I've been dancing." - -"Dancing?" - -"Yes. All round the town. Like the lion and the unicorn." - -"Oh, I heard you. On any other night----" He broke off. During this time -he had been watching Harkness with a curious expression, something -between eagerness, distrust, and an impatience which he was finding very -difficult to conceal. He said nothing more. Harkness also was silent. -They stared the one at the other, and could hear beyond the door the -noises of the little hotel, a shrill female voice, the rattle of plates, -some man's laughter. - -At last Harkness said: "Your name is Dunbar, isn't it?" - -The young man, instead of answering, asked his own question. "Look here, -what the devil are you after? I don't say that it is or it isn't, but -anyway why do _you_ want to know?" - -"It's only this," said Harkness slowly, "that if your name _is_ Dunbar, -then I have a message for you." - -"You _have_?" - -He started out of his chair, standing up in front of Harkness as though -challenging him. - -"Yes, a friend of yours asked me to come here, to meet you at half-past -nine and tell you that she agrees to your proposal----" - -"She does? . . . At last!" - -Then his voice changed to suspicion. "You seem to be a lot in this. -Forgive my curiosity. I don't want to seem rude, but meeting me on the -hill this afternoon and now this. . . . I've got to be so _damn_ -careful----" - -"My name is Harkness. It was quite by chance that I was walking down the -hill this afternoon and met you. As I told you then, I was on my way to -the 'Man-at-Arms.' This evening I offered my help to a lady there who -seemed to be in distress, and asked her whether there was anything that -I could do. She asked me to bring you that message. There was no one -else for her to ask." - -Dunbar stared at Harkness, then suddenly held out his hand. "Jolly -decent of you. I won't forget it. My name is Dunbar as you know, David -Dunbar." - -"And mine Harkness, Charles Harkness." - -"I can't tell you what you've done for me by bringing me that message. -Here, don't go for a minute. Have something, won't you?" - -"Yes, I think I will," said Harkness, conscious of a sudden weariness. - -"What shall it be? Whisky? Large soda?" - -They sat down. Dunbar touched a bell and then, in silence, they waited. -Harkness was humorously conscious that he seemed to be the younger of -the two. The boy had taken complete command of the situation. - -The older man was also aware that there was some very actual and -positive situation here that was developing under his eyes. As he sat -there, sticking to the plush of his chair, listening to the ridiculous -chatter of the marble clock, staring into the Wardour Street Puritans of -"When did you see father last?" he felt urgency beating in upon them -both. A shabby waiter looked in upon them, received his order and -departed. - -Dunbar suddenly plunged. "Look here, I know I can trust you. I'm sure of -it. And _she_ trusted you, so that should be enough for me. But--would -you mind--telling me exactly how it happened that you got this message?" - -"Certainly," Harkness said. "I----" - -"Wait," Dunbar interrupted, "forgive me, but drop your voice, will you? -One doesn't know who's hanging round here." - -They drew their chairs closer together and Harkness, sitting forward, -continued. "I had dressed for dinner early. A friend of mine in London -had told me that there was a little old room at the top of the hotel -that was well worth seeing. I guess, like most Americans, I care for -old-fashioned things, so I got to the top of the house and found the -room. I was up in a little gallery at the back when two people came in, -a man and a girl. They began to talk before I could move or let them -know I was there. It was all too quick for me to do anything. The girl -begged the man, to whom she was apparently married, to let her go home -for a week before they went abroad, and the man refused. That was all -there was, but the girl's terror struck me as extreme----" - -"My God!" Dunbar broke in, "if you only knew!" - -"Well, I was touched by that and I didn't like the man's face, either. -They went out. I came down to dinner. While I was waiting in the garden -an extraordinary man spoke to me--extraordinary to look at, I mean. -Short, fat, red hair--" - -"You needn't describe him," Dunbar interrupted, "I know him." - -"He came and asked me for a match. He was very polite, and finally -invited me to dine with him, his son and daughter-in-law. I accepted. Of -course the son and daughter-in-law were the two that I had overheard -upstairs. I saw that throughout dinner she was in great distress, and at -the end as we were leaving the room I let her know that I had overheard -her inadvertently before dinner, and that I was eager to help her if -there was any way in which I could do so. We had only a moment, Crispin -and his son were close upon us. She was, I suppose, at the end of her -endurance and snatched at any chance, so she told me to do this--to find -you here and give you that message--that's all--absolutely all." - -"The door opened, making both men turn apprehensively. It was only the -shabby little waiter with his tray and the whiskies. He set down the -glasses, split the soda, and stared at them both as Dunbar paid him. - -"Will that be all, gentlemen?" he asked, scratching his ear. - -"Everything," said Dunbar abruptly. - -"Gentlemen sleeping here?" - -"No, we're not. Good-night." - -"Good-night, sir." With a little sigh the waiter withdrew. The door -closed, and instantly the ferns in the pots, the plush chairs and sofa -closed round as though they also wanted to hear. - -"It's an extraordinary piece of luck," Dunbar began. Then he hesitated. -"But I don't want to bother you with any more of this. It isn't your -affair. You've come into it, after all, only by accident----" - -He hesitated as though he were making an invitation to Harkness. And -Harkness hesitated. He saw that this was his last opportunity of -withdrawal. Once again he could hear the voice of the Imp behind his -shoulder: "Well, clear out if you want to. You have still plenty of -time. And this is positively the last chance I give you----" - -He drank his whisky and, drinking, crossed his Rubicon. - -"No, no, I am interested, tremendously interested. Tell me anything you -care to and if I can be of any help----" - -"No, no," Dunbar assured him, "I'm not going to drag you into it. You -needn't be afraid of that." - -"But I _am_ in it!" Harkness answered, smiling; "I'm going back with -Crispin to his house this evening!" - - - - -VII - - -The effect of that upon Dunbar was fantastic. The young man jumped from -his chair crying: - -"You're going back?" - -"Yes." - -"To the house?" - -"Why, yes!" - -"And to-night!" - -He stared down at him as though he could not believe the evidence of his -ears nor of his eyes nor of anything that was his. Then he finished his -whisky with a desperate gulp. - -"But what's pushing you into this anyway?" he cried at last. "You don't -look like the kind of man---- And yet there you were on the hill this -afternoon, and then at the hotel and overhearing what Hesther said, and -then dining with the man and his asking you---- He did ask you, didn't -he?" - -"Of course he asked me," Harkness answered. "You don't suppose I'd have -gone if he didn't." - -"No, I don't suppose you would," agreed Dunbar. "I bet he offered to -show you his jewels and his pictures, his collections." - -"Yes," said Harkness, "he did." - -"Well, that's just a miracle of good luck for me, that's all. You can -help me to-night, help me marvellously. But I don't like to ask you. -Things might turn out all wrong and then we'd all be in for a bad time -and that wouldn't be fair to you." He paused, thinking, then he went on. -"I'll tell you what I'll do. You saw that girl to-night and talked to -her, didn't you?" - -Harkness nodded his head. - -"You saw that she was a damned fine girl?" - -Harkness nodded again. - -"Worth doing a lot for. Well, I'll put the whole story to you--let you -have it all. We've got nearly three-quarters of an hour. I can tell you -most of it in that time, and then you can make up your mind. If, when -I've told you everything, you decide to have nothing whatever to do with -it, that's all right. There's no obligation on you at all, of course. -But if you _did_ help me, being in the house at that very time, it would -make the whole difference. My God, yes!" he ended with a sigh of -eagerness, staring at Harkness. - -Harkness sat there, thinking only of the girl. His own personal history, -the town, the dance, Crispin and his son, all these things had faded -away from his mind; he saw only her--as she had been when turning her -head for a moment she had spoken to him with such marvellous -self-control. - -He loved her just as she stood there granting him permission to help -her. His own prayer was that it might not be long before he was allowed -to help her again. He was recalled to the immediate moment by Dunbar's -voice: - -"You'll forgive me if I go back to the beginning of things--it's the -only way really to explain. Have you ever heard of Polchester, a town in -Glebeshire, north of this? There's a rather famous cathedral there." - -"Yes," said Harkness, "I thought I might go there from here." - -"Well," Dunbar went on, "out of Polchester about ten miles there's a -village--Milton Haxt. I was born there and so was Hesther. Her name was -Hesther Tobin, and she was the only daughter of the doctor of the -place--she had two brothers younger than herself. We've known one -another all our lives." - -"Wait a moment," Harkness interrupted; "are you and she the same age?" - -"No. I'm thirty, she's only twenty." - -"You look younger than that, or you did this afternoon, I'm not so sure -now." Indeed the boy seemed to have acquired some new weight and -responsibility as he sat there. - -"No," he went on. "When I said that we'd known one another always I mean -that she's always known about me. I used to take her on my knee and toss -her up and down. That was where all the trouble began. If she hadn't -been always used to me and fancied that I was years older than she--a -kind of grandfather--she'd have married me." - -"Married you!" Harkness brought out. - -"Yes. I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with her. I always -was, and she never was with me. She liked me--she likes me now--but -she's always been so used to the idea of me. I've always been David -Dunbar--and that's all. A friend who was always there but nothing more. -There was just a moment when I was missing for six months in the middle -of the war, I think she really cared then--but soon they heard that I -was safe in Germany and it was all as it had been before." - -"Were her father and mother living?" Harkness asked. - -"Her father. Her mother died when her youngest brother was born, when -she was only six years old. The mother's death upset the father, and he -took to drink. He'd always been inclined that way I expect. He was too -brilliant a doctor to have landed in that small village without there -being some reason. Well, after Mrs. Tobin's death there was simply one -trouble after another. Tobin's patients deserted him. The big house on -the hill had to be sold and they moved into a small one in the village. -He had been a big, jolly, laughing, generous man before, now he was -always quarrelling with everybody, insulting the few patients left to -him, and so on. Hesther was wonderful. How she kept the house together -all those years nobody knew. There was very little she didn't know about -life by the time she was ten years old--ordinary life, I mean, not this -damned Crispin monstrosity. She always had the pluck and the courage of -the devil, and you can fancy what I felt just now when you told me about -her asking young Crispin to let her off. That _swine_!" - -He paused for a moment, then went on hurriedly: - -"But we haven't much time. I must buck ahead. I was quite an ordinary -sort of fellow, of course, but there was nothing I wouldn't do for her -if I got a chance. I helped her sometimes, but not so much as I'd have -liked. She was always terribly proud. All the things that happened at -home made her hold up her head in a kind of defiance. - -"The odd thing was that she loved her father, and the worse he got the -more she loved him. But she loved her young brothers still more. She was -mother, sister, nurse, everything to them, and would be still if she'd -been let alone. They were nice little chaps too, only a lot younger, of -course--one three years, one six. One's in the Navy--very decent -fellow--and if he'd been home he'd never have allowed any of this to -happen. - -"Well, the war came when she was quite a kid. I was away most of that -time. Then in 1918 my father died and left me a bit of property there in -Milton. I came home and asked her to marry me. She thought I was pitying -her, and anyway she didn't love me. And I hadn't enough of this world's -goods to make the old man keen about me. - -"Then this devil came along." Dunbar stopped for a moment. They both -listened. There was not a sound in the whole house. - -"What brought him to a village like yours?" asked Harkness, lowering his -voice. "I shouldn't have thought that a man like that----" - -"No, you wouldn't," said Dunbar. "But that's one of his passions -apparently, suddenly landing on some small village where there's a big -house and bossing every one around him. . . . I shall never forget the -day I first saw him. It was just about a year ago. - -"I had heard that some foreigner had taken Haxt, that was the big house -in Milton that the Dombeys, the owners, were too poor to keep up. Soon -all the village was talking. Furniture arrived, then lots of servants, -Japs and all sorts. Then one evening going up the hill I saw him leaning -over one of the Haxt gates looking into the road. - -"It was a lovely July evening and he was without a hat. You've spoken of -his hair. I tell you that evening it was just flaming in the sun. It -looked for a moment like some strange sort of red flower growing on the -top of the gate. He stopped me as I was passing and asked me for a -match." - -"That's what he asked me for," murmured Harkness. - -"Yes, his opening gambits are all the same. He offered me a cigarette -and I took one. We talked for a little. I didn't like him at first, of -course, with his hair, white face, painted lips, but--did you notice -what a beautiful voice he has?" - -"I should think I did," said Harkness. - -"And then he can make himself perfectly charming. The beginning of your -acquaintance with him is exactly like your introduction to the villain -of any melodrama--painted face, charming voice, cosmopolitan, delightful -information. The change comes afterwards. But I must hurry on, I'll -never be done. I'm as bad as Conrad's Marlowe. Have another whisky, -won't you?" - -"No, thanks," said Harkness. - -"Well, it wasn't long before he was the talk of the whole place. At -first every one liked him. Odd though he looked you can just fancy how a -man with his wealth and knowledge of the world would fascinate a -country-side if he chose to make himself agreeable, and he _did_ choose. -He gave parties, he went round to people's houses, sent his motors to -give old ladies a ride, allowed people to pick flowers in his garden, -adored showing people his collections. I happened to be in Milton during -the rest of that year looking after my little property, and he seemed to -take to me. I was up at Haxt a good deal. - -"Looking back now I can see that I never really liked him. I was aware -of my caution and laughed at myself for it. I liked pretty things, you -know, and I loved his jade and emeralds, and still more his prints. And -he knew so much and was never tired of telling me and never seemed to -laugh at one's ignorance. - -"He was, as I have said, all the talk that summer. It was 'Mr. Crispin' -this and 'Mr. Crispin' that--Mr. Crispin everything. The men didn't take -to him much, but of course they wouldn't! They had always thought _me_ a -bit queer because I liked reading and played the piano. The first thing -that people didn't like about him was his son. That beauty arrived at -Haxt somewhere in September, and everybody hated him. I ask you, could -you help it? And he was the exact opposite of his father. _He_ didn't -try to make himself agreeable to anybody--simply went about scowling and -frowning. But it wasn't that people disliked--it was his relation to his -father. He was absolutely in his father's power--that is the only way to -put it--and there was something despicable, something almost obscene, -you know, almost as though he were hypnotized, the way he obeyed him, -listened to his voice, slaved away for him." - -"I noticed something of that myself this evening," said Harkness. - -"You couldn't help it if you saw them together. Somehow the son turning -up beside the father made the _father_ look queer--as though the son -showed him up. People round Milton are not very perceptive, you know, -but they soon smelt a rat, several rats in fact. For one thing the -people in the village didn't like the Jap servants, then one or two -maids that Crispin had hired abruptly left. They wouldn't say anything -except that they didn't like the place, that old Crispin walked in his -sleep or something of the kind. - -"It was just about this time, early in October or so, that Crispin -became friendly with the Tobins. Young Crispin had a cold or something -and Tobin came up and doctored him. Crispin gave him the best liquor -he'd ever had in his life so he came again and then again. That was the -beginning of my dislike of Crispin. It seemed to me rotten of him, when -Tobin was already going as fast downhill as he could, to give him an -extra push. And Crispin liked doing that. One could see it at a glance. -I hated him from the moment when I caught him watching with amused -smiles Tobin fuddled in his chair. You can imagine that Tobin's -drunkenness, having cared for Hesther as I had for so long, was a matter -of some importance for me. I had tried to pull him up, without any sort -of success, of course, and it simply maddened me to see what Crispin was -doing. So I lost my temper and spoke out. I told him what I thought of -him. He listened to me very quietly, then he suddenly threw his head up -at me like a snake hissing. He said a lot of things. That was the first -time I heard all his nonsensical stuff about sensations. We haven't time -now, and anyway it wasn't very new--the philosophy that as this was our -only existence we had better make the most of it, that we had been given -our senses to use, not to stifle, and the rest of it. Omar put it better -than Crispin. - -"He had also a lot of talk about Power, that if he liked he could have -any one in his power, and so could I if I liked. You had only to know -other people's weaknesses enough. And more than that. Some stuff about -its being good for people to suffer. That the thing that made life -interesting and worth while was its intensity, and that life was never -so intense as when we were suffering. That, after all, God liked us to -suffer. Why shouldn't _we_ be gods? We might be if we only had courage -enough. - -"It was then, that morning, that it first entered my head that there was -something wrong with him--something wrong with his brain. It had never -occurred to me during all those months because he had always been so -logical, but now--he seemed to step across the little bridge that -separates the sane from the insane. You know how small that bridge is?" -Harkness nodded his head. - -"Then all in a moment he took my arm and twisted it. I can't give you -any sort of idea how queer and nasty that was. As he did it he peered -into my face as though he didn't want to miss the slightest shadow of an -expression. Then--I don't know if you noticed when he shook hands with -you--his fingers haven't any bones in them, and yet they are beastly -powerful. He ought to be soft all over and he _isn't._ He twisted my arm -once and smiled. It was all I could do to keep from knocking him down. -But I broke away, told him to go to hell and left the house. From that -moment I hated him. - -"It was directly after this that I noticed for the first time that he -had his eye on Hesther, and he had his eye upon her exactly because she -hated him and wouldn't go near him if she could possibly help it. I must -stop for a moment and tell you something about her. You've seen her, but -you cannot have any kind of idea how wonderful she really is. - -"She has the most honourable loyal character you've ever seen in woman. -And she's never been in love--she doesn't know what love is. Those are -the two most important things about her. That doesn't mean that she's -ignorant of life. There's nothing mean or sordid or disgusting that -hasn't come into her experience through her beauty of a father, but -she's stood up to it all--until this, this Crispin marriage. The first -thing in her life she's funked. - -"She's been saved all along by her devotion to one thing, her -family--her father and two brothers. She must have given her father up -pretty completely by now, seeing that it was hopeless; but her small -brothers--why, they are the key to the whole thing! If it weren't for -them she wouldn't be where she is to-night, and, as I have said, if the -elder one had known anything about it he wouldn't have allowed it, but -he's away on a foreign station and Bobby's too young to understand. - -"She was always very independent in the village, keeping to herself. Not -being rude to people, you understand, but making no real friends. She -simply lived for those two boys, and she had to work so hard that she -had no time for friends. She knew that I loved her--I had told her often -enough. She saw more of me than of any one else, and she would allow me -to do things for her sometimes, but even with me she kept her -independence. To-night is the very first time in both our lives that she -has begged me to do anything!" - -He stopped for a moment. "By God!" he cried, "if I can't help her -to-night I'll finish myself; there'll be nothing left in life for me!" - -"We _will_ help her," Harkness said. "Both of us. But go on. Time's -advancing. I mustn't miss my appointment." - -"No, by Jove, you mustn't," said Dunbar. "Everything hangs on that. -Well, to get on. It didn't take me very long to see what Crispin was -doing to her father, and one day she went up to see him alone and begged -him to be merciful. She says that he was charming to her and that she -hated him worse than ever. - -"He promised her that he would stop her father's drinking, and, of -course, he didn't keep his promise, but made Tobin drink more than ever. - -"It was round about Christmas that these things happened, and just about -this time all sorts of stories began to circulate about him. He suddenly -left, came over to Treliss, and took the White Tower where you're going -to-night. After he had gone _the_ stories grew in volume--the most -ridiculous things you ever heard, about his catching rabbits and -skinning them alive and holding witches' Sabbaths with his Japs--every -kind of fantastic thing. And all the women who had gone to see his -pretty things and raved about him when he first came said they didn't -know how they 'ever could have seen anything in him,' and that he -deserved imprisonment and worse. - -"It was now that I discovered that Hesther was desperately worried. I -had known her all my life and had never seen her worried like this -before. She lost her colour, was always thinking about other things when -one spoke to her, and, several times, had been crying when I came upon -her. Naturally I couldn't stand this, and I bullied her until I got the -truth out of her. And what do you think that was? Why, of all the -horrible things, that the younger Crispin had asked her to marry him, -and that all the time her blackguard of a father was pressing her to do -it. - -"You can imagine what I felt like when I heard this! I cursed and swore -and blasphemed and still couldn't believe that she was in any way taking -it seriously until, when I pressed her, I found that she was! - -"She was always as obstinate as sin, had her own way of looking at -things, made up her own mind and stuck to it. She didn't hate the son as -she hated the father, although she disliked the little she'd seen of him -well enough; but, remember, she knew very little about marriage. All her -thoughts were on those two boys, her brothers. - -"I found out that old Crispin had offered Tobin any amount of money if -he'd give his daughter up, and that Tobin had put this to Hesther, -telling her that he was desperately in debt, that he'd be put in prison -if the money didn't turn up from somewhere, and, above all, that the -boys would be ruined if she didn't agree, that he'd have to take the -younger boy away from school and so on. - -"I did everything I could. I went and saw Tobin and told him what I -thought of him, and he was drunk as usual and we had a scuffle, in the -course of which I unfortunately tumbled him over. Hesther came in and -saw him on the floor, turned on me, and then said she'd marry young -Crispin. - -"I begged, I implored her. I said that if she would marry me I'd give -her everything that I had in the world, that we'd manage so that Bobby -shouldn't have to be taken away from school and the rest of it. Then -Father Tobin got up from the floor and asked me with a sneer how much -I'd got, and I tried to bluster it out, but of course they both of them -knew that I hadn't got very much. - -"Anyway Hesther was angry with me--ashamed, I think, that I'd seen her -father in such a state, and her pride hurt that I should know how badly -they were placed. She accepted young Crispin by the next mail. If the -Crispins had actually been there in the flesh I don't think she would -have done it, but some weeks' absence had softened her horror of them, -and she could only think how wonderful it was going to be to do all the -marvellous things for the boys that she was planning. - -"I'm sure that when young Crispin did turn up with his long body and -cadaverous face she repented and was frightened, but her pride wouldn't -let her then back out of it. - -"I had one last talk with her before her marriage. I begged her to -forgive me for anything that I had done that might seem casual or -insulting, that she must put me out of her mind altogether, but just -consider in a general way whether this wasn't a horrible thing that she -was doing, marrying a man that she didn't love, taking on a -father-in-law whom she hated. - -"She was very sweet to me, sweeter than she had ever been before. She -just shook her head and let me kiss her. And I knew that this was a -final good-bye." - - - - -VIII - - -"She married Crispin and came to Treliss. I wasn't at the wedding. I -heard nothing from her. And then a story came to my ears that, after I -had once heard it, gave me no peace. - -"It was an old woman--a Mrs. Martin. She had, months before, been up at -Haxt doing some kind of extra help. She was an old mottled woman like a -strawberry--I'd known her all my life--and a grandmother. She suddenly -left, and it was only weeks after Crispin went that I found out why. She -was very shy about it, and to this day I've never discovered exactly -what happened. Something one evening when she was alone in the kitchen -preparing to go home. The elder Crispin came in followed by one of his -Japs. He made her sit down in one of the kitchen chairs, sat down beside -her, and began to talk to her in his soft beautiful voice. What it was -all about to this day she doesn't know--some of his fine stuff about -Sensation, I daresay, and the benefit of suffering so that you could -touch life at its fullest! I shouldn't wonder--anyway an old woman like -Mrs. Martin, who had borne eight or nine children of her husband who -beat her, knew plenty about suffering without Crispin trying to teach -her. Anyway he went on in his soft beautiful voice, and she sat there -bewildered, fascinated a bit by his red hair which she told me "she -never could get out of her mind like," and the Jap standing silent -beside her. - -"Suddenly Crispin took hold of her old wrinkled neck and began stroking -it, putting his face close to hers, talking, talking, talking all the -time. Then the Jap stepped behind her, caught the back of her head and -pulled it. - -"What would have happened next I don't know had not the younger Crispin -come in, and at the sight of him the older man instantly got up, the Jap -disappeared--it was as though nothing had been. Old Mrs. Martin got out -of the house, then tumbled to pieces in the shrubbery. She was ill for -days afterwards, but she kept the whole thing quiet with a kind of -villager's pride, you know--'she wasn't going to have other folks -talking as they did anyway when they saw how quickly she had left.' - -"But she told one of her daughters and the daughter told me. There was -almost nothing in the actual incident, but it told me two things, one, -that the older Crispin really is mad--definitely, positively insane, the -other that the son, in spite of his seeming so submissive, has some sort -of hold over him. There is something between the two that I don't -understand. - -"Well, that decided me. I went to Treliss to find out what I could. I -had to hang about for quite a time before I could learn anything at all. -Crispin was going on at Treliss just as he had done at Milton. He's -taken this strange house outside the town which you'll see to-night. -Quite a famous place in a way, built on the sea-cliff with a tangled -overgrown wood behind it and a high white tower that you can see for -miles over the country-side. At first the people liked him just as they -had done at Milton and were interested in him. Then there were stories -and more stories. Suddenly, only a week ago, he said he was going -abroad, and to-morrow he's going. - -"Now the point I want to make clear to you is that the man's mad. I'm -not a clever chap. I don't know any of your medical theories. I've never -had any leaning that way, but I take it that the moment that any one -crosses the division between sanity and insanity it means that they can -control their brain no longer, that they are dominated by some desire or -ambition or lust or terror that nothing can stop, no fear of the law, of -public shame, of losing social caste. Crispin is mad, and Hesther, whom -I love more than anything in this world and the next, is in his hands -completely and absolutely. They go abroad to-morrow morning where no one -can touch them. - -"The time's been so short, and I've not been sufficiently clever to give -you any clear idea of the man himself. I've got practically no facts. -You can't say that his stroking an old woman's neck is a fact that -proves anything. All the same I believe you've seen enough yourself to -know that it isn't all imagination, and that the girl is in terrible -peril. My God, sir," the boy's voice was shaking, "before the war there -were all sorts of things that didn't seem possible, we knew that they -couldn't exist outside the books of the story-tellers. But the war's -changed all that. There's nothing too horrible, nothing too beastly, -nothing too bad to be true--yes, and nothing too fine, nothing too -sporting. - -"And this thing is quite simple. There are those two madmen and my girl -in their hands, and only to-night to get her out of them. - -"I must tell you something more," he went on more quietly. "I've been -making desperate attempts to see her, and at the same time to prevent -either of those devils from seeing _me._ I saw her twice, once in the -grounds of the White Tower, once on the beach below the house. Neither -time would she listen to me. I could see that she was miserable, -altogether changed, but all that she would say was that she was married -and that she must go through with what she had begun. - -"She begged me to go away and leave Treliss. Her one fear seemed to be -lest Crispin should find out I was there and do something to me. - -"Her terror of him was dreadful to witness--but she would tell me -nothing. I hung about the place and made a friend of a fisherman he had -up there working on the place--Jabez Marriot--you saw him on the hill -to-day. - -"He's a fine fellow. He's only been working on the grounds, had nothing -to do with inside the house, but he didn't love the Crispins any better -than I did, and he had lost his heart to Hesther. She spoke to him once -or twice, and he would do anything for her. I sent letters to her -through him: she replied to me in the same way, but they were all to the -same effect, that I was to go away quickly lest Crispin should do -something to me, that she wasn't being badly treated and that there was -nothing to be done. - -"Then, about a week ago, Crispin saw me. It was in one of the Treliss -lanes, and we met face to face. He just gave me one look and passed on, -but since then I've had to be terribly careful. All the same I've made -my plans. All that was needed was her consent to them, and that, until -to-night, she has steadily refused to give. However, something worse -than usual has broken her down. What he has been doing to her I don't -know, I dare not think--but to-night I've got to get her out. I've _got_ -to, or never show my face anywhere again. Now I've told you this as -quickly as I could. Will you help me?" - -Harkness stood up holding out his hand: "Yes," he said, "I will." - -"It can be beastly, you know." - -"That's all right." - -"You don't mind what happens?" - -"I don't mind what happens." - -"Sportsman." - -The two men shook hands. They sat down again. Dunbar spread out a paper -on the little green-topped table. - -"This is a rough plan of the house," he said. "I can't draw, but I think -you can make this out. - -"Please forgive this childish drawing," he said again. "It's the best I -can do. I think it makes the main things plain. Here's the house, the -tower over the sea, the wood, the garden, the high road. - - -[Illustration] - - -"Now look at this other plan of the second floor. - - -[Illustration] - - -"You'll see from this that Hesther's room is at the very end of the -house and her husband's room next to hers. The two guest rooms are -empty, and there are no other bedrooms on that floor. The picture -gallery runs right along the whole floor. The small library is a rather -cheerful bright room. Crispin has put his prints in there, some on the -walls, the rest in solander boxes. The large library is a gaunt, dusty -deserted place hung with heads of many animals that one of the -Pontifexes (the real owners of the place) shot at some time or other. No -one ever goes there. In fact this second floor is generally deserted. -Crispin spends his time either in the tower or on the ground floor. He -is in the small library playing about with his prints some of the time -though. - -"Now, my plan is this. I have told Hesther everything to the very -tiniest detail, and all that she had to do was to send word at any -moment that she agreed to it. That she has now done. - -"To-night at one o'clock I am going to be up the high road under the -shadow of the wood at the back of the kitchen garden with a jingle and -pony----" - -"A jingle?" asked Harkness. - -"Yes, a jingle is Cornish for a pony trap. The obvious thing for me to -have had was a car, but after thinking about it I decided against it for -a number of reasons. One of them was the noise that it makes in -starting, then it might easily stick over the ground that we shall have -to cover, then I fancy that it will be the first thing that Crispin will -look for if he starts in pursuit. We have only to go three miles anyway, -and most of it over the turf of the moor." - -"Only three miles?" Harkness asked. - -"Yes, I'll tell you about that in a moment. Crispin Senior is pretty -regular in his movements, and just about one o'clock he goes up to his -bedroom at the top of the tower with his two Japs in attendance. That is -the only time of the day or night that one or another of those Japs -isn't hanging about somewhere. They are up there with him on exactly the -opposite side of the house from Hesther's room at just that time. That -leaves only young Crispin. We shall have to chance him, but, according -to Jabez, he has the habit of going to bed between eleven and twelve, -and by one o'clock he ought to be sound asleep. - -"However, that is one of the things we ought to look out for, one of the -things indeed that I want your help about. Meanwhile Jabez is patrolling -in the grounds outside." - -"Jabez!" Harkness cried, startled. - -"Yes, that is our great piece of luck. Crispin has had some fellow of -his own in the grounds all this time, but three nights ago he sent him -up to London on some job and Jabez has taken his place. I don't think he -trusts Jabez altogether, but he trusts the others still less. He is -always cursing the Cornishmen, and they don't love him any the better -for it." - -"Well, when you've got safely to your pony cart what happens next?" - -"We drive up Shepherd's Lane, down across the moor until we reach the -cliff just above Starling Cove. Here I've got a boat waiting, and we'll -row across that corner of the bay to another cove--Selton--and just -above Selton is Selton Minor where there's a station. At four in the -morning there's the first train, local, to Truro, and at Truro we can -catch the six o'clock to Drymouth. In Drymouth there are an uncle and -aunt of hers--the Bresdins--who have long been fond of her and wanted -her often to stay with them. Stephen Bresdin is a good fellow and will -stand up for her, I know, once she's in his hands. Then we can get the -law to work." - -"Won't Crispin be after you before you reach the Truro train?" - -"Well, I'm reckoning first that he doesn't discover anything at all -until he wakes in the morning. They are making an early start for London -that day, but he shouldn't be aware of anything until six at least. But -secondly, if he does, I'm calculating that first he'll think she's -catching the three o'clock Treliss to Drymouth, or that she's motored -straight into Truro. If he goes into Truro after her or sends young -Crispin I'm reckoning that he won't have the patience to wait for that -six o'clock or won't imagine that we have, and will be sure that we will -have motored direct into Drymouth. - -"He'll post after us there. I don't think he knows about the Bresdins in -Drymouth. He may, but I don't think so. Of course it's all chance, but -I figure that is the best we can do." - -"And what's my part in this?" asked Harkness. - -"Of course you're not to do a thing more than you want to," said Dunbar. -"But this is where you could be of use. The thing that we're mainly -afraid of is young Crispin. Hesther can get out of her room easily -enough. It is only a short drop on to an outhouse roof, and then a short -drop from there again, but if young Crispin is moving about, coming into -her room and so on, it may be very difficult. What I suggest is that you -stay with the older Crispin looking at his collections and the rest -until half-past twelve or so, then bid him a fond good-night and go. -Wait for a quarter of an hour in the grounds. Jabez will be there, and -then at about a quarter to one he will let you into the house again. -Crispin Senior should be up in the tower by then, but if he isn't you -can pretend that you have lost something, take him back into the small -library where the prints are and keep him well occupied until after one. -If he _has_ gone up to his tower, Hesther will leave a small piece of -white paper under her door _if_ Crispin Junior is in the way and hanging -about. In that case I should knock on his door, apologise, say that you -lost your gold match-box, had to come back for it as they are all -leaving early the next day, think it must be in the small library; he -goes back with you to look for it and--you keep him there. Do you think -you could manage that?" - -"I will," said Harkness. - -"There's more than that. One of the principal reasons that Hesther -refused to consider any of this was--well, running off alone with me in -the middle of the night. But if you are with us--some one, if I may say -so, so entirely----" - -"Respectable," Harkness suggested as Dunbar hesitated. - -"Well, yes--if you don't mind that word. It alters everything, don't you -see. Especially as you've never seen me before, aren't in love with her -or anything." - -"Exactly," said Harkness gravely. - -"There you are. The thing's full of holes. It can fall down in all sorts -of places, and if Crispin catches us and knows what we are up to it -won't be pleasant. But there's nothing else. No other plan that seems -any less dangerous. Are you for it, sir?" - -"I'm for it," said Harkness. At that moment the little marble clock -struck the half-hour. - -"My God!" Harkness cried, "I should be at the hotel this very minute. If -I miss them there's our plan spoiled." - -He gripped Dunbar's hand once and was off. - - - - -IX - - -He went racing through the darkness, the two thoughts changing, -mingling, changing incessantly over and over in his brain--that he must -catch them at the hotel before they left it, and that he loved, he loved -her, he loved her with an intensity that seemed to increase with every -step that he ran. - -In some way, although Dunbar had said so little about her, his picture -of her was infinitely clearer and stronger than it had been before. He -saw her in that small village of hers struggling with that drunken -father, with insufficient means, with the individualities and rebellions -of her two brothers who however deeply they loved her (and normal boys -are not conscious of their deep emotions), must have kicked often enough -against the limitations of their conditions, sneering servants, spying -neighbours, jesting and scornful relations, the father in his cups -abusing her, insulting her and for ever complaining--and yet she, -through all of this, showing a spirit, a hardihood, a pluck and, he -suspected, a humour that only this last fatal intercourse with the -Crispin family had broken down. - -Harkness was the American man at his simplest and most idealistic, and -than this there is nothing simpler and more idealistic in the whole of -modern civilisation. The Englishman has too much common sense and too -little imagination, the Frenchman is too mercenary, the Southern peoples -too sensuous to provide the modern Quixote. In the United States of -America to-day there are as many Quixotes as there are builders of -windmills to be tilted at--and that is saying much. - -So that, with his idealism, his hatred of cruelty and abnormality, -Harkness saw far beyond any personal aggrandisement in this pursuit. He -was not thinking now of himself at all, he had danced himself that night -into a new world. - -In the market-place he had to pause for breath. He had run all the way -down the High Street, meeting no one as he went; he had already had -considerable exercise that evening, and he was in no very fine condition -of training. The market-place was quiet enough, only a few stragglers -about; the Town Hall clock told him it was twenty-eight minutes to -eleven. - -He started up the hill, he arrived breathless at the hotel gates, the -sweat pouring down his face. He stopped and tried to arrange himself a -little. It would be a funny thing coming in upon them all with his tie -undone and lines of sweat running down his face. But, after all, he -could make the dance account for a good deal. He pushed his stud through -the two ends of his collar and pulled his tie up, finding it difficult -to use his hands because they were so hot, wiped his face with his -handkerchief, pushed his cap straight on his head. - -His face wore an expression of grim seriousness as though he were indeed -Sir George off to rescue his Princess from the Dragon. - -His heart gave a jump of relief when he saw that the Dragon was still -there, standing quite unconcernedly in the main hall of the hotel, his -son and daughter-in-law quietly beside him. Harkness's first thought at -view of him was that Dunbar's story was built up of imagination. The -little man was standing, a soft felt hat tilted a little on one side of -his head, a dark thin overcoat covering his evening clothes. Because his -hair was covered and his face shaded there was nothing about him that -was at all startling or highly coloured. He simply looked to be a nice -plump little English gentleman who was waiting, a smile on his face, for -his car to arrive that it might take him home. Nor was there anything in -the least exceptional in the pair that stood beside him, the man, thin, -dark, immobile; the girl, her head a little bent, a soft white wrap over -her shoulders, her hands at her side. At once it flashed into Harkness's -brain that all the scene with Dunbar had been imagined; there had been -no "Feathered Duck," no melodramatic story of madness and tyranny, no -twopence-coloured plan for a midnight rescue. - -He was about to drive a mile or two to see some beautiful things, to -smoke a good cigar and drink some admirable brandy--then to retire and -sleep the sleep of the divinely worthy. - -The girl raised her head. Her eyes met his, and he knew that whatever -else was true or false his love for her was certain and resolved. - -Crispin looked extremely pleased to see him. He came towards him smiling -and holding out his hand: - -"Why, Mr. Harkness, this is splendid," he said. "We were just wondering -what we should do about you. We were giving you up." - -Harkness was conscious that, in spite of his attempts outside, he was -still in considerable disorder. He fingered his collar nervously: - -"I'm sorry," he began. "But I'm so glad that I've caught you after all." - -"Were the revels in the town amusing?" Crispin asked. - -Harkness had a sudden impulse, whence he knew not, to make the younger -Crispin speak. - -"Why didn't you come down?" he asked. "You'd have enjoyed it." - -The man was astonished at being addressed. He sprang into sudden life -like any Jack-in-the-Box: - -"Oh I," he said, "I had to go with my father, you know--yes, to see some -old friends." - -He was looking at Harkness as though he were wondering why, exactly, he -had done that. - -"Are you still willing to come and see my few things?" Crispin asked. -"It's only half-an-hour's drive and my car will bring you back." - -"I shall be delighted to come," Harkness said quickly. "I would have -been deeply disappointed if I had missed you. But you must not think of -sending me back. I shall enjoy the walk greatly." - -"Why, of course not!" said Crispin. "Walk back at that time of the -night! I couldn't allow it for a moment." - -"But I assure you," Harkness pressed, laughing, "I infinitely prefer it. -You probably imagine that Americans never move a step unless they have a -car to carry them. Not in my case. I won't come if I feel that during -every minute that I am with you I am keeping your chauffeur up." - -"Well, well--all right," said Crispin, laughing. "Have it your own way. -You're a very obstinate fellow. Perhaps you will change your mind when -the time really arrives." - -They moved out to the doorway, then into the car. Mrs. Crispin sat in -one corner. Harkness was about to pull up the seat opposite, but Crispin -said: - -"No, no. Plenty of room on the back for three of us. Herrick doesn't -mind the other seat. He's used to it." - -They sat down. Harkness between the elder Crispin and the girl. The -night was black beyond their windows. Crispin pressed the button. The -interior of the car was at once in darkness, and instantly the night was -no longer black but purple and threaded with wisps of grey lavender that -seemed to hold in their spider filigree all the loaded scent of the -summer evening. Again, as the car turned into the long ribbon of the -dark road. Harkness was conscious through the open window of the smell -of innumerable roses, the late evening smell when the heat of the day is -over and the flowers are grateful. - -Then a curious thing happened. Through the darkness, Harkness felt one -of the fingers of Crispin's left hand creeping like an insect about his -knee. They were sitting very closely together inside the car's -enclosure. Harkness was conscious that Hesther Crispin was pressed, -almost crouching, against the corner of the car, and although the stuff -of her dress touched him he was aware that she was striving desperately -that he should not be aware of her proximity, and then directly after -that, of why she was so striving--it was because she was -shivering--shivering in little spasms and tremors that shook her from -head to foot--and she was wishing that he should not realise this. - -And even as he caught from her the consciousness of her trembling, at -the same moment he was aware of the pressing of Crispin's finger upon -his knee. He was so close to Crispin, and his leg was pushed so firmly -against Crispin's leg, that this movement might have been accidental had -Crispin's whole hand rested there. But there was only the finger, and -soon it began its movement, staying for an instant, pressing through the -cloth on to the bone of the knee, then moving very slowly up the thigh, -the sharp finger-nail suddenly pushing more firmly into the flesh, then -the finger relaxing again and making only a faint tickling creeping -suggestion of a pressure. Half-way up the thigh it stopped; for an -instant the whole hand, soft, warm and boneless, rested on the stuff of -Harkness's trousers, then withdrew, and the fingers, like a cautious -animal, moved on. - -When Harkness was first conscious of this he tried to move his knee, but -he was so tightly wedged in that he could not stir. Then he could not -move for another reason, that he was transfixed with apprehension. It -was exactly as though a gigantic hand had slipped forward and enclosed -him in its grasp, congealing him there, stiffening him into helpless -clay--and this was the apprehension of immediate physical pain. - -He had known all his days that he was a coward about physical pain, and -that was always the form of human experience that he had shrunk from -observing, compelling himself sometimes because he so deeply hated his -cowardice, to notice, to listen, but suffering after these contacts -acute physical reactions. Only once or twice in his life had pain -actually come to him. He did not mind it so deeply were it part of -illness or natural causes, but the deliberate anticipation of it--the -doctor's "Now look out; I am going to hurt," the dentist's "I may give -you a twinge for a moment," these things froze him with terror. During -the war, when he had offered his service, this was the thing that from -the clammy darkness of the night leapt out upon him. He had done his -utmost to serve at the front, and it was in no way his own fault when he -was given clerical work at home. He had tried again and again, but his -poor sight, his absurd inside that was always wrong in one fashion or -another, these things had held him back--and behind it all was there not -a faint ring of relief, something that he dared not face lest it should -reveal itself as cowardice? There had been times at the dentist's and -one operation. That operation had been a slight one, but it had involved -for several weeks the withdrawing of tubes and the probing with bright -shining instruments. Every morning for several hours before this -withdrawing and probing he lay panting in bed, the beads of sweat -gathering on his forehead, his hands clutching and unclutching, saying -to himself that he did not care, that he was above it, beyond it . . . -but closer and closer and closer the animal came, and soon he was at his -bedside, and soon bending over him, and soon his claws were upon his -flesh and the pain would swoop down, like a cry of a discoverer, and the -voice would be sharper and sharper, the determination not to listen, not -to hear, not to feel weaker and weaker, until at length out it would -come, the defeat, the submission, the scream for pity. - -The creeping finger upon his knee had the same sudden warning of -imminent physical peril. The swiftly moving car, the silence, these -things seemed to bear in upon him the urgency of the other--that it was -no longer any game that he was playing but something of the deadliest -earnest. Once again the soft hand closed upon his thigh, then the finger -once more like a creeping animal felt its way. His body was responsive -from head to foot. He was all tingling with apprehension. His hand -resting firmly on his other knee began to tremble. Why was he in this -affair at all? If Crispin were mad, as Dunbar declared, what was to stop -him from taking any revenge he pleased on those who interfered with him? - -The tale was no longer one of pleasant romantic colour, the rescuing of -a distressed damsel from an enchanted castle, but rather something quite -real and definite, as real as the car in which they were sitting or the -clothes that they were wearing. He, suddenly feeling that he could -endure it no longer--in another moment he would have cried out -aloud--jerked his knee upwards. The hand vanished, and at the same -moment Crispin's voice said: "We are almost there. We are going through -the gates now." - -Lamps flashed upon their faces and Crispin's eyes seemed to have -vanished into his fat white face. He had, in that sudden illumination, -the most curious effect of blindness. His lids were closed over his -eyes, lying like little pieces of pale yellow parchment under the faint -red eyelashes. - -"Here we are!" he cried. "Out you get, Herrick." And as Harkness stepped -out of the car something deep within him whispered: "I am going to be -hurt. Pain is coming----" - -Before him swung a cavern of light. It swung because on his stepping -from the car he was dizzy, dizzy with a kind of poignant thick scent in -the soul's nostrils, deep deep down as though he were at the edge of -being spiritually anæsthetised. He paused for a moment looking back -into the night piled up behind him. - -Then he walked in. - - - - -X - - -It was an old house. The long hall was panelled and hung with the heads -of animals. A torn banner of faded red and yellow with long tassels of -gold hung above the stone fireplace. The floor was of stone, and some -dim rugs of uncertain colour lay like splashes of damp here and there. -The first thing of which he was aware was that a strong cold draught -blew through the hall. It seemed to come from a wide oak staircase on -his right. There were no portraits on the panelled walls. The house gave -a deep sense of emptiness. Two Japanese servants, short, slim, immobile, -their hair gleaming black, their faces impassive, waited. The outer door -closed. The banner fluttered, the only movement in the house. - -"Come in here, Mr. Harkness," Crispin said. "It is more comfortable." - -His little figure moved forward. Harkness followed him, but he had had -one moment with the girl as he entered the hall. The two Crispins had -been for an instant back by the car. He had said, his lips scarcely -moving: - -"I gave him the message. He is coming," and she had answered without -turning her head or looking at him: "Thank you." - -Only as he walked after Crispin he wondered whether the Japanese could -have understood. No. He was sure that no one could have heard those -words, but he turned before leaving the hall, and he had a strange -impression of the bare, empty, faded place, the staircase running darkly -up into mystery, and the four figures, the two servants, Hesther and the -younger Crispin, at that moment immobile, waiting as though they were -listening--and for what? - -The room into which Crispin led him was even shabbier than the hall. It -was a large ugly place with dim cherry-coloured paper, and a great glass -candelabrum suspended from the ceiling. The walls had, it seemed, once -been covered with pictures of all shapes and sizes, because the -wall-paper showed everywhere pale yellow squares and ovals and lozenges -of colour where the frames had been. The wall-paper had indeed leprosy, -and although there were still some pictures--a large Landseer, an -engraving of a Millais, a shabby oil painting of a green and windy -sea--it was these strange sea-sick evidences of a vanished hand that -invaded the air. - -There was very little furniture in the place, two shabby armchairs, a -round shining table, a green sofa. The draught that had swept the hall -crept here, now come now gone, stealing on hands and feet from corner to -corner. - -"You see," said Crispin, standing beside the empty fireplace, "I am here -but little. I have pulled down the pictures from the walls and then left -it all shabby. I enjoy the contrast." At the far end of the room were -long oak cupboards. Crispin went to them and pulled back the heavy -doors, and instantly in the shabby place there were blazing such -treasures as Harkness had never set eyes on before. - -Not very many as numbers went--some dozen shelves in all--but gleaming, -glittering, shining, flinging out their flashes of purple and amber and -gold, here crystalline, now deeply wine-coloured, pink with the petals -of the rose, white with the purity of the rising moon. There was jewelry -here that seemed to move with its own independent life before Harkness's -eyes--Jaipur enamel of transparent red and green, lovely patterns with -thick long strips of enamel on a ground of bright gold, over which, -while still soft from the furnace, an open-work pattern of gold had been -pressed; large rough turquoises set in silver; Chinese work of carved -ivory and jade, cap ornaments exquisitely worked, a cap of a Chinese -emperor with its embroidered gold dragon and its crown of pearls. Then -the inlaid Chinese feather work, and at the sight of these tears of -pleasure came into Harkness's eyes, cells made as though for cloisonné -enamel, and into these are daintily affixed tiny fragments of -king-fisher feather. Colours of blue, green and mauve here blend and -tone one into another miraculously, and the effect of all is a -glittering sheen of gold and blue. There was one tiny fish, barely half -an inch long, and here there were thirty cells on the body, each with -its separate piece of feather. Chinese enamel buttons and clasps, -nail-guards beautifully ornamented, Japanese hair combs marvellously -wrought in lacquer, horn, gold lac on wood, wood with ivory appliqués, -and stained ivory. - -Then the Netsukes! Had any one in the world such lovely things! With the -ivory and its colour richly toned with age, the metal ones showing a -glorious patina. The sword guards--made of various metals and alloys and -gold and silver, the metal so beautifully finished that it had the rich -texture of old lace. - -There was then the Renaissance jewelry, pieces lying like fragments of -sky, of peach tree in bloom, of cherry and apple, a lovely pendant -parrot enamelled in natural colours, a beautiful ship pendant of -Venetian workmanship, an Italian earring formed of a large irregular -pear-shaped pearl, in a gold setting a Cinquecento jewel--an emerald -lizard set with a baroque pearl holding an emerald in its mouth. - -Eighteenth-century glory. Gold studs with little skeletons on silk, -covered with glass and set in gold. Initials of fine gold with a ground -of plaited hair, this edged with blue and covered with faceted glass on -crystal and the border of garnets. A pair of earrings, paintings in -gouache mounted in gold. A brooch set with garnets. A French vinaigrette -enamelled in panels of green on a gold and white ground. - -Loveliest of anything yet seen, a sixteenth-century cameo portrait of -Lucius Verius cut in a dark onyx. The enamel was green with little white -"peas" and small diamonds were set in each pod. - -"Ah this!" said Harkness, holding it in his hand. "This is exquisite!" - -But Crispin was restless. The eyes closed, the short body moved to -another part of the room leaving all the treasures carelessly exposed -behind him. "That is enough," he said--"enough of those, I bore you. And -now," turning aside with a deprecatory child-like smile, as though he -had been exhibiting his doll's house, "you must see the prints." - -Harkness turning back to the room saw it as even shabbier than before. -It was lit by candle-light, and in the centre of the round shining table -there were four tall amber-coloured candlesticks that threw around them -a flickering colour as the draught ruffled their power. To this table -Crispin drew two chairs. Then he went to a handsome old oak cabinet -carved stiffly with flowers and fruit. He stayed looking with a long -lingering glance at the drawers, then sharply up at Harkness. Seen there -in the mellow light, with the coloured glory of the open cabinets dimly -shining in the far room, with the pleasant timid smile that a collector -wears when he is approaching his beloved friends, he might have stood to -Rembrandt for another "Jan Six," short and stumpy though he be. - -"Now what will you have? Dürer, Whistlers, Little Masters, Meryons, -Dutch seventeenth century, Callot, Hollar? What you will. . . . No, you -shall have only a few, and those not the most celebrated but perhaps the -best loved. Now, here's for your pleasure. . . ." - -He came to the table bearing carefully, reverentially, his treasures. He -set them down. From one after another he withdrew the paper, there -gleaming between the stiff white shining mats they breathed, they lived, -they smiled. There was the Rembrandt "Landscape with a flock of sheep," -there the Muirhead Bone "Orvieto," the Hollar "Seasons," Callot's -"Passion," Meryon's "College Henri Quatre," Paul Potter's "Two Horses," -a seascape of Zeeman, Cotman's "Windmill," Bracquemond's "Teal -Alighting," a seascape of Moreau, and Aldegrever's "Labour of Hercules" -to close the list. Not more than thirty in all, but living there on the -table with their personal glow spontaneity. He bent over them caressing -them, fondling them, smiling at them. Harkness drew near and, looking at -the tender wistfulness of the two old Potter's horses, bravely living -out there the last days of their broken forgotten lives, he felt a -sudden friendliness to all the world, a reassurance, a comfort. - -Those glittering jewelled things had had at their heart a warning, an -alarm; but no one, he was suddenly aware, who cared for these prints -could be bad. There are no things in the world so kindly, so simple, so -warm in their humanity. . . . - -The little man was near to him. He put his hand on his knee. - -"They are fine, eh? They know you, recognise you. They are alive, eh?" - -"Yes," said Harkness, smiling. "They are the most friendly things in -art." - -The door opened and one of the Japanese servants came in with liqueurs. -They were put on the table close to Harkness, and soon he was drinking -the most wonderful brandy that it had ever been his happy fortune to -encounter. - -He was warm, cosy, quite unalarmed. The prints smiled at him, the dim -room received him as a friend. - -Crispin was talking, leaning back now from the table, his fat body -hugged up like a cushion into his chair. - -His red hair stood, flaming, on end. Harkness was, at first, only -vaguely conscious that Crispin was speaking, then the words began to -gather about him, to force their way in upon his brain; then, as the -monologue continued, his comfort, his cosiness, his sense of security -slowly slipped from him. His eyes passed from the "Two Horses" to the -high sharp cliffs of the "Orvieto," to the thick naked Hercules of the -Aldegrever. Then, he was aware that he was frightened, as he had been on -the road, in the hotel, in the car. Then, with a flash of awareness, -like the sharp contact with unexpected steel, he was on his guard as -though he were standing alone with his back to the wall against an army -of terrors. - -". . . And so as I like you so much, dear Mr. Harkness, I feel that I -can talk to you freely about these things and that you will understand. -That has always been my trouble--that I have not been understood -sufficiently, and if now I go my own way and have my own fashion of -dealing with life I am sure that it is comprehensible enough. - -"I was a very lonely child, Mr. Harkness, and mocked at by every one who -saw me. No, I have not been understood sufficiently. The colour of my -hair has been a barrier. I realise that I am, and always have been, -absurd in appearance, and from the very earliest age I was aware that I -was different from other human beings and must pursue another course -from theirs. I make no complaint about that, but it justifies, I think, -my later conduct." - -Here, as though some wire had sprung taut inside him he sat forward -upright in his chair, staring with his little pale eyes at Harkness, and -it was now that Harkness was abruptly aware of his conversation. - -"I am not boring you, I trust, but I have taken a sympathetic liking to -you, and it may interest you to understand my somewhat unusual -philosophy of life. - -"My mother died when I was very young. My father was a surgeon, a very -wealthy man, money inherited from an uncle. He was a strange man, -peculiar, odd. Cruel to me. Very cruel to me. He hated the sight of me, -and told me once that it was a continual temptation to him to lay hands -on me and cut my heart out--to see, in fact, whether I had a heart. He -liked to torment and tease me, as indeed did every one else. I am not -telling you these things, Mr. Harkness, to rouse your pity, but rather -that you should understand exactly the point at which I have arrived." - -"Yes," said Harkness, dragging his eyes with strange difficulty from the -pursed white face, the red hair, and glancing about the dim faded room -and the farther spaces where the jewels flashed in the candle-light. - -"Many people would have called my father insane, did not hesitate to do -so. He was a large, extremely powerful man, given to violent tempers. -But, after all, what is insanity? There are cases--many I suppose--where -the brain breaks down and is unable to perform any longer its ordinary -functions, but in most cases insanity is only the name given by envious -persons to those who have strength of character enough to realise their -own ideas regardless of public opinion. Such was my father. He cared -nothing for public opinion. We led a strange life, he and I, in a big -black house in Bloomsbury. Yes, black, that's how it was. I went to -Westminster School, and they all mocked me, my hair, my body, my -difference. Yes, my difference. I was different from them all, different -from my father, different from all the world. And I was glad that I was -different. I hugged my difference. Different. . . ." - -He lent forward, tapped Harkness's knee with his hand, staring into his -face. - -"Different, Mr. Harkness, different. Different. . . ." - -And the long draughty room echoed "Different . . . different . . . -different." - -"My father beat me one night terribly, beat me so that I could not move -for pain. For no reason, simply because, he said, he wished that I -should understand life, and first to understand life one must learn to -suffer pain, and that then, if one could suffer pain enough, one could -be as God--perhaps greater than God. - -"It was to that night in the Bloomsbury house that I owe everything. I -was fifteen years of age. He stripped me naked and made me bleed. It was -terribly cold, and I came in that bare room right into the very heart of -life, into the heart of the heart, where the true meaning is at last -revealed--and the true meaning----" - -He broke off suddenly, then whispered: - -"Do you believe in God, Mr. Harkness?" and the draught went whispering -on hands and feet round the room, "Do you believe in God, Mr. Harkness?" - -"Yes," said Harkness. - -"Yes," said Crispin, in his lovely melodious voice; "but in a good God, -a sweet God, a kind beneficent God. That is no God. God is first cruel, -terrible, lashing, punishing. Then when He has punished enough, and the -victim is in His power, bleeding at His feet, owning Him as Lord and -Master, then He bends down and lifts the wounded brow and kisses the -torn mouth, and in His heart there is a great and mighty triumph. . . . -Even so will I do, even so will I be . . . and greater than God -Himself!" - -There was silence in the room. Then he curled up in his chair as he had -done before, and went on with his friendly air: - -"Dear Mr. Harkness, it is good indeed of you to listen to me so -patiently. Tell me at once when I bore you. My father died when I was -seventeen and left me all his wealth. He died in a Turkish bath very -suddenly--ill-temper with some casual masseur, I fancy. - -"I realised that I had a power. The realisation was very satisfactory to -me. I married and during the three years of my married life I collected -most of the things that I have shown you this evening. I married a woman -whom I was unfortunately unable to make happy. She could have been -happy, I am sure, could she have only understood, a little, the -philosophy that my father had taught me. My father was a very remarkable -man, Mr. Harkness, as perhaps you have perceived, and he had, as I have -told you, shown me the real meaning of this strange life in which we are -forced, against our wills, to take part. It was foolish of my wife not -to benefit by this knowledge. But she did not, and died sooner than I -had anticipated, leaving me one child. - -"A widower's life is not a happy one, and you will have undoubtedly -perceived how many widowers marry again." - -He paused as though he expected some comment, so Harkness said yes, that -he had perceived it. Crispin sat forward looking at him inquisitively, -and making, with his fingers, a kind of pattern in the air as though he -were tracing there a bar of music. - -"Yes. I did not marry again, but rather gave myself up to the -continuation of my father's philosophy. The philosophy of pain as -related to power one might perhaps term it. God--of whose existence no -thinking man can truly permit himself to doubt--have you ever thought, -Mr. Harkness, that the whole of His power is derived from the pain that -He inflicts upon those less powerful than Himself? We conceive of Him as -a beneficent Being, and from that it follows that He must have -determined that pain is, from Him, our greatest beneficence. It is -plainly for our good that He torments us. Should not then we, in our -turn, realising that pain is our greatest happiness, seek, ourselves, -for more pain, and also teach our fellow human beings that it is only -_through_ pain that we can reach the true heart and meaning of life? -Through Pain we reach Power. - -"I test you with pain, and as you overcome the pain so do you climb up -beside me, who have also overcome it, and we are in time as gods knowing -good and evil. . . . A concrete case, Mr. Harkness. I slash your face -with a knife. You are so powerful that you take the pain, twist it in -your hand and throw it away. You rise up to me, and suddenly I, who have -inflicted the pain on you, love you because you have taken my power over -you and used it for your soul's advantage." - -"And do I love you because you have slashed my face?" asked Harkness. - -Crispin's eyes narrowed. He put out his hand and laid it on Harkness's -knee. - -"We would have to see," Crispin murmured. "We would have to see. I -wonder--I wonder...." - -They were silent. Harkness's body was cold, but the room was very hot. -The candles seemed to throw out a metallic radiant heat. Harkness moved -his knee. - -"It would not do to prove your theory too frequently," he said at last. - -"No, no, of course it would not. It is, you understand, only a theory -that I have inherited from my father. Yes. But I will confess that when -an individuality comes close to me and remains entirely outside my -influence I am tempted to wonder. . . . Well, to speculate. . . . I like -to see how far one personality _will_ surrender to another. It is -interesting--simply as a speculation. For instance, you have noticed my -daughter-in-law?" - -"Yes," said Harkness, "I have. A charming girl." - -"Charming. Exactly. But independent, refusing to make the most of the -advantages that are open to her. Like my poor late wife, for instance. -Unfortunate, because she is young and might benefit so much from my -older and more experienced brain. - -"But she refuses to come under my influence, remains severely outside -it. Now, my son is almost too willing to understand my meaning. Were I -to plunge a knife into his arm no blood would flow. I am speaking -metaphorically of course. After a very slight training in his early -youth he was all that I could wish. But too submissive--oh yes, -altogether too submissive. - -"His wife's independence, however, is quite of another kind. It might -almost seem as though during these last weeks she had taken a dislike -both to myself and my son. However, she is very young and a little time -will alter that, I have no doubt. Especially as we shall be in foreign -countries and to some extent alone by ourselves." - -Harkness pressed his hands tightly together. A little shiver ran, as -though it responded to the draught that blew through the room, up and -down his body. He was anxious that Crispin should not notice that he was -shivering. - -"Have you any idea where you will go?" he asked--and his voice sounded -strangely unlike his own, as though some third person were in the room -and speaking just behind him. - -"We have no idea," said Crispin, smiling. "That will depend on many -things. On Mrs. Crispin herself of course amongst others. A young wife -must not show too complete an independence. After all, there are others -whose feelings must be considered----" He was smiling as it were to -himself and as though his thoughts were pleasant ones. - -Suddenly he sprang up and began to walk the room. The effect on Harkness -was strange--it was as though he were suddenly shut in there with an -animal. So often in zoological gardens he had seen that haunting -monotonous movement, that encounter with the bars of the cage and the -indifferent acceptance of their inevitability, indifferent only because -of endless repetition. Crispin, padding now up and down the long room, -reminded Harkness of one of the smaller animals, the little jaguars, the -half-wolf, half-fox; his head forward, his hands crossed behind his -short thick back, his eyes, restless now, moving here, there about the -room, his movements soft, almost furtive, every instinct towards escape. -As he moved in the room half-clouded with light, the soft resolute step -pervaded Harkness's sense, and soon the thick confined scent of a caged -animal seemed to creep up to his nostrils and linger there. - -Furry--captive--danger hanging behind the plodding step, so that if a -sudden release were to come. . . . And he sat there fixed in his seat as -though nailed to it while the sweet voice continued: "And so, my dear -Mr. Harkness, I have devoted my later years to the solution of this -problem. - -"I feel, if I may say so, without too much arrogance, that I am -intending to help poor human nature along the road to a better -understanding of life. Poor, muddled human nature. Defeated always by -Fear. Yes, Fear. And if they have surmounted Pain and stand with their -foot on its body, what remains? It is gone, vanished. I myself am -increasing my power every day. First one, then another. First through -Pain. Then through Love. I love all the world, yes, everything in it, -but first it must be taught, and it is so reluctant--so strangely -reluctant--to receive its teaching. And I myself suffer because I am too -tender-hearted. I should myself be superior to the suffering of others -because I know how good it is for them to suffer. But I am not. Alas, -no. It is only where my indignation is aroused, and aroused justly, that -I can conquer my tenderness, and then--well then . . . I can make my -important experiments. My daughter-in-law, for instance. . . ." - -He paused, not far from Harkness, and once again his hands made a -curious motion in the air as though he were transcribing a bar of music. -He stepped close to Harkness. His breath, scented curiously with a faint -odour of orange, was in Harkness's face. He leaned forward, his hands -were on Harkness's shoulders. - -"For instance, I have taken a fancy to you, my friend. A real fancy. I -liked you from the first moment that I saw you. I don't know when, so -suddenly, I have taken a fancy to any one. But to care for you deeply, -first--yes, first--I would show you the meaning of pain. . . ." Here his -body suddenly quivered from the feet to the head. ". . . And I could -not, liking you so much, do that unless you were seriously to annoy me, -interfere in any way with my simple plans"--the hands pressed deeply -into the shoulders--"yes, only then could we come really to know one -another . . . after such a crisis what friends we might be, sharing our -power together! What friends! Dear me! Dear me!" - -He moved away, turning to the table, looking down on the prints that -were spread out there. - -"Yes, yes, I could show you then my power." His voice vibrated with -sudden excitement. "You think me absurd. Yes, yes, you do. You do. Don't -deny it now. As though I couldn't perceive it. Do you think me so -stupid? Absurd, with my ridiculous hair, my ugly body. Oh! I know! You -can't hide it from me. You laugh like the rest. Secretly, you laugh. You -are smiling behind your hand. Well, smile then, but how foolish of you -to be so taken in by physical appearances. Do you know my power? Do you -know what I could do to you now by merely clapping my hands? - -"If my fingers were at your throat, at your breast, and you could not -move but must wait my wish, my plan for you, would you think me then so -absurd, my figure, my hair, ridiculous? You would be as though in the -hands of a god. I should be as a god to you to do with you what I -wished. . . . - -"What is there that is so beautiful that I, ugly as I am, cannot do as I -wish with it? This----" Suddenly he took up the "Orvieto" and held it -forward under the candle-light. "This is one of the most beautiful things -of its kind that man has ever made, and I--am I not one of the ugliest -human beings at whom men laugh?--well, would you see my power over it? I -have it in my hands. It is mine. It is mine. I can destroy it in one -instant----" - -The beautiful thing shook in his hand. To Harkness it seemed suddenly to -be endued with a human vitality. He saw it--the high sharp razor-edged -rocks, the town so confidingly resting on that strength, all the daily -life at the foot, the oxen, the peasants, the lovely flame-like trees, -the shining reaches of valley beyond, all radiating the heat of that -Italian summer. - -He sprang to his feet. "Don't touch it!" he cried. "Leave it! Leave it!" - -Crispin tore it into a thousand pieces, wrenching it, snapping at it -with his fingers like an animal. The pieces flaked the air. A white -shower circled in the candle-light then scattered about the table, about -the floor. - -Something died. - -A clock somewhere struck half-past twelve. - -Crispin moved from the table. Very gently, almost beseechingly, he -looked into Harkness's face. - -"Forgive me my little game," he said. "It is all part of my theory. To -be above these things, you know. What would happen to me if I -surrendered to all that beauty?" - -The eyes that looked into Harkness's face were pathetic, caged, wistful, -longing. And they were mad. Somewhere deep within him his soul, caught -in the wreckage of his bodily life like a human being pinned beneath a -ruined train, besought--yes, besought Harkness for deliverance. - -But he had no thought at that moment of anything but his own escape. To -flee from that room--from that room at any cost! He said something. -Crispin did not try to keep him. They moved together into the hall. - -"And you won't allow my chauffeur to drive you back?" - -"No, no thank you, I shall love the walk." - -"Well, well. It has been delightful. We shall meet some day again I have -no doubt. . . ." - -Silence flooded the house. Once more Harkness's hand touched that other -soft one. The door was open. The lovely night air brushed his face, and -he had stepped into the dim star-drenched garden. The door closed. - - - - -PART III: THE SEA-FOG - - - - -I - - -In the garden the silence was like a warning, as though the night had -her finger to her lips holding back a multitude of breathing, deeply -interested spectators. - -Harkness, slipping from the path on to the lawn, felt a relief, as -though with the touch of his foot on the cool turf there had come a -freedom from imprisonment. - -The garden was so friendly, so safe, so homely in its welcome. The scent -of roses that had seemed to follow him throughout the adventures of that -queer evening came to him now as though crowding up to reassure him. The -night sky pierced with stars, but they were thick and dim seen through a -veil of mist. The trees of the garden, like serried ranks of giants in -black armour, seemed to stand, in silent attention, on every side of -him, awaiting his orders. The voice of all this world was the sea -stirring, with a sigh and a whisper, below the wall of rock. - -His first impulse as he stood on the lawn was to go away as far as he -could from that house. Yes, as far as ever he could--miles and miles and -miles--China if you like. Ah, no! That was just where that man would be! - -He was trembling and shaking and wiping his forehead with his -handkerchief; the breeze stroked him with cool fingers. He must run for -ever to be clear of that house--and then suddenly remembered that he -must not run because he had his duty to do--and even as he remembered -that a figure stepped up to him out of the trees. He would have called -out--so wild and trembling were his nerves--had he not at once -recognized from his great size that this was Jabez the fisherman. - -He might have been an incarnation of the night with his deep black -beard, his grave kindly face, and his simple, natural quiet. He was -dressed in his fisherman's jersey and blue trousers and had no covering -on his head. - -"Good evening, sir," he said. "Mr. Dunbar told me as how you'd be -wanting to be back in the house for a moment to fetch something you'd -forgotten. - -"We'd best be just stepping off the lawn, sir, if you don't mind. They -foreigners are always nosing around." - -They turned quietly off the grass and stood closely together under the -dark shadow of the house. - -"I must go back at once," said Harkness. "There's no time to lose. It -struck half-past twelve some time ago." - -"I don't know nothing about that, sir," said Jabez; "I only know as how -you must be going back into the house for something you'd forgotten and -I was to let you in." - -"Yes," said Harkness, his teeth chattering, "that's right." - -He wasn't made, in any kind of way at all, for this sort of adventure. -He had never before realised how utterly inefficient he was. And of all -absurdities to go back into the house when he was now safely out of it! -Of all Dunbar's mad plan this was the maddest part. What could he do but -be seen or heard and then rouse suspicion when it might so easily have -been undisturbed? - -Let Crispin find him groping among those dark passages and what was his -fate likely to be? There flashed into his consciousness then a sudden -suspicion of Dunbar. It might suit the boy's plans only too well that he -should be found, and so turn attention to another part of the house, -leaving the girl free. But no! There was Dunbar's own steady clear gaze -to answer him, and beyond that the certainty that Crispin's suspicions, -roused by the discovery of himself, would proceed immediately to the -girl. - -No, did he return at once, the plan was quite feasible. Seeing him there -so soon after his departure, they could do nothing but accept his -reasons, and that especially if he returned quite openly with no thought -of concealment. - -But oh how he hated to go back! He put his hand on the rough stuff of -Jabez's jersey, listened for a moment to the regular, consoling -breathing of the sea, sniffed the roses and the cool, gentle night air, -then said: - -"Well, come along, Jabez; show me how to get back." - -As they moved round to the door the thought came to him as to whether he -had given the elder Crispin and his two nasty servants time enough to -retire up to their part of the house. A difficult thing that, to hit the -precise medium between too lengthy a wait and too short. He could not -remember exactly what Dunbar had said as to that. - -"Do you think I've waited long enough, Jabez?" he asked. - -"Well, if you'd forgotten something, sir," said Jabez, "you'd want to be -sure of finding it before the house is sleeping. They don't bolt this -door, sir," he continued in a whisper, "because Mr. Crispin don't like -to be bolted in. His fancy. After half-past one or so one of they Japs -is around. It's just their hour like from half-past twelve to half-past -one that I have to watch this part of the house extra careful. Yes, -sir," he added as he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door -quietly open. - - - - -II - - -The hall was very dark. From half-way up the staircase some of the -starlit evening scattered mistily through a narrow window, splintering -the boards with spars of pale milky shadow. - -A clock chattered cluck-cluck-spin-spin-cluck close to Harkness's ear. -Otherwise there was not a sound anywhere. He reflected that several -things had been forgotten in his talk with Dunbar; one that there would, -in all probability, be no light in the upper passage. How was he then to -find the younger Crispin's door, or to see whether or no there were that -piece of paper under Mrs. Crispin's? Secondly, it would be in the room -on the ground floor where he had had his strange interview with the -elder Crispin that he must see the younger, because, of course, that -gloomy creature, dumb though he appeared to be, would be at least aware -that Harkness had never ventured into the upper floor at all and could -not therefore have left his gold match-box there. On the whole, this -would be the better for Dunbar's plan, because it would lead the younger -Crispin all the farther from his wife's door. But there were, at this -point, so many dangers and difficulties, so many opportunities of -disaster, that in absolute desperation he must perforce go forward. - -He was aware that for himself now the easiest fashion would be to -persuade himself that he had indeed lost his match-box and was returning -to secure it. He hesitated on the bottom step of the stairs as though he -were wondering what he ought to do, how he might find the tiresome thing -without rousing the whole house. - -He climbed the staircase slowly, walking softly, but not too softly, -accompanied all the way by the clock that attended him like a faithful -coughing dog. At the turn of the stairs he found the passage that Dunbar -had described to him, and he was instantly relieved to find that a wide -and deep window at the far end had no curtain, and that through it the -long stretch was suffused with a pale ghostly light turning the heavy -old frames, the faded green paper, into shadow opaque. - -He hesitated, looking about him, then clearly saw the two doors that -must be those of Crispin and his wife; from under one of them, quite -clearly, a small piece of white paper obtruded. - -He waited an instant, then moved boldly forward, not trying to walk -softly, and knocked on the nearer of the two doors. There was a moment's -pause, during which the wild beating of his own heart and the friendly -chatter of the clock from downstairs seemed to strive together to break -the silence. - -The door opened abruptly, and the younger Crispin, his white horse-face -unmoved above his dark evening clothes, appeared there. - -"I really must beg your pardon," Harkness said, smiling. "A most -ridiculous thing has happened. I left the house some ten minutes ago -after wishing your father good-night, and it was only after going a -little way that I discovered that I had lost a gold match-box of mine -that was of very great value to me. I hesitated as to what I ought to -do. I guess I should have gone straight back to my hotel, but it worried -me to think of losing it. It has some very intimate connections for me. -And I knew, you see, that you were leaving early to-morrow morning--or -_this_ morning as it is by this time, I fancy. So that it was now or -never for my match-box. I came back very reluctantly, I can assure you, -Mr. Crispin. I do feel this to be an intrusion. I had hoped that your -father would still be about, and that I should simply ask him to give me -a light in the room where we were sitting. In a moment I am sure that we -would find the thing. Your night porter very kindly let me in, but -although I had only been gone ten minutes the house was dark and there -was no one about. I would have left again, but I tell you frankly I -couldn't bear to leave the thing. I saw a light behind your door, and -knew that some one at any rate had not gone to bed. The whole thing has -been unpardonable. But just lend me a candle, and in five minutes I -shall have found it." - -"I will go down with you myself," said Crispin, staring at Harkness as -though he had never seen him before. - -"That's mighty fine of you. Thank you." - -But still Crispin did not move, his eyes fixed on Harkness's face. The -eyes moved. They fell, and it seemed to Harkness that they were staring -at the small piece of paper underneath the next door. Crispin looked, -then without another word went back into his room, closing the door -behind him. - -Harkness's heart stopped; the floor pitched and heaved beneath his feet. -It was all over already, then: young Crispin was now in his wife's room, -had discovered her, in all probability, in the very act of escaping. In -another moment the house would be aroused. - -He prepared himself for what might come, standing back against the wall, -his hands spread palm-wise against the paper as though he would hold -himself up. - -Truly he was shaking at the knees: he could see nothing, only that -possibility of being once again in the presence of the elder Crispin, of -hearing again that sweet voice, of feeling once more the touch of those -boneless fingers, of seeing for another time those mad beseeching eyes. -His tongue was dry in his throat. Yes, he was afraid, more utterly -afraid than he would have fancied it possible for a grown man ever to -be. . . . - -The door opened. Crispin appeared holding in his hand a lighted candle. - -"Now, let us go down," he said quietly. - -The relief was so great that Harkness began to babble, "You have no -idea . . . the trouble I am causing you. . . . At this late -hour. . . . What must you think . . .?" - -The young man said nothing. Harkness meekly followed, the candle-light -splashing the walls and floor with its wavering shadows. Their heads -were gigantic on the faded wall-paper, and Harkness had a sudden fancy -that the shadows here were the realities and he a mist. The younger -Crispin gave that sense of unreality. - -A kind of weariness went with him as though he were the personification -of a strangled yawn. And yet beneath the weariness and indifference -there was a flame burning. One realised it in that strange absorbed -stare of the eyes, in a kind of determination in the movements, in a -concentrated indifference to any motive of life but the intended one. -Harkness was to realise this with a start of alarmed surprise when, once -more in the long shabby room lit only by the light of one uncertain -candle, young Crispin turned upon him and shot out at him in his harsh -rasping voice: - -"What are you here for?" - -They were standing one on either side of the table, and between them on -the floor were the white scattered fragments of the torn "Orvieto." - -"I told you," said Harkness. "I left my match-box. I won't keep you a -moment if you'll allow me to take that candle----" - -"No, no," said the other impatiently, "I don't mean that. What do I care -for your match-box? You are worrying my father. I must beg you, very -seriously, never to come near him again." - -"Indeed," said Harkness, laughing, "I don't understand you. How could I -worry your father? I have never seen him in my life before this evening. -He invited me out here for an hour's chat. I am going now. He is leaving -for abroad to-morrow. I don't suppose that we shall ever meet again. -Please allow me just to find my match-box and go." - -But Crispin had apparently heard nothing. He stood, his hand tapping the -table. - -"I don't wish to appear rude, Mr.--Mr.----" - -"Harkness is my name," Harkness said. - -"I beg your pardon. I didn't catch it when my father introduced me this -evening. I don't want to seem offensive in any way. I simply thought -this a good opportunity for a few words that may help you to understand -the situation. - -"My father is my chief care, Mr. Harkness. He is everything to me in the -world. He has no one to look after him but myself. He is, as you must -have seen, very nervous and susceptible to different personalities. I -could see at once to-night that your personality is one that would have -a very disturbing effect on him. He does not recognise these things -himself, and so I have to protect him. I beg you to leave him alone." - -"But really," Harkness cried, "the boot's on the other leg. Your father -has been very charming in showing me his lovely things, but it was he -who sought me out, not I him. I haven't the least desire to push my -acquaintance with him, or indeed with yourself, any further." - -Crispin's cold eyes regarded Harkness steadily, then he moved round the -table until he was close beside him. - -"I will tell you something, Mr.--ah--Harkness--something that probably -you do not know. There have been one or two persons as foolish and -interfering as to suggest that my father is not in complete control of -his faculties, even that he is dangerous to the public peace. My father -is an original mind. There is no one like him in this whole world, no -one who has the good of the human race at heart as he has. He goes his -own way, and at times has pursued certain experiments that were -necessary for the development of his general plan. He was the judge of -their true necessity and he has had the courage of his opinions--hence -the inquisitive meddlesomeness of certain people." He paused, then -added: - -"If you have come here with any idea, Mr.--Mr.--Harkness, of interfering -with my father's liberty, I warn you that one visit is enough. It will -be dangerous for you to make another." - -Harkness's temper, so seldom at his command when he needed it, now -happily flamed up. - -"Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Crispin?" he asked. "It looks mighty -like it. Let me tell you once again, and really now for the last time, -that I am an American travelling for pleasure in Cornwall, that I had -never heard of your father before this evening, that he spoke to me -first and asked me to dine with him, and that he invited me here. I am -not in the habit of spying on anybody. I would be greatly obliged if you -would allow me to look for my match-box and depart. I am not likely to -disturb you again." - -But this show of force did not disturb young Crispin in the least. He -stood there as though he were a wax model for evening clothes in a -tailor's window, his black hair had just that wig-like sleekness, his -face that waxen pallor, his body that wooden patience. - -"My father is everything to me," he said simply. "If my father died I -should die too. Life would simply come to an end for me. I am of no -importance to my father. He is frequently irritated by my stupidity. -That is natural--but I am there to protect him, and protect him I will. -We have been really driven from place to place, Mr. Harkness, during the -last year by the ridiculous ignorant superstitions of local gossip. -Great men always seem odd to their inferiors, and my father seems odd to -a number of people, but I warn them all that any spying, asking of -questions, and the like, is dangerous. We know how to protect -ourselves." - -His eyes suddenly fell on the fragments of the "Orvieto." He bent down -and picked some of them up. A look of true human anxiety and distress -crept into his queer fish-like eyes that gave him a new air and colour. - -"Oh dear! oh dear!" he said. "Did he do this while you were with him?" - -"Yes," said Harkness, "he did." - -"Ah! it was one of his favourites. He must have been in great distress. -This only confirms what I said to you just now about disturbing him. I -beg you to go--now, at once, immediately--and never, never return. It is -so bad for my father to be disturbed. He has so excitable a temperament. -Please, please leave at once----" - -"But my match-box," said Harkness. - -"Give me your London address. I promise you that it shall be forwarded -to you." He held the candle high and swept the room with it, the sudden -shadows playing on the walls, like a troop of dancing scarecrows. "You -don't see it anywhere?" - -Harkness looked about him, then up at the face of the chattering clock. -Time enough had elapsed. She was safe away by now. - -"Very well, then," he said. "I will give you my address. Here is my -card." - -Young Crispin, who seemed in great agitation and, under this emotion, a -new and different human being from anything that Harkness had believed -to be possible, took the card, and with the candle moved into the hall. - -He turned the key, opened the door, and the night air rushed in blowing -the flame. - -"I wish you good-night," he said, holding out his hand. - -Harkness touched it--it was cold and hard--bowed, said: "I must -apologise again for disturbing you. I would only reassure you that it is -for the last time." - -Both bowed. The door closed, and Harkness was once again in the garden. - - - - -III - - -Jabez was waiting for him. They were both in the shadow; beyond them the -lawn was scattered with star-dust mist as though sewn with immortal -daisies; the stars above were veiled. The world was so still that it -seemed to march forward with the rhythm of the sea, that could be heard -stamping now like a whole army of marching men. - -"They are waiting for you, sir," Jabez whispered. "I was terrible feared -you'd be too long in there." - -They moved, keeping to the shadows, and reached the path that led to the -door in the wall. Here their feet crunched on the gravel, and every step -was an agony of anticipated alarm. It seemed to Harkness that the house -sprang into life, that lights jumped in the windows, figures passed to -and fro, but he dared not look back, and then Jabez's hand was on the -door, he was through and out safely in the wide free road. - -Then, for an instant, he did look back, and there the house was, dark, -motionless, rising out of the trees like part of the rock on which it -was built, the high tower climbing pale in the mist above it. - -Only an instant's glimpse, because there was the jingle, the pony, -Dunbar and the girl. An absurd emotion took possession of him at the -sight of them. He had been through a good deal that evening, and the -picture of them, safe, honest, sane, after the house and the company -that he had left, came with the breeze from the sea reassuring him of -normality and youth. - -Jabez, too, standing over them like a protective deity. His whole heart -warmed to the man, and he vowed that in the morning he would do -something for him that would give him security for the rest of his days. -There was something in the patient, statuesque simplicity of that giant -figure that he was never afterwards to forget. - -But he had little time to think of anything. He had climbed into the -jingle, and without a word exchanged between any of them they were off, -turning at once away from the road to the right over a turfy path that -led to the Downs. - -Dunbar, who had the reins, spoke at last. - -"My God," he said, "I thought you were never coming." - -"I had a queer time," Harkness answered, whispering because he was still -under the obsession of his escape from the house. "You must remember -that I'm not accustomed to such adventures. I've never had such an odd -two hours before, and I shouldn't think that I'm ever likely to have -such another again." - -They all clustered together as though to assure one another of their -happiness at their escape. The strong tang now of the sea in their -faces, the freshness of the wide open sky, the spring of the turf -beneath the jingle's wheels, all spoke to them of their freedom. They -were so happy that, had they dared, they would have sung aloud. - -But Harkness now was conscious only of one thing, that Hesther Crispin, -a black shawl over her head, only the outline of her figure to be seen -against the blue night, was pressed close to him. Her hand touched his -knee, the strands of her hair, escaping the shawl, blew close to his -face, he could feel the beating of her heart. An ecstasy seized him at -the sense of her closeness. Whatever was to come of that night, at least -this he had--his perfect hour. The elder Crispin and his madness, the -younger and his strangeness, the dim faded house, the jewels and the -torn "Orvieto," the mad talk, all these vanished into unreality, and, -curiously, this ride was joined directly to the dance around the town as -though no other events had intervened. - -Then he had won his freedom, this sanctified it. Then he had felt his -common humanity with all life, now he knew his own passionate share of -it. - -He wanted nothing for himself but this, that, like Browning's strong -peasant, he might serve his duchess, at the last receiving his white -rose and watching her vanish into her own magical kingdom. A romantic, -idealistic American, as has been already declared in this history; but -ten hours ago both romance and idealism were theoretic, now they were -pulsing, living things. - -"Hesther's the one for my money," Dunbar said, some of his happiness at -their safety ringing through his voice. "You should have seen her climb -out of that window. She landed on the roof of that tool-house so lightly -that not a mouse could have heard her. And then she swung down the pipe -like a monkey. Tell me how you managed with friend Crispin." - -"It wasn't difficult," Harkness answered. "He went with me to that long -room downstairs like a lamb. He told me that he had been wanting to -speak with me to tell me that I was bothering his father and must keep -away." - -"That you were bothering his father?" - -"Yes. He---- Wait. Do you hear any one coming?" - -They listened. The ramp-ramp of the sea was now very loud. They had come -nearly two miles on the soft track across the Downs. They stayed -listening, staring into the distance. There was no sound but the sea. -Then a bell ringing mournfully, regretfully, through the air. - -"That's the Liddon," said Dunbar. "We must be nearly at our cottage. But -I don't hear anything. Unless they saw the jingle they never would think -of this. Our only danger was the younger Crispin going into Hesther's -room after he left you. I believe we're safe." - -They stayed there listening. Very strange in that wide expanse, with -only the bell for their company. They drove on a little way, and a -building loomed up. This was a deserted cottage, simply the four walls -standing. - -"I'm to tie the pony to this," Dunbar said. "Jabez will fetch it in the -morning." - -They climbed out of the jingle and waited while the pony was tied. -Having done it, Dunbar raised his head sniffing the air. - -"I say, don't you think the mist's coming up a bit? It won't do if it -gets too thick. We'll have difficulty in finding the Cove." - -It was true. The mist was spreading like very thin smoky glass. The pony -was etherealised, the cottage a ghostly cottage. - -"Well, come on," Dunbar said. "We haven't a great deal of time, but the -Cove's only a step of the way. Along here to the right." - -He led, the others followed. Hesther had hitherto said nothing. Now she -looked up at Harkness. "Thank you for helping us. It was generous of -you." - -He couldn't see her face. He touched her hand with his for a moment. - -"I guess that was the least any one could do," he said. - -"Oh, I'm so glad it's over!" She gave a little shiver. "To be out here -free after those weeks, after that house--you don't know, you don't know -what that was." - -"I can pretty well imagine," Harkness answered grimly, "from the hour or -two I spent in your father-in-law's company. But don't let's talk about -it just now. Afterwards we'll tell each other all our adventures." - -"Isn't it strange," she said simply, "we've only exchanged a word or -two, we never knew one another before this evening, and yet we're like -old friends? Isn't it pleasant?" - -"Very pleasant," he answered. "We must always be friends." - -"Yes, always," she said. - -They were standing close to the broken wall of the cottage. It had a -wonderfully romantic air in the night air. It was so lonely, and so -independent as well. The storms that must beat around it on wild nights, -the screams of the birds, the battering roar of the waves, and then to -sink into that silence with only the voice of the bell for its company. -But Dunbar was no poet--a ruined cottage was a ruined cottage to him. - -"I don't like this mist," he said. "It's made me a little uncertain of -my bearings. I wonder if you'd mind, Hesther, waiting here for five -minutes while I go and see----" - -"Oh no, we'll all stick together," she interrupted. "Why should we -separate? Why, I'm more sure-footed than you are, David. You're trying -to mother me again." - -"No, I'm not," he answered doggedly; "but I'm really not quite sure of -the way down, and if we got in a mess half way it would be much worse -your being there. Really these paths can be awfully nasty. I want to be -_sure_ of my way before you come--really Hesther----" - -She saw that it was important to him. She laughed. - -"It's stupid, when I'm a better climber than you are. But if you like -it--you're the commander of this expedition." - -She seated herself on a stone near the pony. The two men walked off. The -sea mist was very faint, blowing in little wisps like tattered lawn, not -obscuring anything but rendering the whole scene ethereal and unreal. - -Suddenly, however, as though out of friendly interest, the stars, that -had been quite obscured, again appeared, twinkling, humorous eyes -looking down over the wall of heaven. - -"We should be all right," Dunbar said as the two men set off; "we are up -to time. The boat is bound to be there. It's lucky the fog hasn't come. -That's a contingency I never thought of. The path down to the Cove is -off here, to the right of the cottage somewhere. I've studied every inch -of the country round here." - -The path appeared. "Tell me, did you have a queer time with Crispin--the -elder one, I mean?" - -"I've never had so strange a conversation with any one," said Harkness. -"Madness is a queer thing when you are in actual contact with it, -because we have, every one of us, enough madness in ourselves to wonder -whether some one else _is_ so mad after all. He talked the most awful -nonsense, and _dangerous_ nonsense too, but there was a kind of theory -behind it, something that almost held it all together. A sort of pathos -too, so that you felt, in spite of yourself, sorry for the man." - -But Dunbar was no analyser of human motives. He despised fine shades, -and was a man of action. "Sorry for him! Just about as sorry as you are -for a spider that is spinning a nest in your clothes cupboard. Sorry! He -wants crushing under foot like a white slug, and that he'll get before -I've finished with him. Why, man, he's murderous! He loves torture and -slow fire like the old Spaniards in the Inquisition. There's so little -to catch on to--that's the trouble; but I bet that if he had caught us -helping Hesther out of that house to-night there would be something to -catch on to! Why, if we were to fall into his hands now! Ugh! it doesn't -bear thinking of!" - -"Oh yes, of course," Harkness agreed. "He's dangerously mad. He'll be in -an asylum before many days are out. If ever I have been justified in any -action of my life it has been this, in helping that poor girl out of the -hands of those two men. All the same . . . oh! it's sad, Dunbar! There -is something so tragic in madness, whether it's dangerous or -no--something captive, like a bird in a cage, and something common to us -all. . . ." - -"Well, if you think that the kind of things that Crispin Senior is after -are common to us all you must have a pretty low view of humanity. The -beastly swine! Something pathetic? Why, you're a curious fellow, -Harkness, to feel pathos in that situation." - -"You may hate it and detest it, you _must_ confine it because it's -dangerous to the community, but you can pity it all the same. His -eyes--that longing to escape." - -But Dunbar had found the cleft. They were now right above the sea. -Although there was so slight a wind, the waves were breaking noisily on -the shore. The stars had gone again, but the edge of the cliff was -clear, and far below it a thin line of ragged white leapt to the eye, -vanished, and leapt again. - -"Here's the path down," said Dunbar. "There isn't much light, but -enough, I fancy. We'll both go down so that we can be sure of our way -when we come back with Hesther, and we may be both needed to help her. -The path's all right, though. It's slippery after wet weather, but -there's been no rain for days. Can you make it out clearly enough?" - -"Yes," Harkness said, but he felt anything but happy. Of all the things -that he had done that evening this was the one that he liked least. He -had a very poor head for heights, growing dizzy under any provocation; -the angry snarl of the sea bewildered him, and little breaths of vapour -curled about him changing from moment to moment the form and shape of -the scene. He would have liked to suggest to Dunbar that there was no -need for him to go down this first time, but, coward though he might be, -he had come down to Treliss to beat that cowardice. - -Certainly the adventures of that night were giving him every -opportunity. He went to the edge and looked over. The sea banged up to -him, and the grey curved shadow of the Cove seemed to be miles below -him. The little path ran on the edge of the cliff between two -precipitous slopes, and its downward curve was sharp. - -He pulled himself together, thinking of Hesther waiting there by the -cottage alone. Dunbar had already started; he followed. - -When he had gone a little way his knees began to wobble, his legs taking -on a strange life of their own. His imagination had all his days been -dangerous for him in any crisis, because he always saw more than was -truly there: now the sea breeze blew on either side of him, the path was -so narrow that there was not room to plant his two feet at the same -time, the dim shadow light confused his eyes and the roar of the sea -leapt at him like a wild animal. - -However he pressed forward, looking neither to right nor to left, and, -with what thankfulness, he felt the wet sand yield beneath him and saw -the boat drawn up under an overhanging rock only a few feet away from -him! - -"There it is," said Dunbar, eyeing the boat with intense satisfaction. -"Now I think we're all right. I don't see what's going to stop us. We'll -be across there in half an hour and then have a good hour before the -train." He held out his hand. - -"Harkness, I simply can't tell you what I think of your doing all this -for us. Coming down here just to have a holiday, and then taking all -these risks for people you'd never seen before. It's fine of you and -I'll never forget it." - -"It's nothing at all," said Harkness, blushing, as he always did when -himself was at all in discussion. "As a matter of fact, I've had what -has been, I suppose, the most interesting evening of my life, and I -daresay it isn't all over yet." - -"There's not much fear of their catching us now," said Dunbar; "but -you've been in more real actual danger than you imagine. As I said just -now, anything might have happened to us if he had caught us. You don't -know how remote that house is. He could do what he pleased without any -one being the wiser, and be off in the morning leaving our corpses -behind him. The only servants in that house are those two Japs." - -"There's Jabez," said Harkness. - -"Jabez is outside and is only temporary. He wouldn't have stayed after -to-morrow anyway. He hates the man. Fine fellow, Jabez. I don't know how -I would have managed this affair without him. He fell in love with -Hesther. He'd do anything for her. And then like the rest of the -neighbourhood he detested the Japanese. - -"They are funny conservative people these Cornishmen. Whatever they may -pretend, they've no use for foreigners and especially foreigners like -Crispin." - -They stood a moment listening to the sea. - -"The tide's going out," said Dunbar. "I was a little anxious lest I'd -pulled the boat up high enough this afternoon, and then, of course, some -one might have come along and taken a fancy to it. However, I was pretty -safe. No one ever comes down into this cove. But we've taken a lot of -chances to-night and everything's come off. The Lord's on our side--as -He well may be considering the kind of characters the Crispins have." - -He looked at Harkness. "Hullo, you're shivering. Are you cold?" - -"No," said Harkness, "I suddenly got the creeps. Some one walking over -my grave, I suppose. I feel as though Crispin had followed us and was -listening to every word we were saying. I could swear I could see his -horrid red head poking over that rock now. However, to tell you the -exact truth, Dunbar, I didn't care overmuch for coming down that bit of -rock just now. I'm not much at heights." - -"What! that path!" cried Dunbar. "That's nothing. However, there's no -need for both of us to go back. You can stay by the boat." - -But a sudden determination flamed up in Harkness that it should be he, -and none other, that should fetch Hesther Crispin. - -"No, I'll go. There's no need for you to come though. We'll be back here -in ten minutes. I'll see that she gets down all right." - -"Very well," said Dunbar. "But look after her. She's not so good a -climber as she thinks she is." - -So Harkness started off. He waved his hand to Dunbar who was now busied -with the boat, and began his climb. He stumbled over the wet rocks, -nearly fell once or twice, and then came to the little path. His thought -now was all of Hesther. He played with his imagination, picturing to -himself that he was going right out of the world to some unknown heights -where she awaited him, having chosen him out of all the world, and there -they would live together, alone, happy always in one another's -company. . . . - -What a fool he was when she was married, and, even if she freed herself -from that horrid encumbrance, had that boy down there in the Cove -waiting for her. But he could not help his own state. It did no harm. He -told no one. It was so new for him, this rich thrilling tingle of -emotion at the thought of some other human being, something so different -from his love for his sisters and his admiration for his friends. And -to-night from first to last there had been all the time this same -_tingling_ of experience. From his first getting into the train until -now he had seemed to be in direct contact with life, contact with all -the wrappers off, with nothing in between him and it! - -That he must never lose again. After this night he must never slip back -to that old half-life with its dilettante pleasures, its mild -disappointments, its vague sense of exile. He could not have Hesther for -himself, but, at least, he could live the full life that she and her -country had shown to him. - -"Ours is a great wild country. . . ." Never back to the level plains -again! - -Full of these fine brave exulting thoughts he had climbed a very -considerable way when--suddenly the path was gone. There was no path, no -rocks, no hillside, no Cove, no sea, no stars--nothing. He was standing -on air. The fog in one second had crept upon him. Not the thin glassy -mist of twenty minutes ago but a thick, dense, blinding fog that hemmed -in like walls of wadding on every side. In the sudden panic his legs -gave way and he fell on to his knees and hands, clutching both sides of -the narrow path, staring desperately before him. He heard the Liddon -bell, as it seemed, quite close to his side, ringing down upon him. - - - - -IV - - -His first thought was of Hesther--then of Dunbar. Here they were all -three of them, separated. The fog might last for hours. - -He called, "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -The bell echoed him, mocking him, "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -Very cautiously he climbed upon his feet, steadying himself. The wind -seemed completely to have died, and the sea sent up now only a faint -rustle, like the mysterious movement of some hidden woman's dress, but -the fog was so thick that it seemed to embrace Harkness ever more -tightly--and it was cold with a bitter piercing chill. Harkness called -again, "Dunbar! Dunbar!" listened, and then, as there was no kind of -answer, began to move slowly forward. - -Once, many years before, when a small boy at his private school, there -had been an hour that every week he had feared beforehand with a panic -dread. This had been the time of the fire-escape practice, when the -boys, from some second floor window, were pushed down, feet foremost, -into a long canvas funnel through which they slipped safely to the -ground. The passing through this funnel was only of a moment's duration, -but that moment to Harkness had been terrible in its nightmare stifling -sense, pressing blinding confinement. Something of that he felt now. He -seemed to be compelled to push against blankets of cold damp -obstruction. The Fog assumed a personality, and it was a personality -strangely connected in Harkness's confused brain with that little -red-headed man who seemed now always to be pursuing him. He was -somewhere there in the fog; it was part of his game that he was playing -with Harkness, and he could hear that sweet melodious voice whispering: -"Pain, you know. Pain. That's the thing to teach you what life really -means. You'll be thankful to me before I've done with you. You shouldn't -have interfered with my plans, you know. I warned you not to." - -He tried to drive down his fancies and to control his body. That was his -trouble--that every limb, every nerve, every muscle, seemed to be -asserting its own independent life. His legs now--they belonged to him, -but never would you have supposed it. His arms tugged away from him as -though striving to be free. He was not trained for this kind of thing--a -cultured American gentleman with two sisters who read papers to women's -clubs in Oregon. - -He beat down his imagination. He had been crawling on his hands and his -knees, and now he put out one hand and touched space. His heart gave a -sickening bound and lay still. Which way went the path, to right or to -left? He tried to throw his memory back and recapture the shape of it. -There had been a sharp curve somewhere as it bent out towards the sea, -but he did not know how far now he had gone. He strained with his eyes -but could see nothing but the wall of grey. Should he wait there until -the fog cleared or Dunbar came to him: but the fog might be there for -hours, and Dunbar might never come. No, he must not wait. The thought of -Hesther alone in the fog, fearing every moment recapture by the -Crispins, filled with every terror that her loneliness could breed in -her, spurred him on. He _must_ reach her, whatever the risk. - -Stretching his arm at full length he touched the path again, but there -was an interval. Had there been any break in the path when he came down -it? He could not remember any. He felt backwards with his hand and found -the curve, crept forward, then his foot slipt and his leg slid over the -edge. He waited to stop the hammering of his heart, then, balancing -himself, pulled it back then forward again. - -Lucky for him that there was no wind, but again not lucky because had -there been wind the fog might have been blown out of its course: as it -was, with every instant it seemed to grow thicker and thicker. - -Then he grew calmer. He must soon now be reaching the top, and happiness -came to him when he thought that for a time at least he would be -Hesther's only protection. On him, until Dunbar reached them, she would -have absolutely to rely. She would be cold and he must shelter her, and -at the thought of her proximity to him, he with his arm around her, -wrapping her with his coat; holding perhaps her hand in his, he was, -himself, suddenly warm, and his body pulled together and was taut and -strong. - -He fancied that he might walk now. Very carefully he pulled himself up, -stood on his feet, stepped forward--and fell. - - - - -V - - -He screamed, and as he did so the Fog seemed to put its clammy hand -against his mouth, filling it with boneless fingers. This was the -end--this death. All space was about him and a roar of air sweeping up -to meet him. - -Then dimly there came to his brain the message, thrown to him like a -life-line, that he was not falling in space but was slipping down a -slope. He lurched out with his hands, caught some thick tufts of grass, -and held. His legs slid forward and then dangled. With all his -forces--and the muscles of his arms were but weak--he pulled himself -upward and then held himself there, his legs hanging over space. - -While the tufts held, and so long as his arms had the strength, he could -stay. How long might that be? Sickness attacked him, a kind of -sea-sickness. Tears were in his eyes, and an intense self-pity seized -him. What a shame that such an end should come to a man who had meant no -harm to any one, whose life had yet such possibilities. He thought of -his sisters. How they would miss him! He had been tiresome sometimes, -and been restless at home, and pulled them up sharply when they had said -things that he thought stupid, but now only his good points would be -remembered. He had been kind to them; he had a warm heart. He--and here -his brain, working it seemed through his aching, straining arms, began -suddenly to whirl like a top, flinging in front of his eyes a succession -of the most absurd pictures--days in spring woods gathering flowers, his -mother and father laughing at something childish that he had said, a bar -of music from some musical comedy, Erda appearing before Wotan in -_Siegfried_, a night when he had come to a dinner party and had -forgotten to wear a dress tie, the moment when once before an operation -he had been wheeled into the operating theatre, the day when he had -plucked up his courage and decided that he could buy the Whistler -"Little Mast," the grave, anxious, kindly eyes of Strang as he leant -across the etching table, a morning when he had run for an omnibus up -Shaftesbury Avenue and missed it, and the conductor had laughed, that -hour with Maradick at the club, lights, scents, the cold fog drowning -his mouth, his nose, his eyes--then chill space, a roaring wind and -silence. . . . - -How strange after that--and hours afterwards it seemed although it must -have been seconds--to find that he was still living, that his arms were -aching as though they were one extended toothache, and that he was still -holding to those tufts of grass. He had a kind of marvel at his -endurance, and now, suddenly, a wonder as to why he was doing this. Was -it worth while? How stupid this energy! How much better to let himself -go and to sleep, to sleep. How delicious to sleep and be rid of the -ache, the cold, the clammy fog! - -With that, one of the grass tufts to which he was clinging lurched -slightly, and his whole soul was active in its energy to preserve that -life that but now he had thought to throw away. With a struggle to which -he would have supposed he could not have risen he drew his body up -against the slope so that the earth to which he was clinging might the -better restrain his weight. Then resting there, his fingers digging deep -into the soil of the cliff, his head pressed against the rock, he -uttered a prayer: - -"O Lord, help me now. I have a life that has been of little use to the -world, but I have, in this very day, seen better the uses to which I may -put it. Help me from this, give me strength to live and I will try to -leave my idleness and my selfishness and meanness and be a worthier man. -O Lord, I know not whether Thou dost exist or not, but, if Thou art near -me, help me at least now to bear my death worthily, if it must be that, -and to live my life to some real purpose if I am to have it back again. -Amen." Then he repeated the Lord's Prayer. After that he seemed to be -quieted; a great comfort came to him so that he no longer had any -anxiety, his heart beat tranquilly, and he only rested there, passive -for the issue. "If death comes," he thought to himself, "I believe that -it will be very swift. I shall feel no more than I felt just now when I -first tumbled. I shall not have so much pain as with a toothache. I am -leaving no one in the whole world whose existence will be empty because -I have gone. Hesther after to-night I shall never, in any case, see -again, and I am fortunate because, before I die, I have been able to -feel the reality of life, what love is, and caring for others more than -myself." He was quite tranquil. The tuft of grass tugged again. His legs -were numb, and he had the curious fancy that one of his boots had -slipped off, and that one foot, as light as a feather, was blowing -loosely in the air. - -Then it seemed to him--and now it was as though he were half asleep, -working in a dream--that some one was, very gently, pushing him upwards. -At least he was rising. His hands, one by one, left their tufts of grass -and caught higher refuge, first a projecting rock, then a thick hummock -of soil, then a bunch of sea-pinks. In another while, his heart now -beating again with a new excited anticipation, his head lurched forward -on the earth into space. With a last frantic urge he pulled all his body -together and lay huddled on the path safe once more. - -He had now a new trouble because his body refused to move. He had no -body, nothing that he could count upon for action. He tried to find his -connection with it, endeavoured to rest upon his knees, but it was as -though he had been all dissipated into the fog and was turned, himself -now, into mist and vapour. Then this passed, and once more he crawled -forward. - -He turned a corner and met again the Liddon bell. It was strange how -deeply this voice reassured him. He had been all alone in a world -utterly dead. He had not had, like Hardy's hero, the sight of the -crustacean to connect him with eternal life. But this sudden, -melancholy, lowing sound like a creature deserted, crying for its mate, -brought him once more into reality. The bell was insistent and very -loud. It swung through the fog up to him, ringing in his ear, then -fading away again into distance. He spoke aloud as men do when they are -in desperate straits: "Well, old bell," he cried, "I'm not beaten yet, -you see. They've done what they can to finish me, but I'm back again. -You don't get rid of me so easily as that, you know. You can come and -look, if you like. Here I am, company for you after all." - -There was a little breeze blowing now in his eyes and this cheered him. -If only the wind rose the fog would move and all might yet be well. His -clothes were torn, his hands bleeding, his hat gone. He crawled into a -sitting position, shook his fist in the air, and cried: - -"You old devil, you're there, are you! It's your game all this. You're -seeing whether you can finish me. But I'll be even with you yet." And it -did indeed seem to him that he could see through the mist that red head -sticking out like a furze bush on fire. The hair, the damp pale face, -the melancholy eyes, and then the voice: - -"It's only a theory, of course, Mr. Harkness. My father, who was a most -remarkable man. . . ." - -The thought of Crispin enraged him, and the rage drove him on to his -feet. He was standing up and moving forward quite briskly. He moved like -a blind man, his hands before him as though he were expecting at every -moment to strike some hard, sharp substance, but whereas before the fog -had seemed to envelope him, strangling him, penetrating into his very -heart and vitals, now it retreated from before him like a moving wall. -The incline was now less sharp, and now less sharp again. Little pebbles -rolled from beneath his feet, and he could hear them fall over down into -distant space, but he had no longer any fear. He was on level ground. He -knew that the down was spreading about him. He called out, "Hesther! -Hesther!" not realising that this was the first time he had spoken her -name. He called it again, "Hesther! Hesther!" and again and again, -always moving as he fancied forward. - -Then, as though it had been hurled at him out of some gigantic distance, -the rugged wall of the cottage pierced the sky. He saw it, then herself -patiently seated beneath it. In another moment he was kneeling beside -her, both her hands in his, his voice murmuring unintelligible words. - - - - -VI - - -She was so happy to see him. His face was close to hers and for the -first time he could really see her, her large, grave, questioning eyes, -her child's face, half developed, nothing very beautiful in her -features, but to him something inexpressibly lovely for which all his -life he had been waiting. - -She was damp with the fog, and the first thing he did was to take off -his coat and try to put it around her. But she stood up resisting him. - -"Oh no, I'm not cold. I'm not really. And do you think I'll let you? -Why, you! What have you done? Your hands are all torn and your face!" - -She was very close to him. She put up her hand and touched his face. It -needed to muster everything that he had in him not to put his arms -around her. He conquered himself. "That's nothing," he said; "I had some -trouble climbing up from the cliff. I was just half-way up when the fog -came on. It wasn't much of a path in any case." - -She stood with her hand on his arm. "Oh, what shall we do? We shall -never find the boat now. The fog will clear and we will be caught. We -can't move from here while it lasts." - -"No," he said firmly, "we can't move. This is the place where Dunbar -will expect us. He'll turn up here at any moment. Meanwhile, we must -just wait for him. Is the pony all right?" - -"I don't know what I'd have done without the pony," she said. "When the -fog came up I was terrified. I didn't know what I'd better do. I called -your names, but, of course, you didn't hear. And then it got colder and -colder and I kept thinking that I was seeing Them. His red hair. . . ." - -She suddenly, shivering, put her hand on his arm. "Oh, don't let them -find us," she said; "I couldn't go back to that. I would rather kill -myself. I _would_ kill myself if I went back. What they are--oh! you -don't know!" - -He took her hand and held it firmly. "Now see here, we don't know how -long Dunbar will be, or how long the fog will last, or anything. We -can't do anything but stay here, and it's no good if we stay here and -think of all the terrible things that may happen. The fog can't last for -ever. Dunbar may come any minute. What we have to do is to sit down on -this stone here and imagine we are sitting in front of our fire at home -talking like old friends about--oh well, anything you like--whatever old -friends do talk about. Can your imagination help you that far?" - -He saw that she was at the very edge of her nerves; a step further and -she would topple over into wild hysteria; he knew enough already about -her character to be sure that nothing would cause her such self-scorn -and regret as that loss of self-control. He was not very sure of his own -control; everything had piled up upon him pretty heavily during the last -hour; but she was such a child that he had an immense sense of -responsibility as though he had been fifteen years older at least. - -"I haven't very much imagination," she said, in a voice hovering between -laughter and tears. "Father always used to tell me that was my chief -lack. And we _are_ old friends, as we said a while ago, even though we -have just met." - -"That's right," he said. "Now we will have to sit rather close together. -There's only one stone and the grass is most awfully wet. Every three -minutes or so I'll get up and shout Dunbar's name in case he is -wandering about quite close to us." - -He stood up and, putting his hands to his mouth, shouted with all his -might: "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -He waited. There was no answer. Only the fog seemed to grow closer. He -turned to her and said: - -"Don't you think the fog's clearing a little?" - -She shook her head. There was still a little quaver in her voice: "I'm -afraid not. You're saying that to cheer me up. You needn't. I'm not -frightened. Think how lucky I am to have you with me. You mightn't have -come back. You might have missed your way for hours." - -When he thought of how nearly he had missed his way for ever and ever he -trembled. He mustn't let his thoughts wander in those paths; he was here -to make her feel happy and safe until Dunbar came. They sat down on the -stone together, and he put his arm around her to hold her there and to -keep her warm. - -"Now what shall we talk about?" she asked him. - -"Ourselves," he answered her. "We have a splendid opportunity. Here we -are, cut off by the fog, away from every one in the world. We know -nothing about one another, or almost nothing. We can scarcely see one -another's faces. It is a wonderful opportunity." - -"Well, you tell me about yourself first." - -"Ah! there's the trouble. I'm so terribly dull. I've never been or -thought or said anything interesting. I'm like thousands and thousands -of people in this world who are simply shadows to everybody else." - -"Remember we're to tell the truth," she said. "No one ever honestly -thinks that about themselves--that they are just shadows of somebody -else. Every one has their own secret importance for themselves--at -least, every one in our village had. People you would have supposed had -_nothing_ in them, yet if you talked to them you soon saw that they -fancied that the world would end if they weren't in it to make it go -round." - -"Well, honestly, that isn't my opinion of myself," Harkness answered. "I -don't think that I help the world to go round at all. Of course, I think -that there have to be all the ordinary people in it like myself to -appreciate all the doings and sayings of the others, the geniuses--to -make the audience. There are so many things I don't care for." - -"What _do_ you care for?" - -"Oh, different things at different times--not permanently for much. -Pictures--especially etchings--music, travel. But never very deeply or -urgently, except for the etchings. . . . Until to-night," he suddenly -added, lowering his voice. - -"Until to-night?" - -"Yes, ever since I left Paddington--let me see--how many hours ago? It's -now about two o'clock, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Ten minutes -to two. Nearly nine hours. Ever since nine hours ago. I've felt a new -kind of energy, a new spirit, the thrill, the excitement that all my -life I've wanted to have but that never came until now. Being really -_in_ life instead of just watching it like a spectator." - -She put her hand on his. "I am so glad you're here. Do you know I used -to boast that I never could be frightened by anything? But these last -weeks--all my courage has gone. Oh, why has this fog come? We were -getting on so well, everything was all right--and now I know they'll -find us, I know they'll find us. I'm sure he's just behind there, -somewhere, hiding in the fog, listening to us. And perhaps David is -killed. I can't bear it. I can't bear it!" - -She suddenly clung to him, hiding her face in his coat. He soothed her -just as he would his own child, as though she had been his child all her -life. "Hesther! Hesther! You mustn't. You mustn't break down. Think how -brave you've been all this time. The fog can clear in a moment and then -we'll still have time to catch the train. Anyway the fog's a protection. -If Crispin were after us he'd never find us in this. Don't cry, Hesther. -Don't be unhappy. Let's just go on talking as though we were at home. -You're quite safe here. No one can touch you." - -"Yes, I'm safe," she whispered, "so long as you're here." His heart -leapt up. He forced himself to speak very quietly: - -"Now I'll tell you about _myself._ It will be soon over. I grew up in a -place called Baker in Oregon in the United States. It is a long way from -anywhere, but all the big trains go through it on the way out to the -Pacific coast. I grew up there with my two sisters and my father. I lost -my mother when I was very young. We had a funny ramshackle old house -under the mountains, full of books. We had very long winters and very -hot summers. I went to a place called Andover to school. Then my father -died and left me some money, and since then--oh! since then I dare not -tell you what a waste I have made of my life, never settling anywhere, -longing for Europe and the old beautiful things when I was in America -and longing for the energy and vitality of America when I was in Europe. -That's what it is to be really cosmopolitan--to have no home anywhere. - -"The only intimate friends I have are the etchings, and I sometimes -think that they also despise me for the idle life I lead." - -He could see that she was interested. She was quietly sitting, her head -against his shoulder, her hand in his just as a little girl might listen -to her elder brother. - -"And that's all?" she asked. - -"Yes. Absolutely all. I'm ashamed to let you look at so miserable a -picture. I have been like so many people in the world, especially since -the war. Modern cleverness has taken one's beliefs away, modern -stupidity has deprived one of the possibility of hero-worship. No God, -no heroes any more. Only one's disappointing self. What is left to make -life worth while? So you think while you are on the bank watching the -stream of life pass by. It is different if some one or something pushes -you in. Then you must fight for existence for your own self or, better -still, for some one else. They who care for something or some one more -than themselves--some cause, some idea, some prophecy, some beauty, some -person--they are the happy ones." He laughed. "Here I am sitting in the -middle of this fog, a useless selfish creature who has suddenly -discovered the meaning of life. Congratulate me." - -He felt that she was looking up at him. He looked down at her. Their -eyes stared at one another. His heart beat riotously, and behind the -beating there was a strange pain, a poignant longing, a deep, deep -tenderness. - -"I don't understand everything you say," she replied at last. "Except -that I am sure you are doing an injustice to yourself when you give such -an account. But what you say about unselfishness I don't agree with. How -is one unselfish if one is doing things for people one loves? I wasn't -unselfish because I worked for the boys. I had to. They needed it." - -"Tell me about your home," he said. - -She sighed, then drew herself a little away from him, as though she were -suddenly determined to be independent, to owe no man anything. - -"Mother died when I was very young," she said. "I only remember her as -some one who was always tired, but very, very kind. But she liked the -boys better. I remember I used to be silly and feel hurt because she -liked them better. But the day before she died she told me to look after -them, and I was so proud, and promised. And I have tried." - -"Were they younger than you?" - -"Yes. One was three years younger and the other five. I think they cared -for me, but never as much as I did for them." - -She stopped as though she were listening. The fog was now terribly thick -and was in their eyes, their nostrils, their mouths. They could see -nothing at all, and when he jumped to his feet and called again, -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" he knew that he vanished from her sight. He -could feel from the way that she caught his hand and held it when he sat -down again how, for a moment, she had lost him. - -"It's always that way, isn't it?" she went on, and he could tell from an -undertone in her voice that this talking was an immense relief to her. -She had, he supposed, not talked to any one for weeks. - -"Always what way?" he asked. - -"That if you love some one very much they don't love you so much. And -then the same the other way." - -"Very often," he agreed. - -"I'm sure that's what I did wrong at home. Showed them that I cared for -them too much. The boys were very good, but they were boys, you know, -and took everything for granted as men do." She said this with a very -old world-wise air. "They were dear boys--they were and are. But it was -better before they went to school, when they needed me always. -Afterwards when they had been to school they despised girls and thought -it silly to let girls do things for them. And then they didn't like -being at home--because father drank." - -She dropped her voice here and came very close to him. - -"Do you know what it is to hate and love the same person? I was like -that with father. When he had drunk too much and broke all the -things--when we had so few anyway--and hit the boys, and did things--oh, -dreadful things that men do when they're drunk, then I hated him. I -didn't love him. I didn't want to help him--I just wanted to get away. -And before--before he drank so much he was so good and so sweet and so -clever. Do you know that my father was one of the cleverest doctors in -the whole of England? He was. If he hadn't drunk he might have been -anywhere and done anything. But sometimes when he _was_ drunk and the -boys were away at school, and the house was in such a mess, and the -servant wouldn't stay because of father, I felt I couldn't go on--I -_couldn't!_--and that I'd run down the road leaving everything as it -was, into the town and hide so that they'd never find me. . . . And -now," she suddenly broke out, "I have run away--and see what I've made -of it!" - -"It isn't over yet," he said to her quietly. "Life's just beginning for -you." - -"Well, anyway," she answered, with a sudden resolute calm that made her -seem ever so much older and more mature, "I've helped the boys to start -in life, and I won't have to go back to all that again--that's -something. It's fine to love some one and work for them as you said just -now, but if it's always dirty, and there's never enough money, and the -servants are always in a bad temper, and you never have enough clothes, -and all the people in the village laugh at you because your father -drinks, then you want to stop loving for a little while and to escape -anywhere, anywhere to anybody where it isn't dirty. Love isn't -enough--no, it isn't--if you're so tired with work that you haven't any -energy to think whether you love or not." - -She hesitated there, looking away from him, and said so softly that he -with difficulty caught her words: "I will tell you one thing that you -won't believe, but it's true. I wanted to go to Crispin." - -He turned to look at her in amazement. - -"You _wanted_ to go?" - -"Yes. I know you thought that I went for the boys and father. I know -that David thinks that too. Of course that was true a little. He -promised me that they should have everything. It was a relief to me that -I needn't think of them any more. But it wasn't only that. I wanted to -go. I wanted to be free." - -"To be free!" Harkness cried. "My God! What freedom! I can understand -your wanting to escape, but with _such_ men. . . ." - -She turned round upon him eagerly. "You don't know what he can be -like--the elder Crispin, I mean. And to a girl, an ignorant, conceited -girl. Yes, I was conceited, that was the cause of everything. Father had -all sorts of books in his room, I used to read everything I could -see--French and German in a kind of way, and secretly I was very proud -of myself. I thought that I was more learned than any one I knew, and I -used to smile to myself secretly when I overheard people saying how good -I was to the boys, and how unselfish, and I would think, 'That's not -what I am at all. If you only knew how much I know, and the kind of -things, you'd be surprised.' - -"I was always thinking of the day when I would escape and marry. I -fancied I knew everything about marriage from the books that I had read -and from the things that father said when he was drunk. I hadn't a nice -idea of marriage at all. I thought it was old-fashioned to fall in love, -but through marriage I could reach some fine position where I could do -great things in the world, and always in my mind I saw myself coming one -day back to my village and every one saying: 'Why, I had not an idea she -was like _that._ Fancy all the time she was with us we never knew she -was clever like this.'" - -She laughed like a child, a little maliciously, very simply and -confidingly. He saw that she had for the moment forgotten her danger, -and was sitting there in the middle of a dense fog on a lonely moor at a -quarter-past two in the morning with an almost complete stranger as -though she were giving him afternoon tea in the placid security of a -London suburb. He was glad; he did not wish to bring back her earlier -terror, but for himself now, with every moment that passed, he was -increasingly anxious. Time was flying; now they could never catch that -train. And above all, what could have happened to Dunbar? He must surely -have found them by now had some accident not come to him. Perhaps he had -slipped as Harkness had done and was now lying smashed to pieces at the -bottom of that cliff. But what could he, Harkness, do better than this? -While the fog was so dense it was madness to move off in search of any -one. And if the fog lasted were they to sit there until morning and be -caught like mice in a kitchen? - -And beneath his anxiety, as his arm held the child at his side, there -was that strange mixture of triumph and pain, of some odd piercing -loneliness and a deep burning satisfaction. Meanwhile her hand rested in -his, soft and warm like the touch of a bird's breast. - -"When Mr. Crispin came--the elder, the father--and talked to me I was -flattered. No one before had ever talked to me as he did about his -travels and his collections and the grand people he knew, just as though -I were as old as he was. And then David--Mr. Dunbar--was always asking -me to marry him. I'd known him all my life, and I liked him better than -any one else in the whole world; but just because I'd always known him -he wasn't exciting. He was the last person I wanted to marry. Then Mr. -Crispin made father drink and I hated him for that, and I hated father -for letting him do it. I went up to Mr. Crispin's house and told him -what I thought of him, and he talked and talked and talked, all about -having power over people for their good and hurting them first and -loving them all afterwards. I didn't understand most of it, but the end -of it was that he said that if I would marry his son he would leave -father alone and would give me everything. I should see the world and -all life, and that his son loved me and would be kind to me. - -"After that it was the strangest thing. I don't say that he hypnotised -me. I knew that he was bad. Every one in the place was speaking about -him. He had done some cruel thing to a horse, and there was a story, -too, about some woman in the village. But I thought that I knew better -than all of them, that I would save father and the boys and be grand -myself--and then I would show David that he wasn't the only one who -cared for me. - -"And so--I consented. From the moment I promised I was terrified. I knew -that I had done a terrible thing. But it was too late. I was already a -prisoner. That is a hysterical thing to say, but it is true. They never -let me out of their sight. I was married very quickly after that. I -won't say anything about the first week of my marriage except that I -didn't need books any more to teach me. I knew the sin I'd committed. -But I was proud--I was as proud as I was frightened. I wasn't going to -let any one know what a terrible position I was in--and especially -David. When we went to Treliss, David came too and waited. In my heart I -was so glad he was there. - -"You don't know what went on in that house. The younger Crispin wasn't -unkind. He was simply indifferent. He thought of nothing and nobody but -his father. His father mocked him, despised him, scorned him, but he -didn't care. He follows his father like a dog. At first you know I -thought I could make a job of it, carrying it through. And then I began -to understand. - -"First one little thing, then another. The elder Crispin was always -talking, floods of it. He was always looking at me and smiling at me. -After two days in the house with him I hated him as I hadn't known I -could hate any one. When he touched me I trembled all over. It became a -kind of duel between us. He was always talking nonsense about making me -love him through pain--and his eyes never said what his mouth said. They -were like the eyes of another person caught there by mistake. - -"Then one day I came into the library upstairs and found him with a dog. -A little fox-terrier. He had tied it to the leg of the table and was -flicking it with a whip. He would give it a flick, then stand back and -look at it, then give it another flick. The awful thing was that the dog -was too frightened to howl, too terrified to know that it was being hurt -at all. He was smiling, watching the dog very carefully, but his eyes -were sad and unhappy. After that there were many signs. I knew then two -things, that he was raving crazy mad and that I was a prisoner in that -house. They watched me night and day. I had no money. My only hope of -escape was through David who was always getting word to me, begging me -to let him help me. But I still had my pride, although it was nearly -beaten. I wouldn't yield until--until the night before you came, then -something happened, something he tried to do; the younger Crispin -stopped him that time, but another time--well, there mightn't be any one -there. That settled it all. I let David know through you that I would -go. I _had_ to go. I couldn't risk another moment. I couldn't risk -another moment, I tell you." She suddenly sprang up, caught at -Harkness's hands in an agony, crying: - -"Don't stay here! Don't stay here! They can find us here! We're going to -be caught again. Oh, please come! Please! Please!" - -She was suddenly crazy with terror. Had he not held her with all his -force she would have rushed off into the fog. She struggled in his arms, -pulling and straining, crying, not knowing what she said. Then suddenly -she relaxed, would have tumbled had he not held her, and murmuring, "I -can't any more--oh, I can't any more!" collapsed, so that he knew she -had fainted. - - - - -VII - - -He sat down on the stone, laying her in his arms as though she were his -child. He was, himself, not strongly built, but she was so slight in his -hold that he could not believe that she was a woman. He murmured words -to her, stroked her forehead with his hand; she stirred, turning towards -him, and resting her head more securely on his breast. Then her hand -moved to his cheek and lay against it. - -At last after a long while she raised her head, looked about her, stared -up at him as though she had just awoken, turned and kissed him on the -cheek. She murmured something--he could not catch the words--then -nestled down into his arms as though she would sleep. - -There began for him then, sitting there, staring out into the unblinking -fog, his hardest test. As surely as never before in his life had he -known what love truly was, so did he know it now. This child in her -ignorance, her courage, her hard history, her contact with the worst -elements in human nature, her purity, had found her way into the -innermost recesses of his heart. He saw as he sat there, with a strange -almost divine clarity of vision, both into her soul and into his own. He -knew that when she faced life again he would be the first to whom she -would turn. He knew that with one word, one look, he could win her love. -He knew that she had also never felt what love was. He knew that the -circumstances of this night had turned her towards him as she would -never have been turned in ordinary conditions. Yes, he knew this -too--that had they met in everyday life she would never have loved him, -would not indeed have thought of him twice. - -He was not a man about whom any one thought twice. With the exception of -his sisters no woman had ever loved him; this child, driven to terrified -desperation by the horrors of the last weeks had been wakened to full -womanhood by those same horrors, and he had happened to be there at the -awakening. That was all. And yet he knew that so honest was she, and -good and true, that did she once go to him she would stay with him. He -saw steadily into the future. He saw her freedom from the madman to whom -she was married, then her union with himself. His happiness, and her -gradual discovery of the kind of man that he was. Not bad--oh no--but -older, far older than herself in many other ways than years, tired so -easily, caring nothing for all the young things in life, above all a man -in the middle state, solitary from some elemental loneliness of soul. It -was true that to-night had shown him a new energy of living, a new -happiness, a new vigour, and he would perhaps after to-night never be -the same man as he was before. But it was not enough. No, not enough for -this young girl just beginning life, so ignorant of it, so trustful of -him that she would follow the path that he pointed out. And for himself! -How often he had felt like Nejdanov in _Virgin Soil_ that "everything -that he had said or done during the day seemed to him so utterly false, -such useless nonsense, and the thing that ought to be done was nowhere -to be found . . . unattainable . . . in the depths of a bottomless pit." -Well, of to-night that was not true. What he had done was useful, was -well done. But to-morrow how would he regard it? Would it not seem like -senseless melodrama, the mad Crispins, his fall from the cliff, this -eternal fog? How like his history that the most conclusive and eternal -acts of his life should take place in a fog! And this girl whom he loved -so dearly, if he married her and kept her for himself would not his -conscience, that eternal tiresome conscience of his, would it not for -ever reproach him, telling him that he had spoilt her life, and would -not he be for ever watching to catch that moment when she would realize -how dull, how old, how negative he was? No, he could not . . . he could -not . . . - -Then there swept over him all the fire of the other impulse. Why should -he not, at long last, be happy? Could any man in the world be better to -her than he would be? After all he was not so old. Had he not known when -he shared in that dance round the town that he could be part of life, -could feel with the common pulse of humanity? Did young Dunbar know life -better than he? With him she had lived always and yet did not love him. - -And then he knew with a flash like lightning through the fog that at -this moment, when she was waking to life and was trusting him, he could -by only a few words, lead her to love Dunbar. She had always seen him in -a commonplace, homely, familiar light, but he, Harkness, if he liked, -could show her quite another light, could turn all this fresh romantic -impulse that was now flowing towards himself into another channel. - -But why should he? Was that not simply sentimental idealism? Dunbar was -no friend of his, he had never seen him before yesterday, why should he -give up to him the only real thing that his life had yet known? - -But it was not sentimental, it was not false. Youth to youth. In years -he was not so old, but in his hesitating, quixotic, undetermined -character there were elements of analysis, self-questioning, regret, -that would make any human being with whom he was intimately related -unhappy. - -Sitting there, staring out into the fog, he knew the truth--that he was -a man doomed to be alone all his days. That did not mean that he could -not make much of his life, have many friends, much good fortune--but in -the last intimacy he could go to no one and no one could go to him. - -He bent down and kissed her forehead. She stirred, moved, sat up, -resting back against him, her feet on the ground. - -"Where am I?" she whispered. "Oh yes." She clung to his arm. "No one has -come? We are still alone?" - -"No," he answered her gently, "no one has come. We are still alone." - - - - -VIII - - -"What time is it?" she asked. - -He looked at his watch. "Half-past two." - -"We have missed that train now." - -"I don't know. And anyway there's probably another." - -"And David?" - -"He's lost his way in the fog. He'll turn up at any moment." He stood up -and shouted once again: - -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -No answer. - -He stood over her looking down at her as she sat with drooping head. She -looked up at him. "I'm ashamed at the way I've behaved," she said, -"fainting and crying. But you needn't be afraid any more. I shan't give -in again." - -Indeed, he seemed to see in her altogether a new spirit, something finer -and more secure. She put out her hand to him. - -"Come and sit down on the stone again as we were before. It's better for -us to talk and then we don't frighten ourselves with possibilities. -After all, we can't _do_ anything, can we, so long as this horrid fog -lasts? We must just sit here and wait for David." - -He sat down, put his arm around her as he had done before. The moment -had come. He had only now to speak and the result was certain--the whole -of his future life and hers. He knew so exactly what he would say. The -words were forming on his lips. - -"Hesther dear, I've known you so short a time, but nevertheless I love -you with all my heart and being. When you are rid of this horrible man -will you marry me? I will spend all my life in making you happy----" - -And she, oh, without an instant's doubt, would say "Yes," would hide in -his arms, and rest there as though secure, yes, utterly secure for life. -But the battle was over. He would not begin it again. He clipped the -words back and sat silent, one hand clenched on his knee. - -It was as though she were waiting for him to speak. Their silence was -packed with anticipation. At last she said: - -"What is the matter? Is there something you're afraid of that you don't -like to tell me? You needn't mind. I'm through my fear." - -"No, there's nothing," he answered. At last he said: "There _is_ one -thing I'd like to say to you. I suppose I've no right to speak of it -seeing how recently I've known you, but I guess this night has made us -friends as months of ordinary living never would have made us." - -"Yes, you're right in that," she answered. He knew what she was -expecting him to say. - -"Well, it's about Dunbar." He could feel her hand jump in his. "He loves -you so much--so terribly. He isn't a man, I should think, to say very -much about his feelings. I've only known him for an hour or two, and he -wouldn't have said anything to me if he hadn't _had_ to. But from the -little he did say I could see what he feels. You're in luck to have a -man like that in love with you." - -She took her hand out of his, then, very quietly but very stiffly, -answered: - -"But I've known him all my life, you know." - -"That's just why I'm speaking about him," Harkness answered. - -"It's rather strange to have the friend of your life explained to you by -some one who has known him only for an hour or two." She laughed a -little angrily. - -"But that's just why I'm speaking," he answered. "When you've known some -one all your life you can't see them clearly. That's why one's own -family always knows so little about one. You can't see the wood for the -trees. In the first minutes a stranger sees more. I don't say that I -know Dunbar as _well_ as you do--I only say that I probably see things -in him that you don't see." - -They had been so close to one another during this last hour that he felt -as though he could see, as through clear water, deep into her mind. - -He knew that, during those last minutes, she had been struggling -desperately. She came up to him victorious and, smiling and putting her -hand into his, said: - -"Tell me what _you_ think about him." - -"Simply that he seems to me a wonderful fellow. He seems to you, I -expect, a little dull. You've always laughed at him a bit, and for that -very reason, and because he's loved you for so long, he's tongue-tied -when you're there and shy of showing you what he really thinks about -things. He has immense qualities of character--fidelity, honesty, -devotion, courage--things simply beyond price, and if you loved him and -showed him that you did you'd probably see quite new things--fun and -spontaneity and imagination--things that he had always been afraid to -show you until now." - -Her hand trembled in his. - -"You speak," she said, "as though you thought that you were so much -older than both of us. I don't feel that you are. Can't you----" she -broke off. He knew what she would say. - -"My dear," and his voice was eloquently paternal, "I _am_ older than -both of you--years and years older. Not physically, perhaps, so much, -but in every other kind of way. I am an old fogey, nothing else. You've -both of you been kind to me to-night, but in the morning, when ordinary -life begins again, you'll soon see what a stuffy old thing I am. No, no. -Think of me as your uncle. But don't miss--oh, don't miss!--the love of -a man like Dunbar. There's so little of that unselfish devoted love in -the world, and when it comes to you it's a crime to miss it." - -"But you can't force yourself to love any one!" she cried, sharply. - -"No, you can't force yourself, but it's strange what seeing new -qualities in some one, looking at some one from another angle, will do. -Try and look at him as though you'd met him for the first time, forget -that you've known him always. I tell you that he's one in a million!" - -"Yes, he's good," she answered softly. "He's been wonderful to me -always. If he'd been less wonderful perhaps--I don't know, perhaps I'd -have loved him more. But why are we talking about it? Aren't I married -as it is?" - -"Oh that!" He made a little gesture of repulsion. "We must get rid of -that at once." - -"It won't be very difficult," she answered, dropping her voice to a -whisper. "He hasn't been faithful to me--even during these weeks." - -He put his arm round her and held her close as though he were truly her -father. "Poor child!" he said, "poor child!" - -She trembled in his arms. - -"You----" she began. "You----? Don't you----?" She could say no more. - -"I'm your friend," he answered, "to the end of life. Your old avuncular -friend. That's my job. Think of your _young_ friend freshly. See what a -fellow he is. I tell you that's a man!" - -She did not answer him, but stayed there hiding her head in his coat. - -There was a long silence, then, stroking her hair, he said: - -"Hesther dear. I'm going to try once again." He got up and, putting his -hands trumpet-wise to his mouth, shouted through the fog: - -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -This time there was an answer, clear and definite. "Hallo! Hallo! -Hallo!" He turned excitedly to her. She also sprang to his feet. "He's -there! I can hear him!" - -"Dunbar! Dunbar!" - -The answer came more clearly: "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" - -They continued to exchange cries. Sometimes the reply was faint. Once it -seemed to be lost altogether. Then suddenly it was close at hand. A -ghostly figure was shadowed. - -Dunbar came running. - - - - -IX - - -He caught their hands in his. He was breathless. He sank down on the -stone beside them: - -"Give me a minute. . . . I'm done. Lord! this filthy fog. . . . Where -haven't I been?" He panted, staring up at them with wide distracted -eyes. - -"Do you realize? I've failed. It's no use our crossing in that boat now -even if we could find it. We've missed that train. We're done." - -"Nonsense," Harkness broke in. "Why, man, what's happened to you? This -isn't like you to lose your courage. We're not done or anything like it. -In the first place we're all together again. That's something in a fog -like this. Besides so long as we stick together we're out of their -power. They can't force us, all of us, back into that house again. So -long as we're out of that house we're safe." - -"Oh, are we?" said Dunbar. "Little you know that man. I tell you we're -not safe--or Hesther's not safe--until we're at least a hundred miles -away. But forgive me," he looked up at them both, smiling, "you're quite -right, Harkness. I haven't any right to talk like this. But you don't -know what a time I've had in that fog." - -"I had a little bit of a time myself," said Harkness. - -"Well in the first place," went on Dunbar, "I was terrified about you. I -knew that you didn't know these cliffs well. When the fog started I -called to you to come back, but you didn't hear me, of course. I was an -idiot to let you start out at all. - -"And then, when it came to myself climbing them I wasn't very -successful. I was nearly over the edge fifty times at least. But at last -when I _did_ get to the top the ridiculous thing was that I started off -in the wrong direction. There I was only five minutes from the cottage -and the pony and Hesther; I know the place like my own hand, and yet I -went in the wrong direction. - -"God knows where I got to. I was nearly over into the sea twice at -least. I kept calling your names, but the only thing I heard in answer -was that beastly bell. I never went very far, I imagine, because when I -heard your voice at last, Harkness, I was quite close to it. But just to -think of it! Every other emergency in the world I'd considered except -just this one! It simply never entered my head." - -"Well now," said Harkness, "let's face the facts. It's too late for that -train. Is there any other that we can catch?" - -"There's one at six, but I don't see ourselves hanging about here for -another three hours, nor, if the fog doesn't lift, can Hesther get down -into that cove. I'm not especially anxious to try it myself as a matter -of fact." - -"No, nor I," said Harkness, smiling. "Then we count the boat out. There -aren't many other things we can do. We can take the pony and follow him. -He'll lead us straight back to Treliss to whatever stables he came -from--a little too close to the Crispin family, I fancy. Secondly, we -can wait here until the fog clears; that _may_ be in three minutes time, -it may be to-morrow. You both know more about these sea-fogs down here -than I do, but, from the look of it, it's solid till Christmas." - -"A heat fog this time of year," said Dunbar, "within three miles of the -sea can last for twenty-four hours or longer--not as thick as this -though--this is one of the thickest I've ever seen." - -"Well then," continued Harkness, "it isn't much good to wait until it -clears. The only thing remaining for us is to walk off somewhere. The -question is, where? Is there any garage within a mile or two or any -friend with a car? It isn't three o'clock yet. We still have time." - -"Yes," said Dunbar, "there is. I've had it in my mind all along as an -alternative. Indeed it was the first thing of all that I thought of. -Three miles from here there's a village, Cranach. The rector of Cranach -is a sporting old man called Banting. During the last week or two we've -made friends. He's sixty or so, a bachelor, and he's got a car. Not much -of a car, but still it's something. I believe if we go and appeal to -him--we'll have to wake him up, of course--he'll help us. I know that he -disapproves strongly of the Crispins. I thought of him before, as I say, -but I didn't want to involve him in a row with Crispin. However, now, as -things have gone, it's got to be. I can think of no other alternative." - -"Good," said Harkness, "that settles it. Our only remaining difficulty -is to find our way there through this fog." - -"I can start straight," said Dunbar. "Left from the cottage and then -straight ahead. Soon we ought to leave the Downs and strike some trees. -After that it's across the fields. I don't think I can miss it." - -"What about the pony?" asked Hesther. - -"We'll have to leave him. He must be there for Jabez in the morning or -Jabez will have to pay for both the pony and the cart." - -They started off. The character of the fog seemed now slightly to have -changed. It was certainly thicker in some places than in others. Here it -was an impenetrable wall, but there it seemed to be only a gauze -covering hanging before a multitude of changing scenes and persons. Now -it was a multitude of armed men advancing, and you could be sure that -you heard the clang of shield on shield and a thousand muffled steps. -Now it was horses wheeling, their manes tossing, their tails flying, now -secret furtive figures that moved and peered, stopped, bending forward -and listening, then moved on again. - -All the world was stirring. A breeze ran along the ground, rustling the -short thin grass. Sea-gulls were circling the mist crying. A ship at sea -was sounding its horn. Figures seemed to press in on every side. - -They linked arms as they went, stumbling over the tussocks at every -step. It was strange how the sudden vanishing of the cottage left them -forlorn. It had been their one sure substantial hold on life. They were -in their own world while they could touch those ruined stones, but now -they walked in air. - -Nevertheless Dunbar walked forward confidently. He thought that he -recognised this landmark and that. "Now we veer a bit to the left," he -said. "We should be off the moor in another step." - -They walked forward. Suddenly Hesther pulled back, crying. "Look out! -Look out!" Another instant and they would have walked forward into -space. The mist here twisted up into thinning spirals as though to show -them what they had escaped; they could just see the sharp black line of -the cliff. Far, far beneath them the sea purred like a cat. - -They stopped where they were as though fixed like images into the wall -of the fog. - -Dunbar whispered: "That's awful. Another moment. . . ." - -It was Hesther who pulled them together again. "Let's turn sharp about," -she said, "and walk straight in front of us. At least we escape the -sea." - -They turned as she had said and then walked forward, but in the minds of -all of them there was the same thought. Some one was playing with them, -some one like an evil Will-o'-the-wisp was leading them, now here, now -there. Almost they could see his red poll gleaming through the fog and -could hear his silvery voice running like music up and down the scale of -the mist. - -They were, three of them, worn with the events of the night. They were -beginning to walk somnambulistically. Harkness found in himself now a -strange kind of intimacy with the Fog. - -Yes, spell it with a capital letter. The Fog. The FOG. Some emanation of -himself, rolling out of him, friendly and also hostile. He and Crispin -were of the Fog together. They had both created it, and as they were the -good and evil of the Fog so was all Life, shapeless, rolling hither and -thither, but having in its elements Good and Evil in eternal friendship -and eternal enmity. - -Every part of his body was aching. His legs were so weary that they -dragged with him, protesting; his eyes were for ever closing, his head -nodding. He stumbled as he walked, and at his side, step by step in time -the Fog accompanied him, a mountainous grey-swathed giant. - -He was talking, words were for ever pouring from him, words mixed with -fog, so that they were damp and thick before ever they were free. "In -life there are not, you know, enough moments of clear understanding. -Between nations, between individuals, those moments are too often -confused by winds that, blowing from nowhere in particular, ruffle the -clear water where peace of mind and love of soul for soul are -reflected. . . . Now the waters are clear. Let us look down." - -Yes, he had read that somewhere. In one of Galleon's books perhaps? No -matter. It meant nothing. "A fine sentiment. What it means. . . . Well, -no matter. Don't you smell roses? Roses out here on the moor. If it -wasn't for the fog you'd smell them--ever so many. And so he tore the -'Orvieto' into shreds. Little scraps flying in the air like goose -feathers. What a pity! Such a beautiful thing. . . ." - -"Hold up," cried Dunbar. "You're asleep, Harkness. You'll have us all -down." - -He pulled together with a start, and opening his eyes wide and staring -about him saw only the disgusting fog. - -"This fog is too much of a good thing. Don't you think so? I guess we -could blow it away if we all tried hard enough? You think Americans -always say 'I guess,' don't you? The English books always make them. But -don't you believe it. We only do it to please the English. They like it. -It satisfies their vanity." - -He seemed to be climbing an enormous endless staircase. He mounted -another step, two, and suddenly was wide awake. - -"What nonsense I'm talking! I've been half asleep. This fog gets into -your brain." He felt Hesther's arm within his. He patted her hand -encouragingly. "It's all right, Hesther. We'll be out of this soon. Just -another minute or two." - -"By Jove, you're right," Dunbar cried; "these are trees." - -And they were. A whole row of them. Crusoe was not more glad to see the -footprint on the sand than were those three to see those trees. "Now I -know where we are!" Dunbar cried triumphantly. "Here's the bridge and -here's the lane. What luck to have found it!" - -The trees seemed to step forward and greet them, each one tall and -dignified, welcoming them to a happier country. They were on a road and -had no longer the turf beneath their feet. The fog here was truly -thinner so that very dimly they could see the mark of the hedge like a -clothes-line in mid-air. - -They moved now much more rapidly, and in their hearts was an intense, an -eager relief. The fog thinned until it was a wall of silver. Nothing was -distant, but it was a world of tangible reality. They could kick pebbles -with their feet, could hear sheep moving on the farther side of the -hedge. - -"This is better," said Dunbar. "We'll get out of this yet. Cranach is -only a mile or so from here. I know this lane well. And the fog's going -to lift at last." - -Even as he spoke it swept up, thick and grey deeper than before. The -trees disappeared, the hedges. They had once more to grope for one -another's hands and walk close. - -Harkness could feel from the way that Hesther leaned against him, and -the drag of her feet, that she was near the end of her endurance. She -said nothing. Only walked on and on. - -They were all now silent. They must have walked it seemed to them, for -miles. An endless walk that had no beginning and no end. And then -Harkness was strangely aware--how, he never knew--that Dunbar and -Hesther were drawing closer together. - -He felt that new relation that he had in a way created beginning to grow -between them. She drew away from Harkness ever so slightly. Then -suddenly he knew that Dunbar had put his arm round her and was holding -her up. She was so weary that she did not know what she was doing--but -for that quiet, resolute, determined boy it must have been a moment of -great triumph, the first time in their two lives that she had in any way -surrendered to him or allowed him to care for her. Harkness was once -more alone. - -They walked and walked and walked. They did not know where they were -walking, but in their minds they were sure it was straight to Cranach. - -Suddenly, after, as it seemed, hours of silence in a dead world, Dunbar -cried: - -"We're there. Oh, thank God! we're there. This is the rectory wall." - -A wall was before them and an open gate. They walked through the gate, -only dimly seen, stumbled where the lawn rose from the gravel, then -forward again, down on to the gravel again. The door was open. - -Like somnambulists they walked forward. The door closed behind them. - -Like somnambulists awakened they saw lights, a dim hall where flags -waved. - -For Harkness there was something familiar--quite close to him, the -chatter-chatter of a clock, like a coughing dog. Familiar? He stared. - -Some one was standing, looking at him and smiling. - -With sudden agony in his voice, as a man cries in a terrible dream, -Harkness shouted: - -"Out, Dunbar! Back! Back! Run for your life!" - -But it was too late. - -That voice of exquisite melody greeted them: - -"I had no idea that of your own free will you would return. My son only -a quarter of an hour ago departed in search of you. I welcome you back." - - - - -PART IV: THE TOWER - - - - -I - - -With an instinctive movement both Harkness and Dunbar closed in upon -Hesther. - -The three stood just in front of the heavy locked door facing the dim -hall. On the bottom stair was Crispin Senior, and on the floor below -him, one on either side, the two Japanese servants. - -A glittering candelabrum, hanging high up, was fully lit, but it seemed -to give a very feeble illumination, as though the fog had penetrated -here also. - -Crispin was wearing white silk pyjamas, brown leather slippers, and a -dressing-gown of a rich bronze-coloured silk flowered with gold buds and -leaves. His eyes were half-closed, as though the light, dim though it -was, was too strong for him. His face wore a look of petulant rather -childish melancholy. The two servants were statues indeed, no sign of -life proceeding from them. There was, however, very little movement -anywhere, the flags moving in the draught the chief. - -Hesther's face was white, and her breath came in little sharp pants, but -she held her body rigid. Harkness after that first cry was silent, but -Dunbar stepped forward shouting: - -"You damned hound--you let us go or you shall have this place about your -ears!" The hall echoed the words which, to tell the truth, sounded very -empty and theatrical. They were made to sound the more so by the -quietness of Crispin's reply. - -"There is no need," he said, "for all those words, Mr. Dunbar. It is -your own fault that you interfered and must pay for your interference. I -warned you weeks ago not to annoy me. Unfortunately you wouldn't take -advice. You _have_ annoyed me--sadly, and must suffer the consequences." - -"If you touch a hair of her head-----" Dunbar burst out. - -"As to my daughter-in-law," Crispin said, stepping down on to the floor, -and suddenly smiling, "I can assure you that she is in the best possible -hands. She knows that herself, I'm sure. What induced you, Hesther," he -said, addressing her directly, "to climb out of your window like the -heroine of a cinematograph and career about on the seashore with these -two gentlemen is best known only to yourself. At least you saw the error -of your ways and are in time, after all, to go abroad with us to-day." - -He advanced a step towards them. "And you, Mr. Harkness, don't you think -that you have rather violated the decencies of hospitality? I think you -will admit that I showed you nothing but courtesy as host. I invited you -to dinner, then to my house, showed you my few poor things, and how have -you repaid me? Is this the famous American courtesy? And may I ask while -we are on the question, what business this was of yours?" - -"It was anybody's business," said Harkness firmly, "to rescue a helpless -girl from such a house as this." - -"Indeed?" asked Crispin, "And what is the matter with this house?" - -Here Hesther broke in: "Look back two nights ago," she cried, "and ask -yourself then what is the matter with this house and whether it is a -place for a woman to remain in." - -"For myself," said Crispin. "I think it is a very nice house, and I am -quite sorry that we are leaving it to-day. That is, some of us--not -all," he added, softly. - -"If you are going to murder us," Dunbar cried, "get done with it. We -don't fear you, you know, whatever colour your hair may be. But whether -you murder us or no I can tell you one thing, that your own time has -come--not many more hours of liberty for _you._" - -"All the more reason to make the most of those I _have_ got," said -Crispin. "Murder you? No. But you have fallen in very opportunely for -the testing of certain theories of mine. I look forward to a very -interesting hour or two. It is now just four o'clock. We leave this -house at eight--or, at least, some of us do. I can promise all of us a -very interesting four hours with no time for sleep at all. I have no -doubt you are all tired, wandering about in the fog for so long must be -fatiguing, but I don't see any of you sleeping--not for an hour or two, -at least." - -Hesther said then: "Mr. Crispin, I believe that I am chiefly concerned -in this. If I promise to go quietly with you abroad I hope that you will -free these two gentlemen. I give you that promise and I shall keep it." - -"No, no," Dunbar cried, springing forward. "You shan't go with him -anywhere, Hesther, by heaven you shan't. Not while there's any breath in -my body----" - -"And when there isn't any breath in your body, Mr. Dunbar," said -Crispin, "what then?" - -"A very good line for an Adelphi melodrama, Mr. Crispin," said Harkness, -"but it seems to me that we've stayed here talking long enough. I warn -you that I am an American citizen, and I am not to be kept here against -my will----" - -"Aren't you indeed, Mr. Harkness?" said Crispin. "Well, that's a line of -Adelphi drama, if you like. How many times in a secret service play has -the hero declared that he's an American citizen? Which only goes to -show, I suppose, how near real life is to the theatre--or rather how -much more theatrical real life is than the theatre can ever hope to be. -But you're all right, Mr. Harkness--I won't forget that you're an -American citizen. You shall have special privileges. That I promise -you." - -Dunbar then did a foolish thing. He made a dash for the farther end of -the hall. What he had in mind no one knows--in all probability to find a -window, hurl himself through it and escape to give the alarm. But the -alarm to whom? That was, as far as things had yet gone, the foolishness -of their position. A policeman arriving at the house would find nothing -out of order, only that there two gentlemen had broken in, barbarously, -at a midnight hour to abscond with the married lady of the family. - -Dunbar's effort was foolish in any case; its issue was that, in a moment -of time, without noise or a word spoken, the two Japanese servants had -him held, one hand on either arm. He looked stupid enough, there in the -middle of the hall, his eyes dim with tears of rage, his body straining -ineffectively against that apparently light and casual hold. - -But it was strange to perceive how that movement of Dunbar's had altered -all the situation. Before that the three were at least the semblance of -visitors demanding of their host that they should be allowed to go; now -they were prisoners and knew it. Although Hesther and Harkness were -still untouched they were as conscious as was Dunbar of a sudden -helplessness--and of a new fear. - -Harkness watched Crispin who had walked forward and now stood only a -pace or two from Dunbar. Harkness saw that his excitement was almost -uncontrollable. His legs, set widely apart, were quivering, his nostrils -panting, his eyes quite closed so that he seemed a blind man scenting -out his enemy. - -"You miserable fellow," he said--and his voice was scarcely more than a -whisper. "You fool--to think that you could interfere. I told you . . . -I warned you . . . and now am I not justified? Yes--a thousand times. -Within the next hour you shall know what pain is, and I shall watch you -realise it." - -Then his body trembled with a sort of passionate rhythm as though he -were swaying to the run of some murmured tune. With his eyes closed and -the shivering it was like the performance of some devotional rite. At -least Dunbar showed no fear. - -"You can do what you damn well please," he shouted. "I'm not afraid of -you, mad though you are." - -"Mad? Mad?" said Crispin, suddenly opening his eyes. "That depends. Yes, -that depends. Is a man mad who acts at last when given a perfectly just -and honourable opportunity for a pleasure from which he has restrained -himself because the opportunity hitherto was _not_ honourable? And -madness? A matter of taste, my friends, decides that. I like olives--you -do not. Are you therefore mad? Surely not. Be broad-minded, my friend. -You have much to learn and but little time in which to learn it." - -Harkness perceived that the man was savouring every moment of this -situation. His anticipations of what was to come were so ardent that the -present scene was coloured deep with them. He looked from one to -another, tasting them, and his plans for them on his tongue. His -madness--for never before had his eyes, his hands, his whole attitude of -body more highly proclaimed him mad--had in it all the preoccupation -with some secret life that leads to such a climax. For months, for -years, grains of insanity, like coins in a miser's hoard, had been -heaping up to make this grand total. And now that the moment was come he -was afraid to touch the hoard lest it should melt under his fingers. - -He approached Harkness. - -"Mr. Harkness," he said quite gently, "believe me I am sorry to see -this. You took me in last evening, you did indeed. I felt that you had a -real interest in the beautiful things of art, and we had that in common. -All the time you were nothing but a dirty spy--a mean and dirty spy. -What right had you to interfere in the private life of a private -gentleman who, twenty-four hours ago, was quite unknown to you, simply -on the word of a crazy braggart boy? Have you so little to do that you -must be poking your fingers into every one else's business? I liked you, -Mr. Harkness. As I told you quite honestly last evening I don't know -where I have met a stranger to whom I took more warmly. But you have -disappointed me. You have only yourself to thank for this--only yourself -to thank." - -Harkness replied firmly. "Mr. Crispin, I had every right to act as I -have done, and I only wish to God that it had been successful. It is -true that when I came down to Cornwall yesterday I had no knowledge of -you or your affairs, but, in the Treliss hotel, quite inadvertently, I -overheard a conversation that showed me quite plainly that it was some -one's place to interfere. What I have seen of you since that time, if -you will forgive the personality, has only strengthened my conviction -that interference--immediate and drastic--was most urgently necessary. - -"Thanks to the fog we have failed. For Dunbar and myself we are for the -moment in your power. Do what you like with us, but at least have some -pity on this child here who has done you no wrong." - -"Very fine, very fine," said Crispin. "Mr. Harkness, you have a -style--an excellent style--and I congratulate you on having lost almost -completely your American accent--a relief for all of us. But come, come, -this has lasted long enough. I would point out to you two gentlemen -that, as one of you has already discovered, any sort of resistance is -quite useless. We will go upstairs. One of my servants first--you two -gentlemen next, my other servant following, then my daughter-in-law and -myself. Please, gentlemen." - -He said something in a foreign tongue. One Japanese started upstairs, -Harkness and Dunbar followed. There was nothing else at that moment to -be done. Only at the top of the stairs Dunbar turned and cried: "Buck -up, Hesther. It will be all right." And she cried back in a voice -marvellously clear and brave: "I'm not frightened, David; don't worry." - -Harkness had a momentary impulse to turn, dash down the stairs again and -run for the window as Dunbar had done; but as though he knew his thought -the Japanese behind him laid his hand on his arm; the thin fingers -pressed like steel. At the upper floor Dunbar was led one way, himself -another. One Japanese, his hand still on his arm, opened a door and -bowed. Harkness entered. The door closed. He found himself in total -obscurity. - - - - -II - - -He did not attempt to move about the room, but simply sank down on to -the floor where he was. He was in a state of extreme physical -weariness--his body ached from head to foot--but his brain was active -and urgent. This was the first time to himself that he had had--with the -exception of his cliff climbing--since his leaving the hotel last -evening, and he was glad of the loneliness. The darkness seemed to help -him; he felt that he could think here more clearly; he sat there, -huddled up, his back against the wall, and let his brain go. - -At first it would do little more than force him to ask over and over -again: Why? Why? Why? Why did we do this imbecile thing? Why, when we -had all the world to choose from, did we find our way back into this -horrible house? It was a temptation to call the thing magic and to have -done with it, really to suggest that the older Crispin had wizard -powers, or at least hypnotic, and had willed them back. But he forced -himself to look at the whole thing clearly as a piece of real life as -true and as actual as the ham-and-eggs and buttered toast that in -another hour or two all the world around him would be eating. Yes, as -real and actual as a toothbrush, that was what this thing was; there was -nothing wizard about Crispin; he was a dangerous lunatic, and there were -hundreds like him in any asylum in the country. As for their return he -knew well enough that in a fog people either walked round and round in a -circle or returned to the place that they had started from. - -At this point in his thoughts a tremor shook his body. He knew what -_that_ was from, and the anticipation that, lying like a chained animal, -deep in the recesses of his brain, must soon be loosed and then bravely -faced. But not yet, oh no, not yet! Let his mind stay with the past as -long as it might. - -In the past was Crispin. He looked back over that first meeting with -him, the actual moment when he had asked him for a match, the dinner, -the return to the hotel when, influenced then by all that Dunbar had -told him, he had seen him standing there, the polite gestures, the -hospitable words, the drive in the motor. . . . His mind stopped -abruptly _there._ The door swung to, the lock was turned. - -In that earlier Crispin there had been something deeply pathetic--and -when he dared to look forward--he would see that in the later Crispin -there was the same. So with a sudden flash of lightning revelation that -seemed to flare through the whole dark room he saw that it was not the -real Crispin with whom they--Hesther, Dunbar and he--were dealing at -all. - -No more than the ravings of fever were the real patient, the wicked -cancerous growth the real body, the broken glass the real picture that -seemed to be shattered beneath it. - -They were dealing with a wild and dangerous animal, and in the grip of -that animal, pitiably, was the true struggling suffering soul of -Crispin. Not struggling now perhaps any more; the disease had gone too -far, growing through a thousand tiny almost unnoticed stages to this -horrible possession. - -He knew now--yes, as he had never known it, and would perhaps never have -known it had it not been for the sudden love for and tenderness towards -human nature that had come to him that night--what, in the old world, -they had meant by the possession of evil spirits. What it was that -Christ had cast out in His ministry. What it was from which David had -delivered King Saul. - -Quick on this came the further question. If this were so might he not -perhaps when the crisis came--as come he knew it would--appeal to the -real Crispin and so rescue both themselves and him? He did not know. It -had all gone so far. The animal with its beastly claws deep in the flesh -had so tight a hold. He realised that it was in all probability the -personality of Hesther herself that had urged it to such extremes. There -was something in her clear-sighted simple defiance of him that had made -Crispin's fear of his powerlessness--the fear that had always -contributed to his most dangerous excesses--climb to its utmost height. -He had decided perhaps that this was to be the real final test of his -power, that this girl should submit to him utterly. Her escape had -stirred his sense of failure as nothing else could do. And then their -return, all the nervous excitement of that night, the constant alarm of -the neighbourhoods in which they had stayed so that, as the younger -Crispin had said, they had been driven "from pillar to post," all these -things had filled the bowl of insanity to overflowing. _Could_ he rescue -Crispin as well as themselves? - -Once more a tremor ran through his body. Because if he could not---- -Once more he thrust the anticipation back, pulling himself up from the -floor and beginning slowly, feeling the wall with his hand like a blind -man, to walk round the room. - -His eyes now were better accustomed to the light, but he could make out -but little of where he was. He supposed that he was on the second floor -where were the rooms of Hesther and the younger Crispin. The place -seemed empty, there was no sound from the house. He might have been in -his grave. Fantastic stories came to his mind, Poe-like stories of walls -and ceilings growing closer and closer, of floors opening beneath the -foot into watery dungeons, of fiery eyes seen through the darkness. He -repeated then aloud: - -"I am Charles Percy Harkness. I am thirty-five years of age. I grew up -in Baker, Oregon, in the United States of America. I am in sound mind -and in excellent health. I came down to Cornwall yesterday afternoon for -a holiday, recommended to do so by Sir James Maradick, Bart." - -This gave him some little satisfaction; to himself he continued, still -walking and touching the wall-paper with his hand: "I am shut up in a -dark room in a strange house at four in the morning for no other reason -than that I meddled in other people's affairs. And I am glad that I -meddled. I am in love, and whatever comes out of this I do not regret -it. I would do over again exactly what I have done except that I should -hope to do it better next time." - -He felt then seized with an intense weariness. He had known that he was, -long ago, physically tired, but excitement had kept that at bay. Now -quite instantly as though a spring in the middle of his back had broken, -he collapsed. He sank down there on the floor where he was, and all -huddled up, his head hanging forward into his knees, he slept. He had a -moment of conscious subjective rebellion when something cried to him: -"Don't surrender. Keep awake. It is part of his plan that you should -sleep here. You are surrendering to _him_." - -And from long misty distances he seemed to hear himself reply: - -"I don't care what happens any more. They can do what they like. . . . -They can do what they like. . . ." - -And almost at once he was conscious that they were summoning him. A tall -thin figure, like an old German drawing, with wild hair, set mouth, -menacing eye like Baldung's "Saturnus," stood before him and pointed the -way into vague misty space. Other figures were moving about him, and he -could see as his eyes grew stronger, that a vast multitude of naked -persons were sliding forward like pale lava from a volcano down a steep -precipitous slope. - -As they moved there came from them a shuddering cry like the tremor of -the ground beneath his feet. - -"Not there! Not there!" Harkness cried, and Saturnus answered, "Not yet! -You have not been judged." - -Almost instantly judgment followed--judgment in a narrow dark passage -that rocked backward and forward like the motion of a boat at sea. The -passage was dark, but on either side of its shaking walls were cries and -shouts and groans and piteous wails, and clouds of smoke poured through, -as into a tunnel, blinding the eyes and filling the nostrils with a -horrible stench. - -No figure could be seen, but a voice, strong and menacing, could be -heard, and Harkness knew that it was himself the voice was addressing. -His naked body, slippery with sweat, the acrid smoke blinding him, the -voices deafening him, the rocking of the floor bewildering him, he felt -desperately that he must clear his mind to answer the charges brought -against him. - -The voice was clear and calm: "On February 2, 1905, your friend Richard -Hentley was accused in the company of many people during his absence, of -having ill-treated his wife while in Florence. You knew that this was -totally untrue and could have given evidence to that effect, but from -cowardice you let the moment pass and your friend's position was -seriously damaged. What have you to say in your defence?" - -The thick smoke rolled on. The walls tottered. The cries gathered in -anguish. - -"On March 13, 1911, you wired to your sisters in America that you were -ill in bed when you were in perfect health, because you wished to stay -for a week longer in London in order to attend some races. What have you -to say in your defence?" - -"On October 3, 1906, you grievously added to the unhappiness of Mrs. -Harrington-Adams by asserting in mixed company that no one in New York -would receive her and that all Americans were astonished that she should -be received at all in London." - -Here at any rate was an opportunity. Through the smoke he cried: - -"There at least I am innocent. I have never known Mrs. Harrington-Adams. -I have never even seen her." - -"No," the voice replied. "But you spoke to Mrs. Phillops who spoke to -Miss Cator who then cut Mrs. Adams. Other people followed Miss Cator's -example, and you were quoted as an authority. Mrs. Adams's London life -was ruined. She had never done you any harm." - -"On December 14, 1912, you told your sisters that you hated the sight of -them and their stuffy ways, that their attempts at culture were -ridiculous, and that, like all American women, they were absurdly -spoilt." - -Through the smoke Harkness shouted: "I am sure I never said----" - -The voice replied: "I am quoting your exact words." - -"In a moment of pique I lost my temper. Of course I didn't mean----" - -"On June 3, 1913, you went secretly into the library of a friend and -stole his book of Rembrandt drawings. You knew in your heart that you -had no intention of returning it to him, and when, some months later, he -spoke of it, wishing to lend it to you and wondered why he could not -find it you said nothing to him about your own possession of it." - -Harkness blushed through the rolling smoke. "Yes, that was shameful," he -cried. "But I knew that he didn't care about the book and I----" - -"What have you to say against these charges?" - -"They are all little things," Harkness cried, "small things. Every one -does them. . . ." - -"Judgment! Judgment! Judgment!" cried the voice, and suddenly he felt -himself moving in the vast waters of human nudity that were slipping -down the incline. He tried to stay himself, he flung out his hands and -touched nothing but cold slimy flesh. - -Faster and faster and faster. Colder and colder and colder. Darker and -darker and darker. Despair seized him. He called on his friends. Others -were calling on every side of him. Thousands and thousands of names -mingled in the air. The smoke came up to meet them--vast billowing -clouds of it. He knew with a horrible consciousness that below him a sea -of upturned swords, were waiting to receive them. Soon they would be -impaled. . . . With a shriek of agony he awoke. - -He had not been asleep for more, perhaps, than ten minutes, but the -dream had unnerved him. When he rose from the ground he tottered and -stood trembling. He knew now why it was that his enemy had designed that -he should sleep; he knew _now_ that he could no longer ward off the -animal that on padded feet had been approaching him--the pain! The pain! -The pain! - -The sweat beaded his forehead, his knees gave way and he sank yet again -upon the floor. He was murmuring: "Anything but that. Anything but that. -I can't stand pain. I can't _stand_ pain, I tell you. Don't you know -that I have always funked it all my life long? That I've always prayed -that whatever else I got it wouldn't be _that._ That I've never been -able to bear to see the tiniest thing hurt, and that in all my thought -about going to the war, although I didn't try to escape it, it was even -more the pain that I would see than the pain that I would feel. - -"And now to wait for it like this, to know that it may be torture of the -worst kind, that I am in the power of a man who can reason no longer, -who is himself in the power of something stronger and more evil than any -of us." - -Then dimly it came through to him that he had been given three tests -to-night, and as it always is in life the three tests especially suited -to his character, his strength and weakness, his past history. The dance -had stripped him of his aloofness and drawn him into life, his love for -Hesther that he had surrendered had taken from him his selfishness--and -now he must lose his fear of pain. - -But that? How could he lose it? It was part of the very fibre of his -body, his nerves throbbed with it, his heart beat with it. He could not -remember a time when it had not been part of him. When he had been five -or six his father had decided that he must be beaten for some little -crime. His father was the gentlest of human beings, and the beating -would be very little, but at the sight of the whip something had cracked -inside his brain. - -He was not a coward; he had stood up to the beating without a tear, but -the sense of the coming pain had been more awful than anything that he -could have imagined. It was the same afterwards at school. He was no -coward there either, shared in the roughest games, stood up to bullies, -ventured into the most dangerous places. - -But one night earache had attacked him. It was a new pain for him and he -thought that he had never known anything so terrible. Worse than all -else were the intermissions between the attacks and the warnings that a -new attack was soon to begin. That approach was what he feared, that -terrible and fearful approach. He had said very little, had only lain -there white and trembling, but the memory of all those awful hours -stayed with him always. - -Any thought of suffering in others--of poor women in childbirth, of -rabbits caught in traps, of dogs poisoned, of children run over or -accidentally wounded--these things, if he knew of them, produced an odd -sort of sympathetic pain in himself. The strangest thing had been that -the war, with all its horrors, had not driven him crazy as he might have -expected from his earlier history. On so terrible a scale was it that -his senses soon became numbed? He did the work that he was given to do, -and heard of the rest like cries beyond the wall. Again and again he had -tried to mingle, himself, in it; he had always been prevented. - -A dog run over by a motor car struck him more terribly than all the -agonies of Ypres. - -But these things, what had they to do with his present case? He could -not think at all. His brain literally reeled, as though it shook, tried -to steady itself, could not, and then turned right over. His body was -alive, standing up with all its nerves on tiptoe. How was he to endure -these hours that were coming to him? - -"I must get out of this!" some one, not himself, cried. It seemed to him -that he could hear the strange voice in the room. "I must get out of -this. How dare they keep me if I demand to be let out? I am an American -citizen. Let me out of this. Can't you hear? Bring me a light and let me -out. I have had enough of this dark room. What do you mean by keeping me -here? You think that you are stronger than I. Try it and see. Let me -out, I say! Let me out!" - -He tottered to his feet and ran across the room, although he could not -see his way, blundering against the opposite wall. He beat upon it with -his hands. - -"Let me out, do you hear! Let me out!" - -He was not himself, Harkness. He could no longer repeat those earlier -words. He was nobody, nothing, nothing at all. They could not hurt him -then. Try as they might they could not hurt him, Harkness, when he was -not Harkness. He laughed, stroking the wall gently with his hand as -though it were his friend. - -"It's all right, do you see? You can't hurt me because you can't find -me. I'm hiding, _I_ don't know where to find myself, so that it isn't -likely you will find me. You can't hurt nothing, you know. You can't -indeed." - -He laughed and laughed and laughed--gently enjoying his own joke. There -was a sudden knocking at the door. - -"Come in!" he said in a whisper. "Come in!" - -His heart stood still with fear. - -The door opened, splashing into the darkness a shower of light like -water flung from a bucket. In the centre of this the two Japanese were -standing. - -"Master says please come. If you ready he ready." - -At sight of the Japanese a marvellous thing had happened. All his fear -had on the instant left him, his beastly physical fear. It fell from him -like an old suit of clothes, discarded. He was himself, clear-headed, -cool, collected, and in some strange new way, happy. - -Harkness followed them. - - - - -III - - -Harkness followed, conscious only of one thing, his sudden marvellous -and happy deliverance from fear. He could not analyse it--he did not -wish to. He did not consider the probable length of its duration. Enough -that for the present Crispin might cut him into small pieces, skin him -alive, boil him in a large pot like a lobster, and he would not care. He -followed the sleek servants like a schoolboy. - -The Tower? Then at last he was to see the interior of this mysterious -place. It had exercised, all through this adventure, a strange influence -over him, standing up in his imagination white and pure and apart, -washed by the sea, guarded by the woods behind it, having a spirit -altogether of its own and quite separate from the man who for the moment -occupied it. This would be perhaps the last building on this world that -would see his bones move and have their being, he had a sense that it -knew and sympathised with him and wished him luck. - -Meanwhile he walked quietly. His chance would still come and with Dunbar -beside him. Or was he never to see Dunbar again? Some of his newfound -courage trembled. The worst of this present moment was his loneliness. -Was the final crisis to be fought out by himself with no friends at -hand? Was he never to see Hesther again? He had an impulse to throw -himself forward, attack the servants, and let come what will. The -silence of the house was terrible--only their footsteps soft on the -thick carpet--and if he could wring a cry or two from his enemies that -would be something. No, he must wait. The happiness of others was -involved with his own. - -The men stopped before a dark-wooded door. - -They went through and were met by a white circular staircase. Up this -they passed, paused before another door, and crossed the threshold into -a high circular brilliantly-lit room. For the moment Harkness, his eyes -dimmed a little by the shadows of the staircase, could see nothing but -the gayness, brightness of the place papered with a wonderful Chinese -pattern of green and purple birds, cherry-coloured pagodas and crimson -temples. The carpet was a soft heavy purple, and there was a number of -little gilt chairs, and, in front of the narrow barred window, a gilt -cage with a green and crimson macaw. - -All this, standing by the door shading his eyes from the dazzling -crystal candelabra, he took in. Then suddenly saw something that swept -away the rest--Hesther and Dunbar standing together, hand in hand, by -the window. He gave a cry of joy, hurrying towards them. It was as -though he had not seen them for years; they caught his hand in theirs; -Crispin was there watching them like a benevolent father with his -beloved children. - -"That's right," he said. "Make the most of your time together. I want -you to have a last talk." - -He sat down on one of the gilt chairs. - -"Won't you sit down? In a moment I shall leave you alone together for a -little while. In case you have any last words. . . ." Then he leaned -forward in that fashion so familiar now to Harkness, huddled together, -his red hair and little eyes and pale white soft hands alone alive. -"Well, and so--in my power, are you not? The three of you. You can laugh -at my ugliness and my stupidity and my bad character, but now you are in -my hands completely. I can do whatever I like with you. Whatever . . . -the last shame, the last indignity, the uttermost pain. I, ludicrous -creature that I am, have absolute power over three fine young things -like you, so strong, so beautiful. And then more power and then more and -then more. And over many finer, grander, more beautiful than you. I can -say crawl and you will crawl, dance and you will dance. . . . I who am -so ugly that every one has always laughed at me. I am a little God, and -perhaps not so little, and soon God Himself. . . ." - -He broke off, making the movement of music in the air with his hands. - -"You a little overestimate the situation," said Harkness, quietly. "For -the moment you can do what you like with our bodies because you happen -to have two servants who, with their Jiu-Jitsu and the rest of their -tricks, are stronger than we are. It is not you who are stronger, but -your servants whom your money is able to buy. I guess if I had you tied -to a pillar and myself with a gun in my hand I could make you look -pretty small. And in any case it is only our bodies that you can do -anything with. Ourselves--our real selves--you can't touch." - -"Is that so?" said Crispin. "But I have not begun. The fun is all to -come. We will see whether I can touch you or no. And for my -daughter-in-law"--he looked at Hesther--"there is plenty of time--many -years perhaps." - -Nothing in all his life would ever appeal more to Harkness than Hesther -then. From the first moment of his sight of her what had attracted him -had been the exquisite mingling of the child and of the woman. She had -been for him at first some sort of deserted waif who had experienced all -the cruelty and harshness of life so desperately early that she had -known life upside down, and this had given her a woman's endurance and -fortitude. She was like a child who has dressed up in her mother's -clothes for a party and then finds that she must take her mother's -place. - -And now when she must, after this terrible night, be physically beyond -all her resources she seemed, in her shabby ill-made dress, her hair -disordered, her face pale, her eyes ringed with grey, to have a new -courage that must be similar to that which he had himself been given. -She kept her hand in Dunbar's, and with a strange dim unexpected pain -Harkness realised that new relation between the two of which he had made -the foundation had grown through danger and anxiety the one for another -already to a fine height. Then he was conscious that Hesther was -speaking. She had come forward quite close to Crispin and stood in front -of him looking him calmly and clearly in the eyes. - -"Please let me say something. After all I am the principal person in -this. If it hadn't been for me there would not have been any of this -trouble. I married your son. I married him, not because I loved him, but -because I wanted things that I thought that you could give me. I see now -how wrong that was and that I must pay for doing such a thing. I am -ready to do right by your son. I never would have tried to run away if -it had not been for you--the other night. After that I was right to do -everything I could to get away. I begged your son first--and he refused. -You have had me watched during the last three weeks--every step that I -have taken. What could I do but try to escape? - -"We've failed, and because we've failed and because it has been all my -fault I want you to punish me in any way you like but to let my two -friends go. I was not wrong to try to escape." She threw up her head -proudly, "I was right after the way you had behaved to me, but now it is -different. I have brought them into this. They have done nothing wrong. -You must let them go." - -"You must let all of us go." Dunbar broke in hotly, starting forward to -Hesther's side. "Do you think we're afraid of you, you old play-acting -red-haired monkey? You just let us free or it will be the worse for you. -Do you know where you'll be this time to-morrow? Beating your fancy -coloured hair against a padded cell, and that's where you should have -been years ago." - -"No, no," Hesther broke in. "No, no, David. That's not the way. You -don't understand. Don't listen to him. I'm the only one in this, I tell -you--can't you hear me?--that I will stay. I won't try to run away, you -can do anything to me you like. I'll obey you--I will indeed. Please, -please-- Don't listen to him. He doesn't understand. But I do. Let them -go. They've done no harm. They only wanted to help me. They didn't mean -anything against you. They didn't truly. Oh! let them go! Let them go!" - -In spite of her struggle for self-control her terror was rising, her -terror never for herself but now only for them. She knew, more than -they, of what he was. She saw perhaps in his face more than they would -ever see. - -But Harkness saw enough. He saw rising into Crispin's eyes the soul of -that strange hairy fetid-smelling animal between whose paws Crispin's -own soul was now lying. That animal looked out of Crispin's eyes. And -behind that gaze was Crispin's own terror. - -Crispin said: - -"This is very comforting for me. I have waited for this moment." Then -Harkness came over to him and stood very close to him. - -"Crispin, listen to me. It isn't the three of us who matter in this, it -is yourself. Whatever you do to us we are safe. Whatever you think or -hope you can't touch the real part of us, but for yourself to-night this -is a matter of life or death. - -"I may know nothing about medicine and yet know enough to tell you that -you're a sick man--badly sick--and if you let this animal that has his -grip on you get the better of you in the next two hours you're finished, -you're dead. You know that as well as I. You know that you're possessed -of an evil spirit as surely as the man with the spirits that cleared the -Gadarene swine into the sea. It isn't for our sakes that I ask you to -let us go to-night. Let us go. You'll never hear from any of us again. -In the morning, in the decent daylight, you'll know that you've won a -victory more important than any you've ever won in your life. - -"You talk about mastering us, man. Master your own evil spirit. You know -that you loathe it, that you've loathed it for years, that you are -miserable and wretched under it. It is life or death for you to-night, I -tell you. You know that as well as I." - -For one moment, a brief flashing moment, Harkness met for the first and -for the last time the real Crispin. No one else saw that meeting. -Straight into the eyes, gazing out of them exactly as a prisoner gazes -from behind iron bars, jumped the real Crispin, something sad, starved -and dying. One instant of recognition and he was gone. - -"That is very kind of you, Mr. Harkness," Crispin said. "I knew that I -should enjoy this quarter of an hour's chat with you all and truly I am -enjoying it. My friend Dunbar shows himself to be quite frankly the -young ruffian he is. It will be interesting to see whether in--say an -hour's time from now--he is still in the same mind. I doubt it; quite -frankly I doubt it very much. It is these robust natures that break the -easiest. But you other two--really how charming. All altruism and -unselfishness. This lady has no thought for anything but her friends, -and Mr. Harkness, like all Americans, is full of fine idealism. And you -are all standing round me as though you were my children listening to a -fairy story. Such a pretty picture! - -"And when you come to think of it here I am quite alone, all -defenceless, one to three. Why don't you attack me? Such an admirable -opportunity! Can it be fear? Fear of an old fat ugly man like me, a man -at whom every one laughs!" - -Dunbar made a movement. Harkness cried: "Don't move, Dunbar. Don't touch -him. That's what he wants." - -Crispin got up. They were now all standing in a little group close -together. Crispin gathered his dressing-gown around him. - -"The time is nearly up," he said. "I am going to leave you alone -together for a little last talk. You'll never see one another again -after this, so you had best make the most of it. You see that I am not -really unkind." - -"It is hopeless." Harkness turned round to the window. "God help us -all." - -"Yes, it is hopeless," Crispin said gently. "At last my time has come. -Do you know how long I have waited for it? Do you know what you -represent to me? You have done me wrong, the two of you, broken my -hospitality, betrayed my bread and salt, invaded my home. I have justice -if I punish you for that. But you stand also for all the others, for all -who have insulted me and laughed at me and mocked at me. I have power at -last. I shall prick you and you shall bleed. I shall spit on you and you -shall bow your heads, and then when you are at my feet stung with a -thousand wounds I will raise you and care for you and love you, and you -shall share my power----" - -He jumped suddenly from his gilt chair and stuttered, waving his hands -as though he were commanding an army, towards the macaw who was asleep -with his head under his crimson wing. "I shall be king in my own right, -king of men, emperor of mankind, then one with the gods, and at the last -I will shower my gifts. . . ." - -He broke off, looking up at a red lacquer clock that stood on a little -round gilt table. "Time--time--time nearly up!" He swung round upon the -three of them. - -Dunbar burst out: - -"Don't flatter yourself that you'll get away to-morrow. When we're -missed----" - -"You won't be missed," Crispin answered with a sigh, as though he deeply -regretted the fact. "The hotel will receive a note in the morning saying -that Mr. Harkness has gone for a coast walk, will return in a week, and -will the hotel kindly keep his things until his return? Of course the -hotel most kindly will. For Mr. Dunbar--well, I believe there is only an -aunt in Gloucester, is there not? It will be, I imagine, a month at -least before she makes any inquiry. Possibly a year. Possibly never. Who -knows? Aunts are often extraordinarily careless about their nephew's -safety. And in a week. Where can one not be in a week in these modern -days? Very far indeed. Then there is the sea. Anything dropped from the -garden over the cliff so completely vanishes, and their faces are so -often--well, spoilt beyond recognition. . . ." - -"If you do this," Hesther cried, "I will----" - -"I regret to say," interrupted Crispin, "that after eight this morning -you will not see your father-in-law of whom you are so fond for six -months at least. Ah, that is good news for you, I am sure. That is not -to say you will never see him again. Dear me, no. But not immediately. -Not immediately!" - -Harkness caught Hesther's hand. He saw that she was about to make some -desperate movement. "Wait," he said; "wait. We can do nothing now." - -For answer she drew him to her and flung out her hand to Dunbar. "We -three. We love one another," she cried. "Do your worst." - -Crispin looked once more at the clock. "Melodrama," he said. "I, too, -will be melodramatic. I give you twenty minutes by that clock--a -situation familiar to every theatre-goer. When that clock strikes six I -shall, I'm afraid, want the company of both of you gentlemen. Make your -adieus then to the lady. Your eternal adieus." - -He smiled and gently tip-toed from the room. - - - - -IV - - -"And so the curtain falls on Act Three of this pleasant little drama," -said Dunbar, huskily, turning towards the window. "There will be a -twenty minutes' interval. But the last act will be played _in camera._ -If only one wasn't so beastly tired--and if only it wasn't all my -fault. . . ." His voice broke. - -Harkness went up to him, put his arm around him and drew him to him. -"Look here. I'm older than both of you. I might almost be your father, -so you've got to obey my orders. I'll be best man at your wedding yet, -David, yours and Hesther's. There's nobody to blame. Nothing but the -fog. But don't let's cheat ourselves either. We're shut up here at -half-past five in the morning miles from any help, no way out, no -telephone, and two damn Japs who are stronger than we are, in the power -of a man who's as mad as a hatter and as bloodthirsty as a tiger. - -"It's going to be all right, I tell you. I know it. I feel it in my -bones. But we've got to behave for these twenty minutes--only seventeen -of them now--as though it won't be. It's of no use for us to make any -plan. We'll have to do something on the spur of the moment when we see -what the old devil has up his sleeve for us----" - -"Meanwhile, as I say, make the best of these minutes." - -He put out his arm and drew Hesther in. - -"I tell you that I love you both. I've only known you a day, but I love -you as I've never loved any one in my life before. I love you as father -and brother and comrade. It's the best thing that has happened to me in -all my life." - -The three, body to body, stood looking out through the gilded bars at -the sky, silver grey, and washed with shifting shadows. - -"After all," he went on, "if our luck doesn't hold, and we are going to -die in the next hour or so, what is it? It's only what millions of -fellows passed through in the war and under much more terrible -conditions. Imagination is the worst part of that I fancy, and I suggest -that we don't think of what is going to happen when this time is -over--whether it goes well or ill--we'll fill these twenty minutes with -every decent thought we've got, we'll think of every fine thing that we -know of, and every beautiful thing, and everything that is of good -report." - -"All I pray," said Dunbar, "is that I may have one last dash at that -lunatic before good-bye. He can have a hundred Japs around him but I'll -get at him somehow. Harkness, you're a brick. I brought you into this. I -had no right to, but I'm not going to apologise. We're here. The thing's -done, and if it hadn't been for that rotten fog----But you're right, -Harkness. We'll think of all the ripping things we know. With me it's -simple enough. Because the beginning and the middle and the end of it is -Hesther. Hesther first and Hesther second and Hesther all the time." - -He didn't look at her, but stared out of the window. - -"By Jove, the sun's coming. It's been up round the corner ever so long. -It will just about hit the window in another ten minutes. It seems kind -of stupid to stand here doing nothing." - -He stepped forward and felt the bars. "Take hours to get through that, -and then there's a drop of hundreds of feet. No, you're about right, -Harkness. There's nothing to be done here but to say good-bye as -decently as possible." - -He sighed. "I didn't want to kick the bucket just yet, but there it is, -it can happen to anybody. A fellow can be as strong as a horse, forget -to change his socks and next day be finished. This is better than -pneumonia anyway! All the same I can't help feeling we missed our chance -just now when we had him alone in here----" - -"No," said Harkness, "I was watching him. That's what he wanted, for us -to go for him. I am sure that he had the Japs handy somewhere, and I -think he wanted to hurt us in front of Hesther. But his brain works -queerly. He's formulated a kind of book of rules for himself. If we take -such and such a step then he will take such and such another. A sort of -insane sense of justice. He's worked it all out to the minute. Half the -fun for him has been the planning of it, and then the deliberate -slowness of it, watching us, calculating what we'll do. Really a cat -with mice. There's nothing for deliberate consecutive thinking like a -madman's brain." - -Hesther broke in: - -"We're wasting time. I know--I feel as you do--that it's going to be all -right, but however he fails with you he _can_ carry me off somewhere, -and so it _is_ very likely that I don't see either of you again for some -time. And if that's so--_if_ that's so, I just want to say that you've -been the finest men in the world to me. - -"And I want you to know that whatever turns up for me now--yes, whatever -it is--it _can't_ be as bad as it was before yesterday. I can't ever -again be as unhappy as I was now that I've known both of you as I've -known you this night. - -"I didn't realise, David, how I felt about you until Mr. Harkness showed -me. I've been so selfish all these years, and I suppose I shall go on -being selfish, because one doesn't change all in a minute, but at least -I've got the two best friends a woman ever had." - -"Hesther," Dunbar said, turning towards her, "if we get free of this and -you can get rid of that man--I ask you as I've asked you every week for -the last ten years--will you marry me?" - -"Yes," she said. But for the moment she turned to Harkness. He was -looking through the bars out to the sky where the mist was now very -faintly rose like the coloured smoke of far distant fire. She put her -hand on his shoulder, keeping her other hand in Dunbar's. - -"I don't know why you said you were so much older than we are. You're -not. Do you promise to be the friend of both of us always?" - -"Yes," he said. Something mockingly repeated in his brain, "It is a far -better thing that I do----" - -He burst out laughing. The macaw awoke, put up his head and screamed. - -"You are both younger by centuries than I," he said. "I was born old. I -was born with the Old Man of Europe singing in my ears. I was born to -the inheritance of borrowed culture. The gifts that the fairies gave me -at my cradle were Michael Angelo's 'David,' Rembrandt's 'Goldweigher's -Field,' the 'Temples at Pæstum,' the Da Vinci 'Last Supper,' the -Breughels at Vienna, the view of the Jungfrau from Mürren, the Grand -Canal at dawn, Hogarth's prints, and the Quintet of the _Meistersinger._ -Yes, the gifts were piled up all right. But just as they were all -showered upon me in stepped the Wicked Fairy and said that I should have -them all--on condition that I didn't touch! Never touch--never. At least -I've known that they were there, at least I've bent the knee, but--until -last night--until last night. . . ." - -He suddenly took Hesther's face between his two hands, kissed her on the -forehead, on the eyes, on the mouth: - -"I don't know what's coming in a quarter of an hour. I don't like to -think. To tell you the truth I'm in the devil of a funk. But I love you, -I love you, I love you. Like an uncle you know or at least like a -brother. You've taken a match and set fire to this old tinder-box that's -been dry and dusty so long, and now it's alight--such a pretty blaze!" - -He broke away from them both with a smile that suddenly made him look -young as they'd never seen him: - -"I've danced the town, I've climbed rocks. I've dared the devil. I've -fallen in love, and I know at last that there's such a hunger for beauty -in my soul that it must go on and on and on. Why should it be there? My -parents hadn't it, my sisters haven't it, no one tried to give it to me. -I've done nothing with it until last night, but now when I've needed it, -it's come to my help. I've touched life at last. I'm alive. I never can -die any more!" - -The macaw screamed again and again, beating at the cage with its wings. - -"Hesther, never lose courage. Remember that he can't touch you, that no -one can touch you. You're your own immortal mistress." - -The red-lacquered clock struck the quarter, and at the same moment the -sun hit the window. Strange to see how instantly that room with the -coloured pagodas, the fantastic temple, the gilt chairs and the purple -carpet shivered into tinsel. The dust floated on the ladder of the sun: -the blue of the early morning sky was coloured faintly like a bird's -wing. - -The sun flooded the room, wrapping them all in its mantle. - -"Let's sit down," said Dunbar, pulling three of the gilt chairs into the -centre of the room where the sun shone brightest. "I've a kind of idea -that we'll need all the strength we've got in a few minutes. That's fine -what you said, Harkness, about being alive, although I didn't follow you -altogether. - -"I'm not very artistic. A man who's been on the sea since he was a small -kid doesn't go to many picture galleries and he doesn't read books much -either. To tell you the truth there's always such a lot to do, and when -I've finished the _Daily Mail_ there doesn't seem time for much more, -except a shocker sometimes. The sort of mess we're in now wouldn't make -a bad shocker, would it? Only you'd never be able to make Crispin -convincing. All I know is, if I wrote a book about him I'd have him -tortured at the end with little red devils and plenty of pincers. -However, I get what you mean, Harkness, about being alive. - -"I felt something of the same thing in the war sometimes. At Jutland, -although I was in the devil of a funk all the time, I was sort of -pleased with myself too. Life's always seemed a bit unreal since the -armistice, until last night. And it's a funny thing, but when I was -helping Hesther climb out of that window and expecting Crispin Junior to -poke his head up any minute I had just that same pleased-all-over -feeling that I had at Jutland. So that's about the same as you feel, -Harkness, only different, of course, because of your education. . . . -Hesther, if we win out of this and you marry me I'll be so good to -you--so good to you--that----" - -He beat his hands desperately on his knees. "Here's the time slipping -and we don't seem to be doing anything with it. It's always been my -trouble that I've never been able to say what I mean--couldn't find -words, you know. I can't now, but it's simple enough what I mean----" - -Hesther said: "If we only have ten minutes like this it's so hard to -choose what you would say, but I'd like you to know, David, that I -remember everything we've ever done together--the time I missed the -train at Truro and was so frightened about father, and you said you'd -come in with me, and father hadn't even noticed I'd been away; and the -time you brought me the pink fan from Madrid; and the time I had that -fever and you sat up all night outside my room, those two days father -was away; and the day Billy fell over the Bring Rock and you climbed -down after him; and the time you brought me that Sealyham and father -wouldn't let me have him; and the time just before you went off to South -Africa and I wouldn't say good-bye. I've hurt you so many times and -you've never been angry with me once--or only that once. Do you remember -the day I struck you in the face because you said I was more like a boy -than a girl? I thought you were laughing at me because I was so untidy -and dirty and so I hit you. And do you remember you sprang on me like a -tiger, and for a moment I thought you were going to kill me? You said no -one had ever struck you without getting it back. Then suddenly you -pulled yourself in--just like going inside and shutting your door. - -"I've never seen you until to-night, David. I've been blind to you. -You've been too close to me for me to see you. It will be all right. -We'll come out of this and then we'll have such times--such wonderful -times----" - -She came up to him, drew his head to her breast. He knelt on the floor -at her feet, his arms round her, his head on her bosom. She stroked his -hair, looking out beyond him to the blue of the sky. - -Harkness felt a mad wildness of impatience. He went to the window and -tugged at the bars. In despair his hands fell to his side. - -"The only chance, Dunbar, is to go straight for him the moment we're out -of this room, even if those damned Japs are with him. We can't do much, -but we may smash him up a bit first. Then there's Jabez. We've forgotten -Jabez. Where's he been all this time?" - -Dunbar looked up. "I expect he went home after we went off." - -"No," said Harkness, "he was to be there till six. He told me. What's -happened to him? At any rate he'll give the alarm if we don't turn up." - -"No, he'll think we got safely off." - -"Yes, I suppose he will. My God, it's five to six. Look here, stand up a -moment." - -They stood up. - -"Let's take hands. Let's swear this. Whatever happens to us now, whether -some of us survive or none, whether we die now or live happily ever -afterwards, we'll be friends forever, nothing shall ever separate us, -for better or worse we're together for always." - -They swore it. - -"And see here. If I don't come out of this don't have any regrets either -of you. Don't think you brought me into this against my will. Don't -think that whichever way it goes I regret a moment of it. You've given -me the finest time." - -Dunbar laughed. "I sort of feel we're going to have a chance yet. After -all, he's been probably playing with us, trying to frighten us. There'll -be nothing in it, you see. Anyway I'll get a crack at his skull, and now -that I've got you, Hesther, I wouldn't give up this night for all the -wealth of the Indies. I don't know about life or death. I've never -thought much about it, to tell you the honest truth, but I bet that any -one who's as fond of any one as I am of you can't be very far away -whatever happens to their body." - -"There goes six." - -The red lacquer clock struck. Hesther flung her arms around Harkness and -kissed him, then Dunbar. - -They all stood listening. Just as the clock ceased there was a knock at -the door. - - - - -V - - -Harkness went to the door and opened it; not Crispin, as he had -expected, but one of the Japanese. - -For the first time he spoke: - -"Beg your pardon, sir. The master would be glad you see him upstairs." -Harkness did not look back. He knew that Dunbar and Hesther were clasped -tightly in one another's arms. He walked out closing the door behind -him. He stood with the Japanese in the small space waiting. It was a dim -subdued light out here. You could only see the thick stone steps of the -circular staircase winding upwards out of sight. Harkness's brain was -working now with feverish activity. Whatever Crispin's devilish plan -might be he would be there to watch the climax of it. If Harkness and -Dunbar were quick enough they could surely have Crispin throttled before -the Japanese were in time; without Crispin it was likely enough that the -Japanese would be passive. This was no affair of theirs. They simply -obeyed their master's orders. - -He wondered why he had not attempted something in that room just now, -why, indeed, he had prevented Dunbar; but some instinct had told him -then that Crispin was longing to shame them in some way before Hesther. -He had then an almost overpowering impulse to turn back, run into that -room, fling his arms about Hesther and hold her until those devils -pulled them apart. It was an impulse that rose blinding his eyes, -deafening his ears, stunning his brain. He half turned. The door opened -and Dunbar came out. Harkness sighed with relief. At the sight of Dunbar -the temptation left him. - -They mounted the stairs, one Japanese in front of them, the other -behind. At the next break in the flight the Japanese turned and opened a -door on the left. - -"In here, gentlemen, if you please," he said, bowing. - -They entered a small room with no windows, quite dark save for one dim -electric light in the ceiling, and without furniture save for two wicker -chairs. - -They stood there waiting. "The master," said the Japanese, "he much -obliged if you gentlemen will kindly take your clothes off." - -For a moment there was silence. They had not realised the words. Then -Dunbar broke out: "No, by God, no! Strip for that swine! Harkness come -on! You go for that fellow, I'll take this one!" and instantly he had -hurled himself on the Japanese nearest the door. - -Harkness flung at the one who had spoken. He was conscious of his -fingers clutching at the thin cotton stuff of the clothes, and, beneath -the clothes, the cold hard steel of the limbs. His arms gripped upwards, -caught the cloth of the shirt, tore it, slipped on the smooth hairless -chest. Then in his left forearm there was a pain, sharp as though some -ravenous animal had bitten him there, then an agony in the middle of his -back, then in his left thigh. - -Against his will he cried out; the pain was terrible--awful. Every nerve -in his body was rebelling so that he had neither strength nor force. He -slipped to the floor, writhing involuntarily with the agony of the -twisted muscle and, even as he slipped, he saw sliding down over him, -impervious, motionless, fixed like a shining mask, the face of the -Japanese. - -He lay on the floor; panic flooded him. His helplessness, the terror of -what was coming next, the fright of the dark--it was all he could do at -that moment not to burst into tears and cry like a child. - -He was lying on the floor, and the Japanese, kneeling beside him, had -one arm under him as though to make his position more comfortable. - -"Very sorry," the Japanese murmured in his ear; "the master's orders." - -As the pain withdrew he felt only an intense relief and thankfulness. He -did not care about what had gone before nor mind what followed. All he -wished was to be left like that until the wild beating of his heart -softened and his pulse was again tranquil. - -Then he thought of Dunbar. He turned his head and saw that Dunbar also -was lying on the floor, on his side. Not a sound came from him. The -other Japanese was bending over him. - -"Dunbar!" Harkness cried in a voice that to his own surprise was only a -whisper, "wait. It's no good with these fellows. We'll have our chance -later." - -Dunbar replied, the words gritted from between his teeth: "No--it's no -good--with these devils. It's all right though. I'm cheery." - -Harkness saw then that the Japanese had been stripping Dunbar, and he -noticed with a curious little wonder that his clothes had been arranged -in a neat tidy pile--his socks, his collar, his braces, on his shirt and -trousers. He saw the Japanese move forward as though to help Dunbar to -his feet; there was a movement as though Dunbar were pushing him away. -He rose to his feet, naked, strong, his head up, swung out his arms, -pushed out his chest. - -"No bones broken with their monkey tricks. Hurry up, Harkness. We may as -well go into the sea together. I bet the water's cold." - -But no. The Japanese said something. Dunbar broke out: - -"I'm damned if I will." Then, turning to Harkness: "He says I've got to -go on by myself. It seems they're going to separate us. Rotten luck, but -there's no fighting these two fellows here. Well, cheerio, Harkness. -You've been a mighty fine pal, if we don't meet again. Only that rotten -fog did us in." - -Harkness struggled to his knees. "No, no, Dunbar. They shan't separate -us. They shan't----" but there was a touch of a hand on his arm and -instantly, as though to save at all costs another pressure of that -nerve, he sank back. - -Dunbar went out, one of the Japanese following him. The door closed. - -Now indeed Harkness needed all his fortitude. He had never felt such -loneliness as this. From the beginning of the adventure there had been -an element so fantastic, so improbable, that except at certain moments -he had never believed in the final reality of it. There was something -laughable, ludicrous about Crispin himself; he had been like a child -playing with his toys. Now absolutely Harkness was face to face with -reality. - -Crispin did mean all that he had threatened. And what that might be----! - -The Japanese was beginning to take off his clothes, very lightly and -gently pulling his coat from under him. Harkness sat up and assisted -him. This did not matter. Of what significance was it whether he had -clothes or no? What mattered was that he should be out of this horrible -room where there was neither space nor light nor company. Anything -anywhere was better. The Japanese' cool hard fingers slipped about his -body. He himself undid his collar and mechanically dropped his -collar-stud into the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, where he always -put it when he was undressing. He bent forward and took off his shoes. - -The Japanese gravely thanked him. There was a small hole in his right -sock and he slipped it off quickly, covering it with his other hand. He -was ashamed for the Japanese to see it. - -His clothes were piled as neatly as Dunbar's. He stood up feeling -freshened and cool. - -Then the Japanese, bowing, moved to the door. Harkness followed him. - -They climbed the stairs once more, the stone striking cold under -Harkness's bare feet. They must now be reaching the very top of the -Tower. There was a sense of space and height about them and a stronger -light. - -The Japanese paused, pushed back a door and sharply jerked Harkness -forward. Harkness nearly fell, but was caught by some one else, closed -his eyes involuntarily against a flood of light into which he seemed, -with a curious sensation as though he had dived from a great height, to -be sinking ever deeper and deeper, then to be struggling up through -bursting bubbles of colour. His eyes were still closed against the sun -that pressed like a warm palm upon the lids. - -He felt hands moving about him. Then that he was held back against -something cold, then that he was being bound, gently, smoothly; the -bands did not hurt his flesh. There was a pause. He still kept his eyes -closed. Was this death then? The sun beat upon his body warm and strong. -The cool of the pillar to which he was bound was pleasant against his -back. There were boards beneath his feet, and on their dry, friendly -surface his toes curled. A delicious soft lethargy wrapped him round. -Was this death? One sharp pang like the pressure of an aching tooth and -then nothing. Sinking into dark silence through this shaft of deep and -burning sunlight. . . . - -He opened his eyes. He cried aloud with astonishment. He was in what was -plainly the top room of the Tower, a high white place with a round -ceiling softly primrose. One high window went the length from floor to -ceiling, and this window, which was without bars, blazed with sun and -shone with the colours of the early morning blue. The room was -white--pure virgin white--round, and bare of furniture. Only--and this -was what had caught the cry from Harkness--three pillars supported the -ceiling, and to these three pillars were bound by white cord, first -himself, then Dunbar, then, naked as they, Jabez. - -The fisherman stood there facing Harkness--a gigantic figure. Yesterday -afternoon on the hill, last night in the garden Harkness had not -recognised the man's huge proportions under his clothes. Now, bound -there, with his black hair and beard, his great chest, the muscle of his -arms and thighs, the sunlight bathing him, he was mighty to see. - -His eyes were mild and puzzled like the eyes of a dog who has been -chained against reason. He was making a strange restless motion from -side to side as though he were testing the white cords that held him. -His face above his beard, his neck, the upper part of his chest, his -hands, his legs beneath the knees, were a deep russet brown, the rest of -him a fair white, striking strangely with the jet blackness of his hair. - -He smiled as he saw Harkness's astonishment. - -"Aye, sir," he said. "It wasn't me you was expectin' to see here, and it -wasn't myself that was expectin' to be here neither." - -They were alone--no Japanese, no Crispin. - -"I've been in here half an hour before you come," he went on. "And I can -tell you, sir, I was mighty sorry to see them bringin' both you -gentlemen in. Whatever happens to me, I said, they've got clear away. It -never kind of struck me that the fog was going to worry you." - -"Why didn't you get away yourself, Jabez?" Harkness asked him. - -"They was down on me about an hour after. The fog had come on pretty -thick and I was walkin' up and down out there thinkin'. I hadn't no more -than another hour of it and pleasin' myself to think how mad that old -devil would be when he'd found out what had happened and me safe in my -own house with the mother, when all of a sudden I hear the car snortin'. -'Somethin' up,' I says, and three seconds later, as you might say, they -was on me. If it hadn't been for that fog I might of got clear, but they -was on me before I knew it. I had a bit of a struggle with they dirty -stinkin' foreigners, but they got a lot of dirty tricks an Englishman -would be ashamed of using. Anyway they had me down on the ground pretty -quick and hurt me too. - -"They trussed me up like a fowl, carried me into the hall, and didn't -the old red-headed devil spit and curse? You've never seen nothing like -it, sir. Sure raving mad he was that time all right. And he came and -kicked me on the face and pulled my beard and spat in my eyes. I don't -know what's coming to us right now, but I pray the Almighty Father to -give me just one turn with my fist. I'll land him. - -"Then, sir, they carried me upstairs and tumbled me into a dark room. -There I was for I wouldn't like to say how long. Then they came in and -took my things off me, the dirty foreigners. It's only a foreigner would -think of a thing like that. I struggled a bit, but what's the use? They -put their thumb in your back and they've got you. Then they tied me up -here. I had to laugh, I did really. Did you ever see such a comic -picture as all three of us without a stitch between us tied up here at -six in the morning? - -"When I tell mother about it she'll laugh all right. Like the show down -to St. Ives when they have the boxing. I suppose we'll be getting out of -this all serene, sir, won't we?" - -"Of course we will," said Dunbar. "Don't you worry, Jabez. He's been -doing all this to frighten us. He daren't touch us really. Why, he'll -have the county about his ears as it is. Don't you worry." - -"Thank you, sir," said Jabez, still moving from side to side within the -bands, "because you see, sir, I wouldn't like anything to happen to me -just now. Mother's expectin' an addition to the family in a month or so -and there's six on 'em already, an' it needs a bit of doing looking -after them all. I wouldn't have been working for this dirty blackguard -here if it hadn't been for there being so many of us--not that I'd have -one of them away if you understand me, sir." - -"You needn't be afraid, Jabez," Dunbar said. "When we get out of this -Mr. Harkness and I will see that you never have any anxiety again. -You've been a wonderful friend to us to-night and we're not likely to -forget it." - -"Oh, don't you mistake me, sir," said Jabez. "It wasn't no help I was -asking for. I'm doing very well with the boat and the potatoes. It was -only I was thinking I wouldn't like nothing exactly to happen to me -along of this crazy lunatic here if you understand me, sir. . . . I'm -not so sure if they give me time I couldn't get through these bits of -rope here. I'm pretty strong in the arm, or used to be--not so dusty -even now. If I could work at them a bit----" - -The door opened and Crispin came in. - -He appeared to Harkness as he stepped in, quietly closing the door -behind him, like some strange creature of a dream. He seemed himself, in -the way that he moved with his eyes nearly closed, somnambulistic. He -was wearing now only his white silk pyjamas, and of these the sleeves -were rolled up showing his fat white arms. His red hair stood on end -like an ill-fitting wig. In one hand he carried a curved knife with a -handle of worked gold. - -In the room, blazing with sunlight, he was like a creature straight from -the boards of some neighbouring theatre, even to the white powder that -lay in dry flakes upon his face. - -He opened his eyes, staring at the sunlight, and in their depths -Harkness saw the strangest mingling of terror, pathos, eager lust, and a -bewildered amazement, as though he were tranced. The gaze with which he -turned to Harkness had in it a sudden appeal; then that appeal sank like -light quenched by water. - -He was wrung up on the instant to intensest excitement. His whole body -trembled. His mouth opened as though he would speak, then closed again. - -He came close to Harkness. He put out his hand and touched his neck. - -"We are alone," he said, in his soft beautiful voice. He stroked -Harkness's neck. The soft boneless fingers. Harkness looked at him, and, -strangely, at that moment their eyes were very close to one another. -They looked at one another gently. In Harkness's eyes was no malice; in -Crispin's that strange mingling of lust and unhappiness. - -Harkness only said: "Crispin, whatever you do to us leave that girl -alone. I beg you leave her. . . ." - -He closed his eyes then. God helping him he would not speak another -word. But a triumphant exultation surged through him because he knew -that he was not afraid. - -There was no fear in him. It was as though the warm sun beating on his -body gave him courage. - -Standing behind the safeguard of his closed eyes his real soul seemed to -slip away, to run down the circular staircase into the hall and pass -happily into the garden, down the road to the sea. - -His soul was free and Crispin's was imprisoned. - -He heard Crispin's voice: "Will you admit now that I have you in my -hand? If I touch you here how you will bleed--bleed to death if I do not -prevent it. Do you remember Shylock and his pound of flesh? 'Oh! upright -Judge!' But there is no judge here to stay me!" - -The knife touched him. He felt it as though it had been a wasp's -sting--a small cut it must be--and suddenly there was the cool trickle -of blood down his skin. Then his right shoulder--a prick! Now a cut -again on his arm. Stings--nothing more. But the end had really come then -at last? His hands beneath the bonds moved suddenly of their own -impulse. It was not natural not to strive to be free, to fight for his -life. - -He opened his eyes. He was bleeding from five or six little cuts. -Crispin was standing away from him. He saw that Dunbar, crimson in the -face, was struggling frantically with his cords and was shouting. Jabez, -too, was calling out. The room, hitherto so quiet, was alive with -movement. Crispin now stood back from him watching him. The sight of -blood had completed what these weeks had been preparing. - -With that first touch of the knife on Harkness's body Crispin's soul had -died. The battle was over. There was an animal here clothed -fantastically in human clothes like a monkey or a dog at a music-hall -show. The animal capered, stood on its hind legs, mowed in the air with -its hands. It crept up to Harkness and, whining like a dog, pricked him -with the knife point now here, now there, in a hundred places. - -Harkness looked out once more at the great window with its splash of -glorious sky, then ceased to struggle with his cords. His lips moved in -some prayer perhaps, and once more, surely now for the last time, he -closed his eyes. He had a strange vision of all the moving world beyond -that window. At that moment at the hotel the maids would be sweeping the -corridors, people would be stirring and rubbing their eyes and looking -at their watches; in the town family breakfasts would be preparing, men -would be sauntering down the narrow streets to their work; the -connection with the London train would be running in with the London -papers, already the men and women would be in the fields, the women -would be waiting perhaps for the fishing-fleet to come in, Mrs. Jabez -would be at the cottage door looking up the road for her husband. . . . - -His heart pounded into his mouth, with a mighty impulse he drove it -back. Crispin was laughing. The knife was raised. His face was wrinkled. -He was running round the room, round and round, making with the knife -strange movements in the air. He was whispering to himself. Round and -round and round he ran, words pouring from his mouth in a thick unending -stream. They were not words, they were sounds, and once and again a -strange sigh like a catch of the breath, like a choke in the throat. He -ran, bending, not looking at the three men, bending low as though as he -ran he were looking for something on the floor. - -Then quite suddenly he straightened himself, and with a growl and a -snarl, the knife raised in one hand, hurled himself at Jabez. - -All followed then quickly. The knife flashed in the sunlight. It seemed -that the hands caught at Jabez's eyes, first one and then another, but -there had been more than the hands because suddenly blood poured from -those eyes, spouting over, covering the face, mingling with the beard. - -With a great cry Jabez put forth his strength. Stung by agony to a power -that he had never known until then his body seemed to rise from the -ground, to become something superhuman, immortal. The great head -towered, the limbs spread out, it seemed for a moment as though the -pillar itself would fall. - -The cord that tied him to the pillar snapped and his hands were free. He -tottered, the blood pouring from his face. He moved, blindly, -staggering. Not a sound had come from him since that first cry. - -His hands flung out, and in another moment Crispin was caught into his -arms. He raised him. The little fat hands fluttered. The knife flashed -loosely and fell to the ground. The giant swung into the middle of the -room blinded, but holding to himself ever tighter and ever tighter the -short fat body. - -Crispin, his head tossed back, his legs flung out in an agony now of -terror, screamed with a strange shrill cry like a rabbit entrapped. - -Jabez turned, and now he had Crispin's soft chest against his bleeding -face, the arms fluttering above his head. As he turned his shoulder -touched the glass of the window. He pushed backward with his arm and the -window swung open, some of the broken glass tinkling to the ground. -There was a great rush of air. - -That strange thing, like no human body, the white silk, the brown -slippers, the red hair, swung. For one second of time, suspended as it -were on the thread of that long animal scream, so shrill and yet so thin -and distant, the white face, its little eyes staring, the painted mouth -open, hung towards Harkness. Then into the air like a coloured bundle of -worthless junk, for a moment a dark shadow across the steeple of -sunlight, and then down, down, into fathomless depths of air, leaving -the space of sky stainless, the morning blue without taint. . . . - -Jabez stood for a moment facing them, his chest heaving in convulsive -pants. Then crying, "My eyes! My eyes!" crumpled to the floor. - - - - -VI - - -First Harkness was conscious of a wonderful silence. Then into the -silence, borne in on the back of the sea breeze, he heard the wild -chattering of a multitude of birds. The room was filled with their -chatter, up from the trees, crowding the room with their life. - -Straight past the window, like an arrow shot from a bow, flashed a -sea-gull. Then another more slowly wheeled down, curving against the -blue like a wave released into air. - -He recognized all these things, and then once again that wonderful -blessed stillness. All was peace, all repose. He might rest for ever. - -After, it seemed, an infinity of time, and from a vast distance, he -caught Dunbar's voice: - -". . . Jabez! Jabez! Jabez, old fellow! The man's fainted. Harkness, are -you all right? Did he hurt you?" - -"No," Harkness quietly answered. "He didn't hurt me. He meant to, -though. . . ." Then a green curtain of dark thick cloth swept through -the heavens and caught him into its folds. He knew nothing more. The -last thing he heard was the glorious happy chattering of the birds. - - - - -VII - - -He slowly climbed an infinity of stairs, up and up and up. The stairs -were hard to climb, but he knew that at their summit there would be a -glorious view, and, for that view, he would undergo any hardship. But -oh! he was tired, desperately tired. He could hardly raise one foot -above another. - -He had been walking with his eyes closed because it was cooler that way. -Then a bee stung him. Then another. On the chest. Now on the arm. Now a -whole flight. He cried out. He opened his eyes. - -He was lying on a bed. People were about him. He had been climbing those -stairs naked. It would never do that those strangers should see him. He -must speak of it. His hand touched cloth. He was wearing trousers. His -chest was bare, and some one was bending over him touching places here -and there on his body with something that stung. Not bees after all. He -looked up with mildly wondering eyes and saw a face bending over him--a -kindly bearded face, a face that he could trust. Not like--not -like--that strange mask face of the Japanese. . . . That other. . . . - -He struggled on to his elbow crying: "No, no. I can't any more. I've had -enough. He's mad, I tell you----" - -A kind rough voice said to him: "That's all right, my friend. That's all -over. No harm done----" - -My friend! That sounded good. He looked round him and in the distance -saw Dunbar. He broke into smiles holding out his hand. - -"Dunbar, old man! That's fine. So you're all right?" - -Dunbar came over, sat on his bed, putting his arm around him. - -"All right? I should think so. So are we all. Even Jabez isn't much the -worse. That devil missed his eyes, thank heaven. He'll have two scars to -the end of his time to remind him, though." - -Harkness sat up. He knew now where he was, on a sofa in the hall--in the -hall with the tattered banners and the clock that coughed like a dog. He -looked at the clock--just a quarter to seven! Only three-quarters of an -hour since that awful knock on the door. - -Then he saw Hesther. - -"Oh, thank God!" he whispered to himself. "_Nunc dimittis_. . . ." - -She came to him. The three sat together on the sofa, the bearded man -(the doctor from the village under the cliff, Harkness afterwards found) -standing back, looking at them, smiling. - -"Now tell me," Harkness said, looking at Dunbar, "the rest that I don't -know." - -"There isn't much to tell. We were only there another ten minutes. When -you fainted off I felt a bit queer myself, but I just kept together, and -then heard some one running up the stairs. - -"I thought it was one of the Japs returning, but there was a great -banging on the door and then shouting in a good old Cornish accent. I -called back that I was tied up in there and that they must break in the -door. That they did and burst in--two fishermen and old Possiter the -policeman from Duntrent. He's somewhere about the house now with two of -the Treliss policemen. Well, it seems that a fellow, Jack Curtis, was -going up the hill to his morning work in the Creppit fields above the -wood here when he heard a strange cry, and, turning the corner of the -road, finds on the path above the rocks, Crispin--pretty smashed up you -know. He ran--only a yard or two--to the Possiters' cottage. Possiter -was having his breakfast and was up here in no time. They got into the -house through a window and saw the two Japanese clearing off up the back -garden. Curtis chased them but they beat him and vanished into the wood. -They stopped two other men who were passing and then came on Hesther -tied up in the library. She sent them to the Tower." - -"Well--and then?" said Harkness. - -"There isn't much more. Except this. They got up the doctor, had poor -old Jabez's face looked to and cleared him off down to his cottage, were -examining your cuts--all this down here. Suddenly a car comes up to the -door and in there bursts--young Crispin! The two Treliss policemen had -turned up three minutes earlier in _their_ car and were here alone -except for Possiter examining Crispin Senior--who was pretty well -smashed to pieces I can tell you. - -"Crispin Junior breaks through, gives one look at his father, shouts out -some words that no one can understand, puts a revolver to his temple and -blows the top of his head off before any one can stop him. Topples right -over his father's body. The end of the house of Crispin! - -"I saw all this from the staircase. I was just coming down after looking -at you. I heard the shot, saw old Possiter jump back and got down in -time to help them clear it all up. - -"No one knows where he'd been. To Truro, I imagine, looking for all of -us. He must have cared for that madman, cared for him or been hypnotised -by him--_I_ don't know. At least he didn't hesitate----" - -"And now, sir, would you mind telling me . . .?" said the stout -red-faced Treliss policeman, advancing towards them. - - - - -VIII - - -He was free; it was from the moment that the red-faced policeman, -smiling upon him benevolently, had informed him that, for the moment, he -had had from him all that he needed, his one burning and determined -impulse--to get away from that hall, that garden, that house with the -utmost possible urgency. - -He had not wished even to stay with Hesther and Dunbar. He would see -them later in the day, would see them, please God, many many times in -the years to come. - -What he wanted was to be alone--absolutely alone. - -The cuts on the upper part of his body were nothing--a little iodine -would heal them soon; it seemed that there had come to him no physical -harm--only an amazing all-invading weariness. It was not like any -weariness that he had ever before known. He imagined--he had had no -positive experience--that it resembled the conditions of some happy -doped trance, some dream-state in which the world was a vision and -oneself a disembodied spirit. It was as though his body, stricken with -an agony of weariness, was waiting for his descent, but his soul -remained high in air in a bell of crystal glass beyond whose surface the -colours of the world floated about him. - -He left them all--the doctor, the policeman, Dunbar and Hesther. He did -not even stop at Jabez's cottage to inquire. That was for later. As -half-past seven struck from the church tower below the hill he flung the -gate behind him, crossed the road, and struck off on to the Downs above -the sea. - -By a kind of second sight he knew exactly where he would go. There was a -path that crossed the Downs that ran slipping into a little cove, across -whose breast a stream trickled, then up on to the Downs again, pushing -up over fields of corn, past the cottage gardens up to the very gate of -the hotel. - -It was all mapped in his mind in bright clear-painted colours. - -The world was indeed as though it had only that morning been painted in -green and blue and gold. While the fog hung, under its canopy the -master-artist had been at work. Now from the shoulder of the Downs a -shimmer of mist tempered the splendour of the day. Harkness could see it -all. The long line of sea on whose blue surface three white sails -hovered, the bend of the Downs where it turned to deeper green, the dip -of the hill out of whose hollow the church spire like a spear -steel-tipped gesticulated, the rising hill with the wood and the tall -white tower, the green Downs far to the right where tiny sheep like -flowers quivered in the early morning haze. - -All was peace. The rustling whisper of the sea, the breeze moving -through the taller grasses, the hum of tiny insects, a lark singing, two -dogs barking in rivalry, a scent of herb and salt and fashioned soil, -all these things were peace. - -Harkness moved a free man as he had never been in all his life as yet. -He was his own master and God's servant too. Life might be a dream--it -seemed to him that it was--but it was a dream with a meaning, and the -events of that night had given him the key. - -His egotism was gone. He wanted nothing for himself any more. He was, -and would always be, himself, but also he had lost himself in the common -life of man. He was himself because his contact with beauty was his own. -Beauty belonged to all men in common, and it was through beauty that -they came to God, but each man found beauty in his own way, and, having -found it, joined his portion of it to the common stock. - -He had been shy of man and was shy no longer; he had been in love, was -in love now, but had surrendered it; he had been afraid of physical pain -and was afraid no longer; he had looked his enemy in the eyes and borne -him no ill-will. - -But he was conscious of none of these things--only of the freshness of -the morning, of the scents that came to him from every side, and of this -strange disembodied state so that he seemed to float, like gossamer, on -air. - -He went down the path to the little cove. He watched the ripple of water -advance and retreat. The stream of fresh water that ran through it was -crystal clear and he bent down, made a cup with his hands and drank. He -could see the pebbles, brown and red and green like jewels, and thin -spires of green weed swaying to and fro. - -He buried his face in the water, letting it wash his eyes, his forehead, -his nostrils, his mouth. - -He stood up and drank in the silence. The ripple of the sea was like the -touch on his arm of a friend. He kneeled down and let the fine sand run, -hot, through his fingers. Then he moved on. - -He climbed the hill: a flock of sheep passed him, huddling together, -crying, nosing the hedge. The sun touched the outline of their fleece to -shining light. He cried out to the shepherd: - -"A fine morning!" - -"Aye, a beautiful morning!" - -"A nasty fog last night." - -"Aye, aye--all cleared off now though. It'll be a warm day." - -The dog, his tongue out, his eyes shining, ran barking hither, thither. -They passed over the hill, the sheep like a cloud against the green. - -He pushed up, the breeze blowing more strongly now on his forehead. - -He reached the cottage gardens, and the smell of roses was once more -thick in his nostrils. The chimneys were sending silver skeins of smoke -into the blue air. Bacon smells and scent of fresh bread came to him. - -He was at the hotel gates. Oh, but he was weary now! Weary and happy. He -stumbled up the path smelling the roses again. Into the hall. The gong -was ringing for breakfast. Children, crying out and laughing, raced down -the stairs, passed him. He reached his room. He opened the door. How -quiet it was! Just as he had left it. - -Ah! there was the tree of the "St. Gilles," and there the grave friendly -eyes of Strang leaning over the etching-table to greet him. - -Just as they were--but he!--not as he had been! He caught his face in -the glass smiling idiotically. - -He staggered to his bed, flung himself down still smiling. His eyes -closed. There floated up to him a face--a little white face crowned with -red hair, but not evil now, not animal--friendly, lonely, asking for -something. . . . - -He smiled, promising something. Lifted his hand. Then his hand fell, and -he sank deep, deep, deep into happy, blissful slumber. - - - - -THE END. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED -HAIR *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Portrait of a Man with Red Hair</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A Romantic Macabre</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Hugh Walpole</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66837]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED HAIR ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/red_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>PORTRAIT OF A MAN<br /> -WITH RED HAIR</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h3>A ROMANTIC MACABRE</h3> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>By</h4> - -<h2 style="page-break-before: avoid;">HUGH WALPOLE</h2> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><i>NEW YORK</i></h4> - -<h4><i>GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</i></h4> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h5>COPYRIGHT, 1925, -<br /> -BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</h5> - -<h5>COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE<br /> -COMPANY, INC. (HARPER'S BAZAAR)</h5> - -<h5>PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED HAIR</h5> - -<h5>—A—</h5> - -<h5>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>TO MY FRIENDS<br /> -ETHEL AND ARTHUR FOWLER</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>DEDICATORY LETTER.</h4> - - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">BRACKENBURN,</p> -<p style="margin-left: 62%;"><i>April</i> 1925.</p> - -<p> -DEAR ETHEL AND ARTHUR— -</p> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It is appropriate, in a way, that I should give you this book when so -much of it was written under your roof. It is a romance, and this has -not been, during the last twenty years, a favourable time for romances. -But I like to give it to you because you know how it was written, in a -very happy summer after a long and arduous lecture tour during which, -more than ever before, I learned to love your country. -</p> - -<p> -I wrote it as a rest and a refreshment, and I will tell you frankly that -I have enjoyed writing it very much. But I do not know whether, in these -stern days, stories are intended to be enjoyed either by the writer of -them or the reader. -</p> - -<p> -I have noticed sometimes that people speak rather scornfully of a story -as "readable." But if it be not first of all "readable" what afterwards -can it be? Surely dead before it is born. -</p> - -<p> -I hope then, and I believe, that this tale is "readable" at least. I -know no more than that what it is—fancy, story allegory, what you -will. I might invoke the great names of Hoffmann and Hawthorne for its -Godfathers. I might recall a story much beloved by me, <i>Sintram and His -Companions</i>, did I not, most justly, fear the comparison! -</p> - -<p> -But the word allegory is, in these days, a dangerous one, and some one -will soon be showing me that we have, each one of us, his Sea-Fog, his -White Tower, and that it is the fault of his own weakness if he does not -fling out of the window his Red-Haired man. -</p> - -<p> -No, no, God forbid. This is a tale and nothing but a tale, and all -I ask is that once beginning it you will find it hard to lay down -unfinished— -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">and that you will think of me always as</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 50%;">Your affectionate friend</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">HUGH.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -. . . Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be -permitted to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he -then keeps within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprise the -reader the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm -him. -</p> - -<p> -As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the -Bathos, "The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in -order to join the credible with the surprising." -</p> - -<p> -For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of -probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters or his -incidents should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every -street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home articles -of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many persons and -things which may possibly never have fallen within the knowledge of -great part of his readers. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">HENRY FIELDING.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="nind"><a href="#PART_I">PART I -<br /><br /> -The Sea Like Bronze</a> -<br /><br /> -<a href="#PART_II">PART II -<br /><br /> -The Dance Round the Town</a> -<br /><br /> -<a href="#PART_III">PART III -<br /><br /> -Sea-fog</a> -<br /><br /> -<a href="#PART_IV">PART IV -<br /><br /> -The Tower</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_I">PART I: THE SEA LIKE BRONZE. . . .</a></h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>I</h4> - - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You're my friend:</span><br /> -<span class="i0">I was the man the Duke spoke to:</span><br /> -<span class="i0">I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke too:</span><br /> -<span class="i0">So here's the tale from beginning to end,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">My friend!</span><br /> -<span class="i12">* * </span><br /> -<span class="i12"> * </span><br /> -<span class="i0">Ours is a great wild country;</span><br /> -<span class="i0">If you climb to our castle's top,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">I don't see where your eye can stop;</span><br /> -<span class="i0">For when you've passed the cornfield country,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">And cattle-tract to open-chase,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">And open-chase to the very base</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Round about, solemn and slow,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">One by one, row after row,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Up and up the pine trees go,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Go, like black priests up, and so</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Down the other side again</span><br /> -<span class="i4">To another greater, wilder country. . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">'To another greater, wilder country . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">'To another greater . . .'</span> -</div></div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The soul of Charles Percy Harkness slipped, like a neat white -pocket-handkerchief, out through the carriage window into the -silver-blue air, hung there changing into a tiny white fleck against the -immensity, struggling for escape above the purple-pointed trees of the -dark wood, then, realising that escape was not yet, fluttered back into -the carriage again, was caught by Charles Percy, neatly folded up, and -put away. -</p> - -<p> -The Browning lines—old-fashioned surely?—had yielded it a -moment's hope. Those and some other lines from another outmoded book: -</p> - -<p> -"But the place reasserted its spell, marshalling once again its army, -its silver-belted knights, its castles of perilous frowning darkness, -its meadows of gold and silver streams. -</p> - -<p> -"The old spell working the same purpose. For how many times and for what -intent? That we may be reminded yet once again that there is the step -behind the door, the light beyond the window, the rustle on the stair, -and that it is for these things only that we must watch and wait?" -</p> - -<p> -For Harkness had committed the folly of having two books open on his -knee—a peek at one, a peek at another, a long, eager glance through -the window at the summer scene, but above all a sensuous state of slumber -hovering in the hot scented afternoon air just above him, waiting to -pounce . . . to pounce . . . -</p> - -<p> -First Browning, then this other, the old book in a faded red-brown -cover, "<i>To Paradise!</i> Frederick Lester." At the bottom of the -title-page, 1892—how long ago! How faded and pathetic the old book -was! He alone in all the British Isles at that moment reading -it—certainly no other living soul—and he had crossed to -Browning after Lester's third page. -</p> - -<p> -He swung in mid-air. The open fields came swimming up to him like vast -green waves, gently to splash upon his face, hanging over him, laced -about the telegraph poles, rising and falling with them. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The voice of the old man with the long white beard, the only occupant of -the carriage with him, broke sharply in like a steel knife cutting -through blotting-paper. -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon me, but there is a spider on your neck!" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness started up. The two books slipped to the floor. He passed his -hand, damp with the afternoon warmth, over his cool neck. He hated -spiders. He shivered. His fingers were on the thing. With a shudder he -flung it out of the window. -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you," he said, blushing very slightly. -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," the old man said severely; "you were almost asleep, and in -another moment it would have been down your back." -</p> - -<p> -He was not the old man you would have expected to see in an English -first-class carriage, save that now in these democratic days you may see -any one anywhere. But first-class fares are so expensive. Perhaps that -is why it is only the really poor who can afford them. The old man, who -was thin and wiry, had large shabby boots, loose and ancient trousers, a -flopping garden straw hat. His hands were gnarled like the knots of -trees. He was terribly clean. He had blue eyes. On his knees was a large -basket and from this he ate his massive luncheon—here an immense -sandwich with pieces of ham like fragments of banners, there a colossal -apple, a monstrous pear— -</p> - -<p> -"Going far?" munched the old man. -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, blushing again. "To Treliss. I change at Trewth, I -believe. We should be there at 4.30." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Should be</i>" said the old man, dribbling through his pear. "The -train's late. . . . Another tourist," he added suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon?" said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Another of these damned tourists. You are, I mean. <i>I</i> lived at -Treliss. Such as you drove me away." -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry," said Harkness, smiling faintly. "I suppose I <i>am</i> that -if by tourist you mean somebody who is travelling to a place to see what -it is like and enjoy its beauty. A friend has told me of it. He says it is -the most beautiful place in England." -</p> - -<p> -"Beauty," said the old man, licking his fingers—"a lot you tourists -think about beauty—with your char-à-bancs and oranges and babies and -Americans. If I had my way I'd make the Americans pay a tax, spoiling -our country as they do." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>I</i> am an American," said Harkness faintly. -</p> - -<p> -The old man licked his thumb, looked at it, and licked it again. "I -wouldn't have thought it," he said. "Where's your accent?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have lived in this country a great many years off and on," he -explained, "and we don't all say 'I guess' every moment as novelists -make us do," he added, smiling. -</p> - -<p> -Smiling, yes. But how deeply he detested this unfortunate conversation! -How happy he had been, and now this old man with his rudeness and -violence had smashed the peace into a thousand fragments. But the old -man spoke little more. He only stared at Harkness out of his blue eyes, -and said: -</p> - -<p> -"Treliss is too beautiful a place for you. It will do you harm," and -fell instantly asleep. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -Yes, Harkness thought, looking at the rise and fall of the old man's -beard, it is strange and indeed lamentable how deeply I detest a cross -word! That is why I am always creeping away from things, why, too, I -never make friends—not <i>real</i> friends—why at thirty-five -I am a complete failure—that is, from the point of view of anything -real. -</p> - -<p> -I am filled too with self-pity, he added as he opened <i>To Paradise</i> -again and groped for page four, and self-pity is the most despicable of -all the vices. -</p> - -<p> -He was not unpleasing to the eye as he sat there thinking. He was -dressed with exceeding neatness, but his clothes had something of the -effect of chain armour. Was that partly because his figure was so slight -that he could never fill any suit of clothes adequately? That might be -so. His soft white collar, his pale blue tie, his mild blue eyes, his -long tranquil fingers, these things were all gentle. His chin protruded. -He was called "gaunt" by undiscerning friends, but that was a poor word -for him. He was too slight for that, too gentle, too unobtrusive. His -hair was already retreating deprecatingly from his forehead. No gaunt -man would smile so timidly. His neatness and immaculate spotless purity -of dress showed a fastidiousness that granted his cowardice an excuse. -</p> - -<p> -For I am a coward, he thought. This is yet another holiday that I am -taking alone. Alone after all these years. And Pritchard or Mason, Major -Stock or Henry Trenchard, Carstairs Willing or Falk Brandon—any one -of these might have wished to go if I had had courage . . . or even -Maradick himself might have come. -</p> - -<p> -The only companions, he reflected, that he had taken with him on this -journey were his etchings, kinder to him, more intimate with him, -rewarding him with more affection than any human being. His seven -etchings—the seven of his forty—Lepère's "Route de St. Gilles," -Legros's "Cabane dans les Marais," Rembrandt's "Flight into Egypt," -Muirhead Bone's "Orvieto," Whistler's "Drury Lane," Strang's "Portrait -of Himself Etching," and Meryon's "Rue des Chantres." His seven -etchings.—his greatest friends in the world, save of course Hetty and -Jane his sisters. Yes he reflected, you can judge a man by his friends, -and in my cowardice I have given all my heart to these things because -they can't answer me back, cannot fail me when I most eagerly expect -something of them, are always there when I call them, do not change nor -betray me. And yet it is not only cowardice. They are intimate and -individual as is no other form of graphic art. They are so personal that -every separate impression has a fresh character. They are so lovely in -soul that they never age nor have their moods. My Aldegrevers and -Penczs, he was reflecting. . . . He was a little happier now. . . . The -Browning and <i>To Paradise</i> fell once more to the ground. I hope the -old man does not waken, he thought, and yet perhaps he will pass his -station. What a temper he will be in if he does that, and then I too -shall suffer! -</p> - -<p> -He read a line or two of the Browning: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Ours is a great wild country;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If you climb to our castle's top,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I don't see where your eye can stop . . .</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -How strange that the book should have opened again at that same place as -though it were that it wished him to read! -</p> - -<p> -And then <i>To Paradise</i> a line or two, now page 376, "And the Silver -Button? Would his answer defy that too? Had he some secret magic? Was he -stronger than God Himself? . . ." -</p> - -<p> -And then, Harkness reflected, this business about being an American. He -had felt pride when he had told the old man that was his citizenship. He -was proud, yes, and yet he spent most of his life in Europe. And now as -always when he fell to thinking of America his eye travelled to his own -home there—Baker at the portals of Oregon. All the big trains -passed it on their way to the coast—three hundred and forty miles -from Portland, fifty from Huntington. He saw himself on that eager -arrival coming out by the 11.30 train from Salt Lake City, steaming in -at 4.30 in the afternoon, an early May afternoon perhaps with the -colours violet in the sky and the mountains elephant-dusk—so quiet -and so gentle. And when the train has gone on and you are left on the -platform and you look about you and find everything as it was when you -departed a year ago—the Columbia Café. The Antlers Hotel. The -mountains still with their snow caps. The Lumber Offices. The notice on -the wall of the café: "You can EAT HERE if you have NO MONEY." The -Crabill Hotel. The fresh sweet air, three thousand five hundred feet up. -The soft pause of the place. Baker did not grow very fast as did other -places. It is true that there had been but four houses when his father -had first landed there, but even now as towns went it was small and -quiet and unprogressive. Strange that his father with that old-cultured -New England stock should have gone there, but he had fled from mankind -after the death of his wife, Harkness's mother, fled with his three -little children, shut himself away, there under the mountains with his -books, a sad, severe man in that long, rambling ramshackle house. Still -long, still rambling, still ramshackle, although Hetty and Jane, who -never moved away from it, had made it as charming as they could. They -were darlings, and lived for the month every year when their brother -came to visit them. But he could not live there! No, he could not! It -was exile for him, exile from everything for which he most deeply cared. -But Europe was exile too. That was the tragedy of it! Every morning that -he waked he thought that perhaps to-day he would find that he was a true -European! But no, it was not so. Away from America, how deeply he loved -his country! How clearly he saw its idealism, its vitality, its -marvellous promise for the future, its loving contact with his own -youthful dreams. But back in America again it seemed crude and noisy and -materialistic. He longed for the Past. Exile in both with his New -England culture that was not enough, his half-cocked vitality that was -not enough. Never enough to permit his half-gods to go! But he loved -America always; he saw how little these Europeans truly knew or cared -about her, how hasty their visits to her, how patronising their -attitude, how weary their stale conventions against her full, bursting -energy. And yet——! And yet——! He could not live -there. After two weeks of Baker, even though he had with him his -etchings, his diary in its dark blue cover, Frazer's <i>Golden -Bough</i>, and some of the Loeb Classics, life was not enough. Hetty and -Jane bored him with their goodness and little Culture Club. It was not -enough for him that Hetty had read a very good paper on "Archibald -Marshall—the modern Trollope" to the inhabitants of Baker and -Haines. Nevertheless they seemed to him finer women than the women of -any other country, with their cheery independence, their admirable -common sense, their warm hearts, their unselfishness, but—it was -not enough—no, it was not enough . . . What he wanted . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -The old man awoke with a start. -</p> - -<p> -"And when you come to this Prohibition question," he said, "the -Americans have simply become a laughing stock. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness picked up the Browning firmly. "If you don't mind," he -remarked, "I have a piece of work here of some importance and I have but -little time. Pray excuse me. . . ." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -How had he dared? Never in all his life had he spoken to a stranger so. -How often had he envied and admired those who could be rude and -indifferent to people's feelings. It seemed to him that this was a -crisis with him, something that he would never forget, something that -might alter all his life. Perhaps already the charm of which Maradick -had spoken was working. He looked out of his window and always, -afterwards, he was to remember a stream that, now bright silver, now -ebony dark, ran straight to him from the heart of an emerald green field -like a greeting spirit. It laughed up to his window and was gone. -</p> - -<p> -He had asserted himself. The old man with the beard was reading the -<i>Hibbert Journal.</i> Strange old man—but defeated! Harkness felt -a triumph. Could he but henceforward assert himself in this fashion, all -might be easy for him. Instead of retreating he might advance, stretch -out his hand and take the things and the people that he wanted as he had -seen others do. He almost wished that the old man might speak to him -again, that he might once more be rude. -</p> - -<p> -He had had, ever since he could remember, the belief that one day, -suddenly, some magic door would open, some one step before him, some -magic carpet unroll at his feet, and all life would be changed. For many -years he had had no doubt of this. He would call it, perhaps, the coming -of romance, but as he had grown older he had come to distrust both -himself and life. He had always been interested in contemporary -literature. Every new book that he opened now seemed to tell him that he -was extremely foolish to expect anything of life at all. He was -swallowed by the modern realistic movement as a fly is swallowed by an -indifferent spider. These men, he said to himself, are very clever. They -know so much more about everything than I do that they must be right. -They are telling the truth at last about life as no one has ever done it -before. But when he had read a great many of these books (and every word of -Mr. Joyce's <i>Ulysses</i>), he found that he cared much less about truth -than he had supposed. He even doubted whether these writers were telling -the truth any more than the naïve and sentimental Victorians; and when -at last he heard a story all about an American manufacturer of washing -machines whose habit it was to strip himself naked on every possible -occasion before his nearest and dearest relations and friends, and when -the author told him that this was a typical American citizen, he, -knowing his own country people very well, frankly disbelieved it. These -realists, he exclaimed, are telling fairy stories quite as thoroughly as -Grimm, Fouqué, and De la Mare; the difference is that the realistic -fairy stories are depressing and discouraging, the others are not. He -determined to desert the realists and wait until something pleasanter -came along. Since it was impossible to have the truth about life anyway -let us have only the pleasant hallucinations. They are quite as likely -to be as true as the others. -</p> - -<p> -But he was lonely and desolate. The women whom he loved never loved him, -and indeed he never came sufficiently close to them to give them any -encouragement. He dreamt about them and painted them as they certainly -were not. He had his passions and his desires, but his Puritan descent -kept him always at one remove from experience. He never, in fact, seemed -to have contact with anything at all—except Baker in Oregon, his two -sisters, and his forty etchings. He was so shy that he was thought to be -conceited, so idealistic that he was considered cynical, so chaste that -he was considered a most immoral fellow with a secret double life. Like -the hero of "Flegeljahre," he "loved every dog and wanted every dog to -love him," but the dogs did not know enough about him to be interested; -he was so like so many other immaculately-dressed, pleasant-mannered, -and wandering American cosmopolitans that nobody had any permanent -feeling for him—fathered by Henry James, uncled by Howells, aunted -(severely) by Edith Wharton—one of a million cultured, kindly -impersonal Americans seen as shadows by the matter-of-fact unimaginative -British. Who knew or cared that he was lonely, longing for love, for -home, for some one to whom he might give his romantic devotion? He was -all these things, but no one minded. -</p> - -<p> -And then he met James Maradick. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -The meeting was of the simplest. At the Reform Club one day he was -lunching with two men, one a novelist, Westcott, whom he knew very -slightly, the other a fellow American. Westcott, a dark thick-set man of -about forty, with a reputation that without being sensational was solid -and well merited, said very little. Harkness liked him and recognised in -him a kindly shyness rather like his own. After luncheon they moved into -the big smoking-room upstairs to drink their coffee. -</p> - -<p> -A large, handsome man of between fifty and sixty came up and spoke to -Westcott. He was obviously pleased to see him, putting his hand on his -shoulder, looking at him with kindly, smiling eyes. Westcott also -flushed with pleasure. The big man sat down with them and Harkness was -introduced to him. His name was Maradick—Sir James Maradick. A -strange, unreal kind of name for so real and solid a man. As he sat -forward on the sofa with his heavy shoulders, his deep chest, his thick -neck, red-brown colour, and clear open gaze, he seemed to Harkness to be -the typical rather naïve friendly but cautious British man of business. -</p> - -<p> -That impression soon passed. There was something in Maradick that almost -instantly warmed his heart. He responded—as do all American -men—immediately, even emotionally, to any friendly contact. The -reserves that were in his nature were from his superficial -cosmopolitanism; the native warm-hearted, eager and trusting Americanism -was as real and active as it ever had been. It was, in five minutes, as -though he had known this large kindly man always. His shyness dropped -from him. He was talking eagerly and with great happiness. -</p> - -<p> -Maradick did not patronise, did not check that American spontaneity with -traditional caution as so many Englishmen do; he seemed to like Harkness -as truly as Harkness liked him. -</p> - -<p> -Westcott had to go. The other American also departed, but Maradick and -Harkness sat on there, amused, and even absorbed. -</p> - -<p> -"If I am keeping you——" Harkness said suddenly, some of his -shyness for a moment returning. -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," Maradick answered. "I have nothing urgent this afternoon. -I've got the very place for you, I believe." -</p> - -<p> -They had been speaking of places. Maradick had travelled, and together -they found some of the smaller places that they both knew and -loved—Dragör on the sea beyond Copenhagen, the woods north of -Helsingfors, the beaches of Ischia, the enchantment of Girgente with the -white goats moving over carpets of flowers through the ruined temples, -the silence and mystery of Mull. He knew America too—the places that -foreigners never knew; the teeth-shaped mountains at Las Cruces, -the lovely curve of Tacoma, the little humped-up hill of Syracuse, -the purple horizons beyond Nashville, the lone lake shore of -Marquette—— -</p> - -<p> -"And then in this country there is Treliss," he said softly, staring in -front of him. -</p> - -<p> -"Treliss?" Harkness repeated after him, liking the name. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. In North Cornwall. A beautiful place." -</p> - -<p> -He paused—sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"I was there more than ten years ago. I shall never go back." -</p> - -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"I liked it too well. I daresay they've spoiled it now as they have many -others. Thanks to wretched novelists, the railway company and -char-à-bancs, Cornwall and Glebeshire are ruined. No, I dare not go -back." -</p> - -<p> -"Was it very beautiful?" Harkness asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Beautiful? Oh yes. Wonderful. But it wasn't that. Something -happened to me there."<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> -</p> - -<p> -"So that you dare not go back?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Dare is the word. I believe that the same thing would happen -again. And I'm too old to stand it. In my case now it would be -ludicrous. It was nearly ludicrous then." Harkness said nothing. "How -old are you? If it isn't an impertinence——" -</p> - -<p> -"Thirty-five? You're young enough. I was forty. Have you ever noticed -about places——?" He broke off. "I mean—— Well, -you know with people. Suppose that you have been very intimate with some -one and then you don't see him or her for years, and then you meet -again—don't you find yourself suddenly producing the same set of -thoughts, emotions, moods that have, perhaps, lain dormant for years, -and that only this one person can call from you? And it is the same with -places. Sometimes of course in the interval something has died in you or -in them, and the second meeting produces nothing. Hands cross over a -grave. But if those things haven't died how wonderful to find them all -alive again after all those years, how you had forgotten the way they -breathed and spoke and had their being; how interesting to find yourself -drawn back again into that old current, perilous perhaps, but deep, real -after all the shams——" -</p> - -<p> -He broke off. "Places do the same, I think," he said. "If you have the -sort of things in you that stir them they produce in their turn -<i>their</i> things . . . and always will for your kind . . . a sort of -secret society; I believe," he added, suddenly turning on Harkness and -looking him in the face, "that Treliss might give you something of the -same adventure that it gave me—if you want it to, that is—if -you need it. Do you <i>want</i> adventure, romance, something that will -pull you right out of yourself and test you, show you whether you -<i>are</i> real or no, give you a crisis that will change you for ever? -Do you want it?" -</p> - -<p> -Then he added quietly, reflectively. "It changed <i>me</i> more than the -war ever did." -</p> - -<p> -"Do I <i>want</i> it?" Harkness was breathing deeply, driven by some -excitement that he could not stop to analyse. "I should say so. I want -nothing so much. It's just what I need, what I've been looking -for——" -</p> - -<p> -"Then go down there. I believe you're just the kind—but go at the -right time. There's a night in August when they have a dance, when they -dance all round the town. That's the time for you to go. That will -liberate you if you throw yourself into it. It's in August. August -the—— I'm not quite sure of the date. I'll write to you if -you'll give me your address." -</p> - -<p> -Soon afterwards, with a warm clasp of the hand, they parted. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>See <i>Maradick at Forty.</i></p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -Two days later Harkness received a small parcel. Opening it he -discovered an old brown-covered book and a letter. -</p> - -<p> -The letter was as follows: -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -DEAR Mr. HARKNESS—In all probability in the cold light of reason, and -removed from the fumes of the Reform Club, our conversation of yesterday -will seem to you nothing but foolishness. Perhaps it was. The merest -chance led me to think of something that belongs, for me, to a life -quite dead and gone; not perhaps as dead, though, as I had fancied it. -In any case, I had not, until yesterday, thought directly of Treliss for -years. -</p> - -<p> -Let us put it on the simplest ground. If you want a beautiful place, -near at hand, for a holiday, that you have not yet seen, here it -is—Treliss, North Cornwall—take the morning train from -Paddington and change at Trewth. If you will be advised by me you really -should go down for August 6th, when they have their dance. I could see -that you are interested in local customs, and here is a most -entertaining one surviving from Druid times, I believe. Go down on the -day itself and let that be your first impression of the place. The train -gets you in between five and six. Take your room at the "Man-at-Arms" -Hotel, ten years ago the most picturesque inn in Great Britain. I -cannot, of course, vouch for what it may have become. I should get out -at Trewth, which you will reach soon after four, and walk the three -miles to the town. Well worth doing. -</p> - -<p> -One word more. I am sending you a book. A completely forgotten novel by -a completely forgotten novelist. Had he lived he would, I think, have -done work that would have lasted, but he was killed in the first year of -the war and his earlier books are uncertain. He hadn't found himself. -This book, as you will see from the inscription, he gave me. I was with -him down there. Some things in it seem to me to belong especially to the -place. Pages 102 and 236 will show you especially what I mean. When you -are at the "Man-at-Arms" go and look at the Minstrels' Gallery, if it -isn't pulled down or turned into a jazz dancing-hall. That too will show -you what I mean. -</p> - -<p> -Or go, as perhaps after all is wiser, simply to a beautiful place for a -week's holiday, forgetting me and anything I have said. -</p> - -<p> -Or, as is perhaps wiser still, don't go at all. In any case I am your -debtor for our delightful conversation of yesterday.—Sincerely yours, -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">JAMES MARADICK.</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -What Maradick had said occurred. As the days passed the impression -faded. Harkness hoped that he would meet Maradick again. He did not do -so. During the first days he watched for him in the streets and in the -clubs. He devised plans that would give him an excuse to meet him once -more; the simplest of all would have been to invite him to luncheon. He -knew that Maradick would come. But his own distrust of himself now as -always forbade him. Why should Maradick wish to see him again? He had -been pleasant to him, yes, but he was of the type that would be -agreeable to any one, kindly, genial, and forgetting you immediately. -But Maradick had not forgotten him. He had taken the trouble to write to -him and send him a book. It had been a friendly letter too. Why not ask -Westcott and Maradick to dinner? But Westcott was married. Harkness had -met his wife, a charming and pretty English girl, younger a good deal -than her husband. Yes, all right about Mrs. Westcott, but then Harkness -must ask another woman. Maradick, he understood, was a widower. The -thing was becoming a party. They would have to go somewhere, to a -theatre or something. The thing was becoming elaborate, complicated, and -he shrank from it. So he always shrank from everything were he given -time to think. -</p> - -<p> -He paid all the gentle American's courtesy and attention to fine details -of conduct. Englishmen often shocked him by their casual inattention, -especially to ladies. He must do social things elaborately did he do -them at all. He was gathering around him already some of the fussy -observances of the confirmed bachelor. And therefore as Maradick became -to him something of a problem, he put him out of his mind just as he had -put so many other things and persons out of his mind because he was -frightened of them. -</p> - -<p> -Treliss too, as the days passed, lost some of the first magic of its -name. He had felt a strange excitement when Maradick had first mentioned -it, but soon it was the name of a beautiful but distant place, then a -seaside resort, then nowhere at all. He did not read Lester's book. -</p> - -<p> -Then an odd thing occurred. It was the last day in July and he was still -in London. Nearly every one had gone away—every one whom he knew. -There were still many millions of human beings on every side of him, but -London was empty for himself and his kind. His club was closed for -cleaning purposes, and the Reform Club was offering him and his -fellow-clubmen temporary hospitality. -</p> - -<p> -He had lunched alone, then had gone upstairs, sunk into an armchair and -read a newspaper. Read it or seemed to read it. It was time that he went -away. Where should he go? There was an uncle who had taken a -shooting-box in Scotland. He did not like that uncle. He had an -invitation from a kind lady who had a large house in Wiltshire. But the -kind lady had asked him because she pitied him, not because she liked -him. He knew that very well. -</p> - -<p> -There were several men who would, if he had caught them sooner, have -gone with him somewhere, but he had allowed things to drift and now they -had made their own plans. -</p> - -<p> -He felt terribly lonely, soused suddenly with that despicable self-pity -to which he was rather too easily prone. He thought of Baker—Lord! -how hot it must be there just now! He was half asleep. It was hot enough -here. Only one other occupant of the room, and he was fast asleep in -another armchair. Snoring. The room rocked with his snores. The papers -laid neatly one upon another wilted under the heat. The subdued London -roar came from behind the windows in rolling waves of heat. A faint -iridescence hovered above the enormous chairs and sofas that lay like -animals panting. -</p> - -<p> -He looked across the long room. Almost opposite him was a square of wall -that caught the subdued light like a pool of water. He stared at it as -though it had demanded his attention. The water seemed to move, to -shift. Something was stirring there. He looked more intently. Colours -came, shapes shifted. It was a scene, some place. Yes, a place. Houses, -sand, water. A bay. A curving bay. A long sea-line dark like the stroke -of a pencil against faint egg-shell blue. Water. A bay bordered by a -ring of saffron sand, and behind the sand, rising above it, a town. Tier -on tier of houses, and behind them again in the farthest distance a -fringe of dark wood. He could even see now little figures, black spots, -dotted upon the sand. The sea now was very clear, shimmering -mother-of-pearl. A scattering of white upon the shore as the long -wave-line broke and retreated. And the houses tier upon tier. He gazed, -filled with an overwhelming breathless excitement. He was leaning -forward, his hands pressing in upon the arms of the chair. It stayed, -trembling with a kind of personal invitation before him. Then, as though -it had nodded and smiled farewell to him, it vanished. Only the wall was -there. -</p> - -<p> -But the excitement remained, excitement quite unaccountable. -</p> - -<p> -He got up, his knees trembling. He looked at the stout bellying occupant -of the other chair, his mouth open, his snores reverberant. -</p> - -<p> -He went out. Six days later he was in the train for Treliss. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -Now too, of course, he had his reactions just as he always had. He could -explain the thing easily enough; for a moment or two he had slept, or, -if he had not, a trick of light on that warm afternoon and his own -thoughts about possible places had persuaded him. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless the picture remained strangely vivid—the sea, the shore, -the rising town, the little line of darkening wood. He would go down -there, and on the day that Maradick had suggested to him. Something -might occur. You never could tell. He packed his etchings—his St. -Gilles, Marais, his Flight into Egypt and Orvieto, his Whistler and -Strang and Meryon. They would protect him and see that he did nothing -foolish. -</p> - -<p> -He had special confidence in his St. Gilles. -</p> - -<p> -He had intended to read the Lester book all the way, but as we have -seen, managed only a bare line or two; the Browning he had not intended -even to have with him, but in some fashion, with the determined resolve -that books so often show, it had crept into his bag and then was on his -knee, he knew not whence, and soon out of self-defence against the old -man he was reading "The Flight of the Duchess," carried away on the -wings of its freedom, strength and colour. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, that is the kind of man I am, he thought, even the books -force me to read them when I have no wish. And soon he had forgotten the -old man, the carriage, the warm weather. How many years since he had -read it? No matter. Wasn't it fine and touching and true? When he came -to the place: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">. . . the door opened and more than mortal</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Stood, with a face where to my mind centred</span><br /> -<span class="i2">All beauties I ever saw or shall see,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">The Duchess—I stopped as if struck by palsy.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">She was so different, happy and beautiful</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I felt at once that all was best,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And that I had nothing to do, for the rest</span><br /> -<span class="i2">But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Not that, in fact, there was any commanding,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">—I saw the glory of her eye</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And the brow's height and the breast's expanding,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And I was hers to live or to die.</span> -</div></div> - - -<p> -"Hurrah!" Harkness cried. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon?" the old man said, looking up. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness blushed. "I was reading something rather fine," he said, -smiling. -</p> - -<p> -"You'd better look out for what you're reading, to whom you're speaking, -where you're walking, what you're eating, everything, when you're in -Treliss," he remarked. -</p> - -<p> -"Why? Is it so dangerous a place?" asked Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"It doesn't like tourists. I've seen it do funny things to tourists in -my time." -</p> - -<p> -"I think you're hard on tourists," Harkness said. "They don't mean any -harm. They admire places the best way they can." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and how long do they stay?" the old man replied. "Do you think you -can know a place in a week or a month? Do you think a real place likes -the dirt and the noise and the silly talk they bring with them?" -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean by a real place?" Harkness asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Places have souls just like people. Some have more soul and some have -less. And some have none at all. Sometimes a place will creep away -altogether, it is so disgusted with the things people are trying to do -to it, and will leave a dummy instead, and only a few know the -difference. Why, up in the Welsh hills there are several places that -have gone up there in sheer disgust the way they've been treated, and -left substitutes behind them. Parts of London, for instance. Do you -think that's the real Chelsea you see in London? Not a bit of it. The -real Chelsea is living—well, I mustn't tell you where it is -living—but you'll never find it. However, Americans are the last -to understand these things. I am wasting my breath talking." -</p> - -<p> -The train had drawn now into Drymouth. The old man was silent, looking -out at the hurrying crowds on the platform. He was certainly a pessimist -and a hater of his kind. He was looking out at the innocent people with -a lowering brow as though he would slaughter the lot of them had he the -power. "Old Testament Moses" Harkness named him. After a while the train -slowly moved on. They passed above the mean streets, the boardings with -the cheap theatres, the lines with the clothes hanging in the wind, the -grimy windows. But even these things the lovely sky, shining, -transmuted. -</p> - -<p> -They came to the river. It lay on either side of the track, a broad -sheet of lovely water spreading, on the left, to the open sea. The -warships clustered in dark ebony shadows against the gold; the hills -rose softly, bending in kindly peace and happy watchfulness. -</p> - -<p> -"Silence! We're crossing!" the old man cried. He was sitting forward, -his gnarled hands on his broad knees, staring in front of him. -</p> - -<p> -The train drew in to a small wayside station, gay with flowers. The -trees blew about it in whispering clusters. The old man got up, gathered -his basket and lumbered out, neither looking at nor speaking to -Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -He was alone. He felt an overwhelming relief. He had not liked the old -man and very obviously the old man had not liked him. But it was not -only that he was alone that pleased him. There was something more than -that. -</p> - -<p> -It was indeed as though he were in a new country. The train seemed to be -going now more slowly, with a more casual air, as though it too felt a -relief and did not care what happened—time, engagements, schedules, -all these were now forgotten as they went comfortably lumbering, the -curving fields embracing them, the streams singing to them, the little -houses perched on the clear-lit skyline smiling down upon them. -</p> - -<p> -It would not be long now before they were in Trewth, where he must -change. He took his two books and put them away in his bag. Should he -send the bag on and walk as Maradick had advised him? Three miles. Not -far, and it was a most lovely day. He could smell the sea now through -the windows. It must be only over that ridge of hill. He was strangely, -oddly happy. London seemed far, far away. America too. Any country that -had a name, a date, a history. This country was timeless and without a -record. How beautifully the hills dipped into valleys. Streams seemed to -be everywhere, little secret coloured streams with happy thoughts. -Everything and every one surely here was happy. Then suddenly he saw a -deserted mine tower like a gaunt and ruined temple. Haggard and fierce -it stood against the skyline, and, as Harkness looked back to it, it -seemed to raise an arm to heaven in desperate protest. -</p> - -<p> -The train drew into Trewth. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -Trewth was nothing more than a long wooden platform open to all the -winds of heaven, and behind it a sort of shed with a ticket collector's -box in one side of it. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was annoyed to see that others besides himself climbed out and -scattered about the platform waiting for the Treliss train to come in. -</p> - -<p> -He resented these especially because they were grand and elegant, two -men, long, thin, in baggy knickerbockers, carrying themselves as though -all the world belonged to them with that indifferent assurance that only -Englishmen have; a large, stout woman, quietly but admirably dressed, -with a Pekinese and a maid to whom she spoke as Cleopatra to Charmian. -Five boxes, gun-cases, magnificent golf-bags, these things were -scattered about the naked bare platform. The wind came in from the sea -and sported everywhere, flipping at the stout lady's skirts, laughing at -the elegant sportsmen's thin calves, mocking at the pouting Pekinese. It -was fresh and lovely: all the cornfields were waving invitation. -</p> - -<p> -It was characteristic of Harkness that a fancied haughty glance from the -sportsmen's eye decided him. He's laughing at my clothes, Harkness -thought. How was it that Englishmen wore old things so carelessly and -yet were never wrong? Harkness bought his clothes from the best London -tailors, but they were always finally a little hostile. They never -surrendered to his personality, keeping their own proud reserve. -</p> - -<p> -I'll walk, he thought suddenly. He found a young porter who, in anxious -fashion, so unlike American porters who were always so superior to the -luggage that they conveyed, was wheeling magnificent trunks on a very -insecure barrow. -</p> - -<p> -"These two boxes of mine," Harkness said, stopping him. "I want to walk -over to Treliss. Can they be sent over?" -</p> - -<p> -"Happen they can," said the young porter doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -"They are labeled to the 'Man-at-Arms' Hotel," Harkness said. -</p> - -<p> -"They'll be there as soon as you will," said the young porter, cheered -at the sight of an American tip which he put in his pocket, thinking in -his heart that these foreigners were "damn fools" to throw their money -around as they did. He advanced towards the stout lady hopefully. She -might also prove to be American. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness plunged out of the station into the broad white road. A sign -pointed "Treliss—Three Miles." So Maradick had been exactly right. -</p> - -<p> -As he left the village behind him and strode on between the cornfields -he felt a marvellous freedom. He was heading now directly for the sea. -The salt tang of it struck him in the face. Larks were circling in the -blue air above him, poppies scattered the corn with plashes of crimson. -Here and there gaunt rocks rose from the heart of the gold. No human -being was in sight. -</p> - -<p> -His love of etching had given him something of an etcher's eye, and he -saw here a spreading tree and a pool of dark shadow, there a distant -spire on the curving hill that he thought would have caught the fancy of -his beloved Lepère, or Legros. Here a wayside pool like brittle glass -that would have enchanted Appian, there a cottage with a sweeping field -that might have made Rembrandt happy. -</p> - -<p> -He seemed to be in unison with the whole of nature, and when the road -left the fields and dived into the heart of a common his happiness was -complete. He stood there, his feet pressing in upon the rough springing -turf. A lark, singing above him, came down as though welcoming him, then -circled up and up and up. He raised his head, staring into the pale -faint blue until he seemed himself to circle with the bird, the turf -pressing him upwards, his hands lifting him, he swinging into spaceless -ecstasy. Then his gaze fell again and swung out beyond, and—there was -the sea. -</p> - -<p> -The Down ran in a green wave to the blue line of the sky, but in front -of him it split, breaking into brown rocky patches, and between the -brown curves a pool of purple sea lay like water in a cup. -</p> - -<p> -He walked forward, deserting for a moment the road. He stood at the edge -of the cliff and looked down. The tide was high and the line of the sea -slipped up to the feet of the cliff, splashed there its white fringe of -spray, then very gently fell back. Sea-pinks starred the cliffs with -colour. Sea-gulls whirled, fragments of white foam, against the blue. -Just below him one bird sat, its head cocked, waiting. With a shrill cry -of vigour and assurance it flashed away, curving, circling, bending, -dipping, as though it were showing to Harkness what it could do. -</p> - -<p> -He walked along the cliff path happier than he had been for many, many -months. This was enough were there no more than this. For this at least -he must thank Maradick—this peace, this air, this silence. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Turning a bend of the cliff he saw the town. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IX</h4> - -<p> -It was absolutely the town of his vision. He saw, with a strange -tightening of his heart as though he were being warned of something, -that was so. There was the curving bay with the faint fringe of white -pencilling the yellow sand, there the houses rising tier on tier above -the beach, there the fringe of dusky wood. -</p> - -<p> -What did it mean? Why had he a clutch of terror as though some one was -whispering to him that he must turn tail and run? Nothing could be more -lovely than that town basking in the mellow afternoon light, and yet he -was afraid at the sight of it—afraid so that his content and -happiness of a moment ago were all gone and of a sudden he longed for -company. -</p> - -<p> -He was so well accustomed to his own reactions and so deeply despised -them that he shrugged his shoulders and walked forward. Never, it -seemed, was it possible for him to enjoy anything for more than a -moment. Trouble and regret always came. But this was not regret, it was -rather a kind of forewarning. He did not know that he had ever before -looked on a place for the first time with so odd a mingling of -conviction that he had already seen it, of admiration for its beauty, -and of some sort of alarmed dismay. Beautiful it was, more Italian than -English, with its white walls, its purple sea and warm scented air. -</p> - -<p> -So peaceful and of so happy a tranquillity. He tried to drive his fear -from him, but it hung on so that he was often turning back and looking -behind him over his shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -He struck the road again. It curved now, white and broad, down the hill -toward the town. At the very peak of the hill before the descent began a -man was standing watching something. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness walked forward, then also stood still. The man was so deeply -absorbed that his absorption held you. He was standing at the edge of -the road and Harkness must pass him. At the crunch of Harkness's step on -the gravel of the road the man turned and looked at him with startled -surprise. Harkness had come across the soft turf of the Down, and his -sudden step must have been an alarm. The fellow was broad-shouldered, -medium height, clean-shaven, tanned, young, under thirty at least, -dressed in a suit of dark blue. He had something of a naval air. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was passing, when the man said: -</p> - -<p> -"Have you the right time on you, sir?" His voice was fresh, pleasant, -well-educated. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked at his watch. "Quarter past five," he said. He was -moving forward when the man, hesitating, spoke again: -</p> - -<p> -"You don't see any one coming up the road?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness stared down the white, sun-bleached expanse. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he said after a moment, "I don't." -</p> - -<p> -They looked for a while standing side by side silently. -</p> - -<p> -After all he wasn't more than a boy—not a day more than -twenty-five—but with that grave reserved look that so many British -boys who were old enough to have been in the war had. -</p> - -<p> -"Sure you don't see anybody?" he asked again, "coming up that farther -bend?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, shading his eyes with his hand against the sun; -"can't say as I do." -</p> - -<p> -"Damn nuisance," the boy said. "He's half an hour late now." -</p> - -<p> -The boy stood as though to attention, his figure set, his hands at his -side. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, there's some one," said Harkness. But it was only an old man with -his cart. He slowly pressed up the hill past them urging his horses with -a thick guttural cry, an old man brown as a berry. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon," the boy turned to Harkness. "You'll think it an -awful impertinence—but—are you in a terrible hurry?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, "not terrible. I want to be at the 'Man-at-Arms' by -dinner time. That's all." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you've got lots of time," the boy said eagerly. "Look here. This is -desperately important for me. The man ought to have been here half an -hour ago. If he doesn't come in another twenty minutes I don't know what -I shall do. It's just occurred to me. There's another way up this -hill—a short cut. He may have chosen that. He may not have understood -where it was that I wanted him to meet me. Would you mind—would you -do me the favour of just standing here while I go over the hill there to -see whether he's waiting on the other side? I won't be away more than -five minutes; I'd be so awfully grateful." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, of course," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"He's a fisherman with a black beard. You can't mistake him. And if he -comes if you'd just ask him to wait for a moment until I'm back." -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Thanks most awfully. Very decent of you, sir." -</p> - -<p> -The boy touched his cap, climbed the hill and vanished. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was alone again—not a sound anywhere. The town shimmered -below him in the heat. He waited, absorbed by the picture spread in -front of him, then apprehensive again and conscious that he was alone. -The alarm that he had originally felt at sight of the town had not left -him. Suppose the boy did not return? Was he playing some joke on him -perhaps? No, whatever else it was, it was not that. The boy had been -deeply serious, plunged into some crisis that was of tremendous -importance to him. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness decided that he would wait until the shadow of a solitary tree -to his right reached him and then go. The shadow crept slowly to his -feet. At the same moment a figure turned the bend, a man with a black -beard. He was walking quickly up the hill as though he knew that he was -late. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness went forward to meet him. The man stopped as though surprised. -"I beg your pardon," said Harkness; "were you expecting to meet some one -here?" -</p> - -<p> -"I was—yes," said the man. -</p> - -<p> -"He will be back in a moment. He was afraid that you might come up the -other way. He went over the hill to see." -</p> - -<p> -"Aye," said the man, standing, his legs apart, quite unconcerned. He was -a handsome fellow, broad-shouldered, wearing dark blue trousers and a -knitted jersey. "You'll be a friend of Mr. Dunbar's maybe?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I'm not," Harkness explained. "I was passing and he asked me to -wait for a moment and catch you if you came while he was away." -</p> - -<p> -"Aye," said the fisherman, taking out a large wedge of tobacco and -filling his pipe, "I'm a bit later than I said I'd be. Wife kept me." -</p> - -<p> -"Fine evening," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Aye," said the man. -</p> - -<p> -At that moment the boy came over the hill and joined them. "Very good of -you, sir," he said. "You're late, Jabez!" -</p> - -<p> -"Good night," said Harkness, and moved down the hill. He could see the -two in urgent conversation as he moved forward. The incident occupied -his mind. Why had the matter seemed of such importance to the boy? Why a -meeting so elaborately appointed out there on the hillside? The -fisherman too had seemed surprised that he, a stranger, should be -concerned in the matter. -</p> - -<p> -Had he been in America the affair would have been at once -explained—boot-legging of course. But here in England. . . . -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>X</h4> - -<p> -When he reached the bottom of the hill he found that he was in the -environs of the town. He was walking now along a road shaded by thick -trees and close to the seashore. -</p> - -<p> -The cottages, white-washed, crooked and, many of them, thatched, ran -down to the road, their gardens like little coloured carpets spreading -in front of them. The evening air was thick with the scent of flowers, -above all of roses. He had never smelt such roses, no, not in -California. -</p> - -<p> -There was a breeze from the sea, and it seemed to blow the roses into -his very heart, so that they seemed to be all about him, dark crimson, -burning white, scattering their petals over his head. He could hear the -tune of the sea upon the sand beyond the trees. -</p> - -<p> -He stood for a moment inhaling the scent—delicious, wonderful. He -seemed to be crushing multitudes of the petals between his hands. -</p> - -<p> -After a while the road broke away and he saw a path that led directly -through the trees to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -So soon as he had taken some steps across the soft sand he seemed to be -alone in a world that was watching every movement that he made. It was -as though he were committing some intrusion. He stopped and looked -behind him: the thin line of trees had retreated, the cottages vanished. -Before him was a waste of yellow sand, the deep purple of the sea rose -like a wall to his right, hiding, as it were, some farther scene, the -sky stretching over it a pale blue curtain tightly held. -</p> - -<p> -A mist was rising, veiling the town. No living person was in sight. He -reached a stretch of hard firm sand, thin rivulets of water lacing it. -The air was wonderfully mild and sweet. -</p> - -<p> -Never before in his life had he known such a feeling of anticipation. It -was as though he knew the stretch of sand to be the last brook to cross -before he would come into some mysterious country. -</p> - -<p> -How commonplace this will all seem to me to-morrow, he said to himself, -when, over my eggs and bacon at a prosperous modern hotel, I shall be -reading my <i>Daily Mail</i> and hearing of the trippers at Eastbourne and -who has taken "shooting" in Scotland and whether Yorkshire has beaten -Surrey at cricket. He wanted to keep this moment, not to enter the town, -even he had a mad impulse to walk on the sand for an hour, to see the -colour fade from the sky and the sea change to a ghostly grey, then to -return up the hill to Trewth and catch the night train back to London. -</p> - -<p> -It would be wonderful like that; to have only the impression of the walk -from the station, the talk with the boy on the hill, the scent of the -roses and the afternoon sky. Everything is destroyed if you go into it -too closely, or it is so for me. I should have a memory that would last -me all my life. -</p> - -<p> -But now the town was advancing towards him. His steps made no sound so -that it seemed that he himself stood still, waiting to be seized. He -took one last look at the sea. Then he was caught up and the houses -closed about him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>XI</h4> - -<p> -Six was striking from some distant clock as he started up the street. At -the bottom of the hill there were fishermen's cottages, nets spread out -on the stones to dry, some boats drawn up above a wooden jetty. Then, as -the street spread out before him, some little shops began. Figures were -passing hither and thither all transmuted in the afternoon light. -Maradick need not have feared, he thought, this town has not been -touched at all. -</p> - -<p> -As he advanced yet further the houses delighted him with their broad -doorways, their overhanging eaves, crooked roof and worn flights of -steps. He came to a place where wooden stairs led to an upper path that -ran before a higher row of houses and under the steps there were shops. -</p> - -<p> -He could feel a stir and bustle in the place as though this were a night -of festivity. Groups were gathered at corners, women stood in doorways -laughing and whispering, a group of children was marching, wearing -cocked hats of paper, beating on a wooden box and blowing on penny -trumpets. -</p> - -<p> -Then on coming into the Square he paused in sheer delighted wonder. This -stands on a raised plateau above the sea, and the town hall, solid and -virtuous above its flight of wide grey steps, is its great glory. -Streets seemed to tumble in and out of the Square on every side. On a -far corner there was a merry-go-round and there were booths and wooden -trestles, some tents and flags waving above them. But just now it was -almost deserted, only a man or two, some children playing in and out of -the tents, a dog hunting among the scraps of paper that littered the -cobbles. -</p> - -<p> -A church of Norman architecture filled the right side of the Square, and -squeezed between its grey walls and the modern town hall was a tall old -tower of infinite age, with thin slits of windows and iron bars that -pushed out against the pale blue sky like pointing fingers. -</p> - -<p> -There were houses in the Square that were charming, houses with queer -bow-windows and protruding doors like pepper-pots, little balconies, and -here and there old carved figures on the walls, houses that Whistler -would have loved to etch. Harkness stopped a man. -</p> - -<p> -"Can you tell me where I shall find the 'Man-at-Arms' Hotel?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, yes," the man answered as though he were surprised that Harkness -should not know. "Straight up that street in front of you. You'll find -it at the top." -</p> - -<p> -And he did find it at the top after what seemed to him an endless climb. -The houses fell away. An iron gate was in front of him as though he were -entering some private residence. Going up a long drive he passed -beautiful lawns that shone like silk, to the right the grass fell away -to a pond fringed with trees. Flowers were around him on every side and -again in his nostrils was the heavy scent of innumerable roses. -</p> - -<p> -The drive swept a wide circle before the great eighteenth-century house -that now confronted him. But it is not a hotel at all, he thought, and -he would have turned back had not, at that moment, a large hotel omnibus -swept up to the door and discharged a chattering heap of men and women, -who scattered over the steps screaming about their luggage, collecting -children. The spell was broken. He had not realized how alone he had -been during the last hour and with what domination his imagination had -been working, creating for him a world of his own, encouraging in him -what hopes, fears and anticipations! -</p> - -<p> -He slipped in after the rest and stood shyly in the hall while the -others made their wants triumphantly felt. A man of about forty, stout -and round like an egg, but very shinily dressed, came forward and, -bending and bowing, smiled at the women and spoke deferentially to the -men. -</p> - -<p> -This must be Mr. Bannister—"the King of the Castle" Maradick had told -him in the Club. Not the original Mr. Bannister who has made the place -what it is. He is, alas, dead and gone. Had he been still there and you -had mentioned my name he would have done wonders for you. I don't know -this fellow, and for all I know he may have ruined the place. -</p> - -<p> -However, the original Bannister could not have been politer. Harkness -was always afraid of hotel officials, and it was only when the invasion -had broken up and begun to scatter that he came forward. But Mr. Bannister -knew all about him—indeed was expecting him. His luggage had -already arrived. He should be shown his room, and Mr. Bannister did hope -that it would be. . . . If anything in the least wasn't . . . -</p> - -<p> -Harkness started upstairs. There is a lift here, but if the gentleman -doesn't mind. . . . His room is only on the second floor and instead of -waiting. . . . Of course the gentleman doesn't mind. And still less does -he mind when he sees his room. -</p> - -<p> -This is mine absolutely, Harkness said, as though it had been waiting -for me for years and years with its curved bow-window, its view over -that enchanting garden and the line of sea beyond, its white wall -unbroken by those coloured prints that hotel managers in my own country -find it so necessary always to provide. Those chintz curtains with the -roses are delicious. Just enough furniture. "There is no private bath of -course?" -</p> - -<p> -"The bathroom is just across the passage. Very convenient," said the -man. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, in England we haven't reached the private bathroom yet, although -we are supposed to be so fond of bathing." -</p> - -<p> -"No, sir," said the man. "Anything else I can do for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, thank you," said Harkness, smiling, as he looked on the white -sunlit walls and checking the tip that, American fashion, he was about -to give. "How strong the smell of the roses. It is very late for them, -isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"They are just about over, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"So I should have thought." -</p> - -<p> -Left alone he slowly unpacked. He liked unpacking and putting things -away. It was packing that he detested. He had a few things with him that -he always carried when he travelled—a red leather writing-case, a -little Japanese fisherman in coloured ivory, two figures in red amber, -photographs of his sisters in a silver frame. He put out these little -things on a table of white wood near his bed, not from any affectation, -but because when they were there the room seemed to understand him, to -settle about him with a little sigh as though it granted him -citizenship—for so long as he wished to stay. Then there were his -prints. He took out four, the Lepère "St. Gilles," Strang's "Etcher," -the Rembrandt "Flight into Egypt" and the Whistler "Drury Lane." The -Strang he had on one side of the looking-glass, the "Drury Lane" on the -other, the "Flight into Egypt" at the back of the writing-table, whither -he might glance across the room at it as he lay in bed, the "St. Gilles" -close to him near to the red writing-case and the ivory fisherman. -</p> - -<p> -He sighed with satisfaction as, sitting down on his bed, he looked at -them. He felt that he needed them to-night as he had never needed them -before. The sense of excited anticipation that had increased with him -all day was now surely approaching its climax. That excitement had in it -the strangest mixture of delight, sensuous thrill and something that was -nothing but panicky terror. Yes, he was frightened. Of what? Of whom? He -could not tell. But only as he looked across the room at those familiar -scenes, at the massive dark tree of the "St. Gilles" with the hot road, -the high comfortable hedge, the happy figures, at the adorable face of -the donkey in the Rembrandt, at the little beings so marvellously placed -under the dancing butterfly in the Whistler, at the strong, homely, -friendly countenance of Strang himself, he felt as he had so often felt -before, that those beautiful things were trying themselves to reassure -him, to tell him, that they did not change nor alter and that where he -would be there they would be too. -</p> - -<p> -He took Maradick's letter from his pocket and read it again. Here he -was—now what must happen next? He would dress now at once for dinner -and then walk in the garden before the light began to fail. Or no. -Wasn't he to go down into the town after dinner and to see this dance, -to share in it even? Hadn't Maradick said that was what, above all else, -he must do? -</p> - -<p> -And then what was this about a Minstrels' Gallery somewhere? He would -have a bath, change his linen, and then begin his explorations. He -undressed, found the bathroom, enjoyed himself for twenty minutes or -more, then slipped back across the passage into his room again. It was -now nearly seven o'clock. As he was dressing the sun was getting low in -the sky. A beam of sunshine caught the intent gaze of Strang, who seemed -to lean across his etching board as though to tell him, to reassure him, -to warn him. . . . -</p> - -<p> -He slipped out of his room and began his explorations. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>XII</h4> - -<p> -For a while he wandered, lost in a maze of passages. He understood that -the Minstrels' Gallery was at the top of the house. He did not use the -lift, but climbed the stairs, meeting no one; then he was on a floor -that must, he thought, be servants' quarters. It had another air, -something less arranged, less handsome, old-fashioned, as though it were -even now as it had been two hundred years ago—a survival as the old -grey tower in the market-place was a survival. -</p> - -<p> -For a little while he stood hesitating. The passage was dark and he did -not wish to plunge into a servant's room. Strange that up here there was -no sound at all—an absolute deathly stillness! -</p> - -<p> -He walked down to the end of the passage then, turning, came to a door -that was larger than the others. He could see as he looked at it more -closely that there was some faint carving on the woodwork above it. He -turned the handle, entered the room, then stopped with a little cry of -surprise and pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -Truly Maradick had been right. Here was a room that, if there was -nothing more to come, made the journey sufficiently of value. An -enchanting room! On the left side of it were broad bright windows, and -at the farther end, under the Minstrels' Gallery, windows again. There -were no curtains to the windows—the whole room had an empty deserted -air—but the more for that reason the place was illuminated with the -glow of the evening light. The first thing that he realised was the -view—and what a view! -</p> - -<p> -The windows were deep set and hung forward, it seemed, over the hill, so -that town, gardens, trees, were all lost and you saw only the sea. -</p> - -<p> -At this hour you seemed to swing in space; the division lost between sea -and sky in the now nearly horizontal rays of the sun—only a golden -glow covering the blue with a dazzling blaze of colour. He stood there -drinking it in, then sat in one of the window-seats, his hands clasped, -lost in happiness. -</p> - -<p> -After a while he turned back to the room. Flecks of dust, changed into -gold by the evening light, floated in mid-air. The room was disregarded -indeed. The walls were panelled. The little Minstrels' Gallery was -supported on two heavy pillars. The floor was bare of carpet and had -even a faint waxen sheen, as though, in spite of the room's general -neglect, it was used, once and again, for dances. -</p> - -<p> -But what pathos the room had! He did not know that almost fifteen years -before Maradick had felt that same thing. How vastly now that pathos was -increased, how greatly since Maradick's day the world's history had -relentlessly cut away those earlier years. He saw that round the -platform of the gallery was intricate carving, and, going forward more -closely to examine, saw that in every square was set the head of a -grinning lion. Some high-backed, quaintly-shaped chairs, that looked as -though they might be of great age, were ranged against the wall. -</p> - -<p> -Being now right under the gallery he saw some little wooden steps. He -climbed up them and then from the gallery's shadow looked down across -the room. How clearly he could picture that old scene, something -straight from Jane Austen with Miss Bates and Mrs. Norris, stiff-backed, -against the wall, and Anne Elliott and Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. Collins and -the rest. The fiddlers scraping, the negus for refreshment, the night -darkening, the carriages with their lights gathering. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The door at the far end of the room closed with a gentle click. He -started, not imagining that any one would choose that room at such an -hour. -</p> - -<p> -Two figures were there in the shadow beyond the end room. The light fell -on the man's face—Harkness could see it very clearly. The other was a -woman wearing a white dress. He could not see her face. -</p> - -<p> -For an instant they were silent, then the man said something that -Harkness could not hear. -</p> - -<p> -The girl at once broke out: "No, no. Oh, please, Herrick." -</p> - -<p> -She must be a very young girl. The voice was that of a child. It had in -it a desperate note that held Harkness's attention instantly. -</p> - -<p> -The man said something again, very low. -</p> - -<p> -"But if you don't care," the girl's voice pleaded, "then let me go back. -Oh, Herrick, let me go! Let me go!" -</p> - -<p> -"My father does not wish it." -</p> - -<p> -"But I am not married to your father. It is to you." -</p> - -<p> -"My father and I are the same. What he says I must do, I do." -</p> - -<p> -"But you can't be the same." Her voice now was trembling in its urgency. -"No one could love their father more than I do and yet we are not the -same." -</p> - -<p> -"Nevertheless you did what your father asked you to do. So must I." -</p> - -<p> -"But I didn't know. I didn't know. And he didn't know. He has never seen -me frightened of anything, and now I am frightened. . . . I've never -said I was to any one before, but now . . . now . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She was crying, softly, terribly, with the terrified crying of real and -desperate fear. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness had been about to move. He did not, unseen and his presence -unrealised, wish to overhear, but her tears checked him. Although he -could not see her he had detected in her voice a note of pride. He -fancied that she would wish anything rather than to be thus seen by a -stranger. He stayed where he was. He could see the man's face, thin, -white, the nose long pointed, a dark, almost grotesque shadow. -</p> - -<p> -"Why are you frightened?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. I can't tell. I have never been frightened before." -</p> - -<p> -"Have I been unkind to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, but you don't love me." -</p> - -<p> -"Did I ever pretend to love you? Didn't you know from the very first -that no one in the world matters to me except my father?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is of your father that I am afraid. . . . These last three days in -that terrible house. . . . I'm so frightened, Herrick. I want to go home -only for a little while. Just for a week before we go abroad." -</p> - -<p> -"All our plans are made now. You know that we are sailing to-morrow -evening." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but I could come afterwards. . . . Forgive me, Herrick. You may do -anything to me if I can only go home for just some days. . . . You may -do anything. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want to do anything, Hesther. No one wishes to do you any harm. -But whatever my father wishes that every one must do. It has always been -so." -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to be seized by an absolute frenzy of fear; Harkness could -see her white shadow quivering. It appeared to him as though she caught -the man by the arm. Her voice came in little breathless stifled cries, -infinitely pitiful to hear. -</p> - -<p> -"Please, please, Herrick. I dare not speak to your father. I don't dare. -I don't dare. But you—let me go—Oh! let me go—just -this once, Herrick. Only this once. I'll only be home for a few days and -then I'll come back. Truly I'll come back. I'll just see father and -Bobby and then I'll come back. They'll be missing me. I know they will. -And I'll be going to a foreign country—such a long way. And -they'll be wanting me. Bobby's so young, Herrick, only a baby. He's -never had any one to do anything for him but me. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"You should have thought of that before you married me, you cannot leave -me now." -</p> - -<p> -"I won't leave you. I've never broken my word to any one. I won't break -it now. It's only for a few days." -</p> - -<p> -"How can you be so selfish, Hesther, as to want to upset every one's -plans just for a whim of your own? For myself I don't care. You could go -home for ever for all I care. I didn't want to marry any one. But what -my father wished had to be." -</p> - -<p> -She clung to him then, crying again and again between her sobs: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, let me go home! Let me go home! Let me go home!" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness fancied that the man put his hands on her shoulders. His voice, -cold, lifeless, impersonal, crossed the room. -</p> - -<p> -"That is enough. He is waiting for us downstairs. He will be wondering -where we are." -</p> - -<p> -The little white shadow seemed to turn to the window, towards the -limitless expanse of sunlit sea. Then a voice, small, proud, empty of -emotion, said: -</p> - -<p> -"Father wished me——" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was once more alone in the room. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>XIII</h4> - -<p> -They had gone but the girl's fear remained. It was there as truly as the -two figures had been and its reality was stronger than their reality. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness had the sense of having been caught, and it was exactly as -though now, as he stood alone there in the gallery staring down into the -room, some Imp had touched him on the shoulder, crying, "Now you're in -for it! Now you're in for it! The situation has got you now." -</p> - -<p> -He was, of course, not "in for it" at all. How many such conversations -between human beings there were: it simply was that he had happened -against his will to overhear a fragment of one of them. Yes, "against -his will." How desperately he wished that he hadn't been there. What -induced them to choose that room and that time for their secret -confidences? He felt still in the echo of their voices the effect of -their urgency. -</p> - -<p> -They had chosen that room because there was some one watching their -every movement and they had had only a few moments. The child—for -surely she could not be more—had almost driven her companion into -that two minutes' conversation, and Harkness could realise how desperate -she must have been to have taken such a course. -</p> - -<p> -But after all it <i>was</i> no business of his! Girls married every day men -whom they did not love and, although apparently in this case, the man -also did not love her and they were both of them in evil plight, still -that too had happened before and nothing very terrible had come of it. -</p> - -<p> -It <i>was</i> no business of his, and yet he did wish, all the same, that -he could get the ring of the girl's voice out of his ears. He had never -been able to bear the sight, sound or even inference of any sort of -cruelty to helpless humans or to animals. Perhaps because he was so -frantic a coward himself about physical pain! And yet not altogether -that. He had on several occasions taken risks of pretty savage pain to -himself in order to save a horse a beating or a dog a kicking. -Nevertheless, those had been spontaneous emotions roused at the instant; -there was something lingering, a sad and tragic echo, in the voice that -was still with him. -</p> - -<p> -The very pathos of the room that he was in—the lingering of so many -old notes that had been rung and rung again, notes of anticipation, -triumph, disappointment, resignation, made this fresh, living sound the -harder to escape. -</p> - -<p> -By Jupiter, the child <i>was</i> frightened—that was the final -ringing of it upon Harkness's heart and soul. But he was going to have -his life sufficiently full were he to step in and rescue every girl -frightened by matrimony! Rescue! No, there was no question of rescue. It -wasn't, once again, his affair. But he did wish that he could just take -her hand and tell her not to worry, that it would all come right in the -end. But would it? He hadn't at all cared for the fragment of -countenance that fellow had shown to him, and he had liked still less -the tone of his voice, cold, unfeeling, hard. Poor child! And suddenly -the thought of his Browning's "Duchess" came to him: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">I was the man the Duke spoke to:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke too;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">So, here's the tale from beginning to end,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">My friend!</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Well, here was a tale with which he had definitely nothing to do. Let -him remember that. He was here in a most beautiful place for a -holiday—that was his purpose, that his intention—what were -these people to him or he to them? -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless the voice lingered in his ear, and to be rid of it he left -the room. He stepped carefully down the wooden steps, and then at the -bottom of them, under the dark lee of the gallery, he paused. He was so -foolishly frightened that he could not move a step. -</p> - -<p> -He waited. At last he whispered "Is any one there?" -</p> - -<p> -There was no answer. He pushed his way then out of the shadow, his heart -drumming against his shirt. There was no one there. Of course there was -not. -</p> - -<p> -In his room once more with his friend Strang and the Rembrandt Donkey to -take him home he sat on his bed holding his hands between his knees. -</p> - -<p> -He was positively afraid of going down to dinner. Afraid of what? Afraid -of being drawn in. Drawn into what? That was precisely what he did not -know, but something that ever since his first glimpse of Maradick at the -Reform Club had been preparing. It was that he saw, as he sat there -thinking of it, that he feared—this Something that was piling up -outside him and with which he had nothing to do at all. -</p> - -<p> -Why should he mind because he had heard a girl say that she was -frightened and wanted to go home? And yet he did mind—minded terribly -and with increasing violence from every moment that passed. The thought -of that child without a friend and on the very edge of an experience -that might indeed be fatal for her, the thought of it was more than he -could endure. -</p> - -<p> -He was clever at escaping things did they only give him a moment's -pause, but in this case the longer he thought about it the harder it was -to escape from. It was as though the girl had made her personal appeal -to himself. -</p> - -<p> -But what an old scamp her father must be, Harkness thought, to give her -up like this to a man for whom she has no love, who doesn't love her. -Why did she do it? And what kind of a man is the father-in-law of whom -she is so afraid and who dominates his son so absolutely? In any case I -must go down to dinner. I must just take what comes. . . -</p> - -<p> -Yes, but his prudence whispered, don't meddle in this affair actively. -It isn't the kind of thing in which you are likely to distinguish -yourself. -</p> - -<p> -"No, by Jove, it isn't." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then, be careful." -</p> - -<p> -"I mean to be." Then suddenly the girl's voice came sharp and clear. -"Damn it, I'll do anything I can," he cried aloud, jumped from the bed -and went downstairs. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>XIV</h4> - -<p> -As he went downstairs he felt a tremendous sense of liberation. It was -as though he had, after many hesitations and fears, passed through the -first room successfully and closed the door behind him. Now there was -the second room to be confronted. -</p> - -<p> -What he immediately confronted was the garden of the hotel. The sun was -slowly setting in the west, and great amber clouds, spreading out in -swathes of colour, ate up the blue. -</p> - -<p> -The amber flung out arms as though it would embrace the whole world. The -deep blue ebbed from the sea, was pale crystal, then from length to -length a vast bronze shield. The amber receded as though it had done its -work, and myriads of little flecks of gold ran up into the pale -blue-white, thousands of scattered fragments like coins flung in some -God-like largesse. -</p> - -<p> -The bronze sea was held rigid as though it were truly of metal. The town -caught the gold and all the windows flashed. In the fresh evening light -the grass of the lawn seemed to shine with a fresh iridescence—the -farther hills were coldly dark. -</p> - -<p> -Several people were walking up and down the gravel paths pausing before -going in to dinner. In the golden haze only those things stood out that -were more important for the scene, nature, as always, being more -theatrical than any man-contrived theatre. The stage being set, the -principal actor made his entrance. -</p> - -<p> -A window running to the gravel path caught the level rays of the setting -sun. A man stepped before this, stopping to light a cigarette and then, -being there, stayed like an oriental image staring out into the garden. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked casually, then looked again, then, fascinated, remained -watching. He had never before seen such red hair nor so white a face, -nor so large a stone as the green one that shone in a ring on the finger -of his raised hand. He was lighting his cigarette—it was after this -that he fell into rigid immobility, and the fire of the match caught the -ring until, like a great eye, it seemed to open, wink at Harkness, and -then regard him with a contemptuous stare. -</p> - -<p> -The man's hair was <i>en brosse</i>, standing straight on end as Loge's -used to do in the old pre-war Bayreuth "Ring." It was, like Loge's, a -flaming red, short, harsh, instantly arresting. Evening dress. One small -black pearl in his shirt. Very small feet in shining shoes. -</p> - -<p> -There had stuck in Harkness's mind a phrase that he had encountered once -in George Moore's description of Verlaine in <i>Memories and -Opinions</i>—"I shall not forget the glare of the bald prominent -forehead (<i>une tête glabre</i>). . . ." That was the phrase now, -<i>une tête glabre</i>—the forehead glaring like a challenge, the -red hair springing from it like something alive of its own independence. -For the rest this interesting figure had a body round, short and fat -like a ball. Over his protruding stomach stretched a white waistcoat -with three little plain black buttons. -</p> - -<p> -The colour of his face had an unnatural pallor, something theatrical like -the clown in <i>Pagliacci</i>, or again, like one of Benda's masks. Yes, -this was the truer comparison, because through the mask the eyes were -alive and beautiful, dark, tender, eloquent, but spoilt because above -them the eyebrows were so faint as to be scarcely visible. The mouth in -the white of the face was a thin hard red scratch. The eyes stared into -the garden. The body soon became painted into the window behind it, the -round short limbs, the shining shoes, the little black pearl in the -gleaming shirt. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness, from the shadow where he stood, looked and looked again. Then, -fearing that he might be perceived and his stare be held offensive, he -moved forward. The man saw him and, to Harkness's surprise, stepped -forward and spoke to him. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon," he said; "but do you happen to have a light? My -cigarette did not catch properly and I have used my last match." -</p> - -<p> -Here was another surprise for Harkness. The voice was the most beautiful -that he had ever heard from man. Soft, exquisitely melodious, with an -inflection in it of friendliness, courtesy and culture that was -enchanting. Absolutely without affectation. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, yes. Certainly," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -He felt for his little gold matchbox, found it, produced a match and, -guarding it with his hand, struck it. In the light the other's forehead -suddenly sprang up again like a live thing. For an instant two of his -fingers rested on Harkness's hand. They seemed to be so soft as to be -quite boneless. -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you. What an exquisite evening!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness. "This is a very beautiful place." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said the other, "is it not? And this is incidentally the best -hotel in England." -</p> - -<p> -The voice was so beautiful to Harkness, who was exceedingly sensitive to -sound, that his only desire was that by some means he should prolong the -conversation so that he might indulge himself in the luxury of it. -</p> - -<p> -"I have only just arrived," he said; "I came only an hour ago, and it is -my first visit." -</p> - -<p> -"Is that so? Then you have a great treat in store for you. This is -splendid country round here, and although every one has been doing their -best to spoil it there are still some lovely places. Treliss is the only -town in Southern England where the place is still triumphant over modern -improvements." -</p> - -<p> -There was a pause, then the man said: -</p> - -<p> -"Will you be here for long?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have made no plans," Harkness replied. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish I could show you around a little. I know this country very well. -There is nothing I enjoy more than showing off some of our beauties. -But, unfortunately, I leave for abroad early to-morrow morning." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness thanked him. They were soon talking very freely, walking up and -down the gravel path. The exquisite modulation of the man's voice, its -rhythm, gentleness, gave Harkness such delight that he could listen for -ever. They spoke of foreign countries. Harkness had travelled much and -remembered what he had seen. This man had been apparently everywhere. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly a gong sounded. "Ah, there's dinner." They paused. The stranger -said: "I beg your pardon. You tell me that you are American, and I know -therefore that you are not hampered by ridiculous conventionalities. Are -you alone?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then—why not dine with us? There is myself, my son and a -charming girl to whom he has lately been married. Do me that pleasure. -Or, if people are a bore to you be quite frank and say so." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be delighted," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Good. My name is Crispin." -</p> - -<p> -"Harkness is mine." -</p> - -<p> -They walked in together. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>XV</h4> - -<p> -He had, as he walked into the hall, an overwhelming sense that -everything that was occurring to him had happened to him before, and it -was only part of this dream-conviction that Crispin should pause and -say: -</p> - -<p> -"Here they are, waiting for us," and lead him up to the girl who, half -an hour before, had been with him in the little gallery. He had even a -moment of protesting panic crying to the little imp whose voice he had -already heard that evening: "Let me out of this. I am not so passive as -you fancy. It is a holiday I am here for. There is no knight errantry in -me—you have caught the wrong man for that." -</p> - -<p> -But the girl's face stopped him. She was beautiful. He had from the -first instant of seeing her no doubt of that, and it was as though her -voice had already built her up for him in that dim room. -</p> - -<p> -Straight and dark, her face had child-like purity in its rounded cheeks, -its large brow and wondering eyes, its mouth set now in proud -determination, but trembling a little behind that pride, its cheeks very -soft and faintly coloured. Her hair was piled up as though it were only -recently that it had come to that distinction. She was wearing a very -simple white frock that looked as though it had been made by some little -local dressmaker of her own place. She had been proud of it, delighted -with it, Harkness could be sure, perhaps only a week or two ago. Now -experiences were coming to her thick and fast. She was clutching them -all to her, determined to face them whatever they might be, finding -them, as Harkness knew from what he had overheard, more terrible than -she had ever conceived. -</p> - -<p> -She had been crying, as he knew, only half an hour ago, but now there -were no traces of tears, only a faint shell-like flush on her cheeks. -</p> - -<p> -The man standing beside her was not much more than a boy, but Harkness -thought that he had seldom perceived an uglier countenance. A large -broad nose, a long thin face like a hatchet, grey colourless eyes and a -bony body upon which the evening clothes sat awkwardly, here was -ugliness itself, but the true unpleasantness came from the cold -aloofness that lay in the unblinking eyes, the hard straight mouth. -</p> - -<p> -"He might be walking in his sleep," Harkness thought, "for all the life -he's showing. What a pair for the girl to be in the hands of!" Harkness -was introduced: -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther, my dear, this is Mr. Harkness who is going to give us the -pleasure of dining with us. Mr. Harkness, this is my boy, Herrick." -</p> - -<p> -The little man led the way, and it was interesting to perceive the -authoritative dignity with which he moved. He had a walk that admirably -surmounted the indignities that the short legs and stumpy body would, in -a less clever performer, have inevitably entailed. He did not strut, nor -trot, nor push out his stomach and follow it with proud resolve. -</p> - -<p> -His dignity was real, almost regal, and yet not absurd. He walked -slowly, looking about him as he went. He stopped at the entrance of the -dining-hall now crowded with people, spoke to the head waiter, a stout -pompous-looking fellow, who was at once obsequious, and started down the -room to a reserved table. -</p> - -<p> -The diners looked up and watched their progress, but Harkness noticed -that no one smiled. When they came to their table in the middle of the -room, Mr. Crispin objected to it and they were at once shown to another -one beside the window and looking out to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -"It will amuse you to see the room, Hesther. You sit there. You can look -out of the window too when you are bored with people. Will you sit here, -Mr. Harkness, on my right?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was now opposite the girl and looking out to the sea that was -lit with a bronze flame that played on the air like a searchlight. The -window was slightly open, and he could hear the sounds from the town, -the merry-go-round, a harsh trumpet, and once and again a bell. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you mind that window?" Crispin asked him. "I think it is rather -pleasant. You don't mind it, Hesther dear? They are having festivities -down there this evening. The night of their annual ceremony when they -dance round the town—something as old as the hill on which the town -is built, I fancy. You ought to go down and look at them, Mr. Harkness." -</p> - -<p> -"I think I shall," Harkness replied, smiling. -</p> - -<p> -He noticed that now that the man was seated he did not look small. -His neck was thick, his shoulders broad, that forehead in the -brilliantly-lit room absolutely gleamed, the red hair springing up from -it like a challenge. The mention of the dance led Crispin to talk of -other strange customs that he had known in many parts of the world, -especially in the East. Yes, he had been in the East very often and -especially in China. The old China was going. You would have to hurry up -if you were to see it with any colour left. It was too bad that the West -could not leave the East alone. -</p> - -<p> -"The matter with the West, Mr. Harkness, is that it always must be -improving everything and everybody. It can't leave well alone. It must -be thrusting its morals and customs on people who have very nice ones of -their own—only they are not Western, that's all. We have too many -conventional ideas over here. Superstitious observances that are just as -foolish as any in the South Seas—more foolish indeed. Now I'm -shocking you, Hesther, I'm afraid. Hesther," he explained to Harkness, -"is the daughter of an English country doctor—a very fine fellow. -But she hasn't travelled much yet. She only married my son a month ago. -This is their honeymoon, and it is very nice of them to take their old -father along with them. He appreciates it, my dear." -</p> - -<p> -He raised his glass and bowed to her. She smiled very faintly, staring -at him for an instant with her large brown eyes, then looking down at -her plate. -</p> - -<p> -"I have been driven," Crispin explained, "into the East by my -collector's passions as much as anything. You know, perhaps, what it is -to be a collector, not of anything especial, but a collector. Something -in the blood worse than drugs or drink. Something that only death can -cure. I don't know whether you care for pretty things, Mr. Harkness, but -I have some pieces of jade and amber that would please you, I think. I -have, I think, one of the best collections of jade in Europe." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness said something polite. -</p> - -<p> -"The trouble with the collector is that he is always so much more deeply -interested in his collection than any one else is, and he is not so -interested in a thing when he owns it as he was when he was wondering -whether he could afford it. -</p> - -<p> -"However, women like my jade. Their fingers itch. It is pleasant to see -them. Have you ever felt the collector's passion yourself?" -</p> - -<p> -"In a tiny way only," said Harkness. "I have always loved prints very -dearly, etchings especially. But I have so small and unimportant a -collection that I never dream of showing it to anybody. I have not the -means to make a real collection, but if I were a millionaire it is in -that direction that I think I would go. Etchings are so marvellously -human, unaccountably personal." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Herrick, listen to that! Mr. Harkness cares about etchings! We -must show him some of ours. I have a 'Hundred Guilders' and a 'De -Jonghe' that are truly superb. Do you know my favourite etcher in the -world? I am sure that you will never guess." -</p> - -<p> -"There is a large field to choose from," said Harkness, smiling. -</p> - -<p> -"There is indeed. But Samuel Palmer is the man for me. You will say that -he goes oddly enough with my jade, but whenever I travel abroad 'The -Bellman' and 'The Ruined Tower' go with me. And then Lepère—what a -glorious artist! and Legros's woolly trees and our old friend -Callot—yes, we have an enthusiasm in common there." -</p> - -<p> -For the first time Harkness addressed the girl directly: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you also care about etchings, Mrs. Crispin?" -</p> - -<p> -She flushed as she answered him: "I am afraid that I know nothing about -them. Our things at home were not very valuable, I am afraid—except -to us," she added. -</p> - -<p> -She spoke so softly that Harkness scarcely caught her words. "Ah, but -Hesther will learn," Crispin said. "She has a fine taste already. It -needs only some more experience. You are learning already, are you not, -Hesther?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she answered almost in a whisper, then looked up directly at -Harkness. He could not mistake her glance. It was an appeal absolutely -for help. He could see that she was at the end of her control. Her hand -was trembling against the cloth. She had been drinking some of her -Burgundy, and he guessed that this was a desperate measure. He divined -that she was urging herself to some act from which, during all these -weeks, she had been shuddering. -</p> - -<p> -His own heart was beating furiously. The food, the wine, the lights, -Crispin's strange and beautiful voice were accompaniments to some act -that he saw now hanging in front of him, or rather waiting, as a -carriage waits, into which now of his own free-will he is about to step -to be whirled to some terrific destination. -</p> - -<p> -He tried to put purpose into his glance back to her as though he would -say "Let me be of some use to you. I am here for that. You can trust -me." -</p> - -<p> -He felt that she knew that she could. She might, such was her case, -trust any one at this crisis, but she had been watching him, he felt -sure, throughout the meal, listening to his voice, studying his -movements, wondering, perhaps, whether he too were in this conspiracy -against her. -</p> - -<p> -He had the sudden conviction that on an instant she had resolved that -she could trust him, and had he had time to do as was usual with him, to -step back and regard himself, he would have been amazed at his own -happiness. -</p> - -<p> -They had come to the dessert. Crispin, as though he had no purpose in -life but to make every one happy, was cracking walnuts for his -daughter-in-law and talking about a thousand things. There was nothing -apparently that he did not know and nothing that he did not wish to hand -over to his dear friends. -</p> - -<p> -"It is too bad that I can't show you my 'Hundred Guilders.'" He cracked -a walnut, and his soft boneless fingers seemed suddenly to be endued -with an amazing strength. "But why shouldn't I? What are you doing this -evening?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have no plans," said Harkness; "I thought I would go perhaps down to -the market and look at the fun." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes—well. . . . Let me see. But that will fit splendidly. We have -an engagement for an hour or two—to say good-bye to an old friend. -Why not join us here at—say—half-past ten? I have my car -here. It is only half an hour's drive. Come out for an hour or two and -see my things. It will give me so much pleasure to show you what I have. -I can offer you a good cigar too and some brandy that should please you. -What do you say?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked across at the girl. "Thank you," he said gravely, "I -shall be delighted." -</p> - -<p> -"That's splendid. Very good of you. The house also should interest you. -Very old and curious. It has a history too. I have rented it for the -last year. I shall be quite sorry to leave it." -</p> - -<p> -Then, smiling, he lent across—"What do you say, Hesther? Shall we -have our coffee outside?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, thank you," she answered, with a curious childish inflection as -though she were repeating some lesson that was only half remembered. -</p> - -<p> -She rose and started down the room. Harkness followed her. Half-way to -the door Crispin was stopped for a moment by the head waiter and stayed -with his son. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness spoke rapidly. "There is no time at all, but I want you to know -that I was in the room at the top of the house just now when you were -there. I heard everything. I apologise for overhearing. I could not -escape, but I want you to know that if there's anything I can -do—anything in the world—I will do it. Tell me if there is. We -have only a moment." -</p> - -<p> -On looking back afterwards he thought it marvellous of her that, -realising who was behind them, she scarcely turned her head, showed no -emotion, but speaking swiftly, answered: -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I am in great trouble—desperate trouble. I am sure you are -kind. There is a thing you can do." -</p> - -<p> -"Tell me," he urged. They were now nearly by the door and the two men -were coming up. -</p> - -<p> -"I have a friend. I told him that if I would agree to his plan I would -send a message to him to-night. I did not mean to agree, but now—I'm -not brave enough to go on. He is to be at half-past nine at a little -hotel—'The Feathered Duck'—on the sea-front. Any one will tell -you where it is. His name is Dunbar. He is young, short, you can't mistake -him. He will be waiting there. Go to him. Tell him I agree. I'll never -forget . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Crispin's forehead confronted them. "What do you say to this? Here is a -sheltered corner." -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar? Dunbar? Where had he heard the name before? -</p> - -<p> -They all sat down. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_II">PART II: THE DANCE ROUND THE<br /> -TOWN</a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p> -Quarter of an hour later he left them, making his excuses, promising to -return at half-past ten. He could not have stayed another moment, -sitting there quietly in his wicker armchair looking out on the -darkening garden, listening to Crispin's pleasure in Peter Breughel, -without giving some kind of vent to his excitement. -</p> - -<p> -He must get away and be by himself. Because—yes, he knew it, and -nothing could alter the vehement pulsating truth of it—he was in love -for the first time in his life. -</p> - -<p> -As he threaded his way along the garden paths that was at first all that -he could see—that he was in love with that child in the shabby frock -who was married to that odious creature, that bag-of-bones, who had not -opened his mouth the whole evening long—that child terrified out of -her life and appealing to him, a stranger, in her despair, to help her. -</p> - -<p> -In love with a married woman, he, Charles Percy Harkness? What would his -two sisters, nay, what would the whole of Baker, Oregon, say did they -know? -</p> - -<p> -But, bless you, he was not in love with her like that—no hero of a -modern realistic novel he! He had no thought in that first ecstatic -glow, of any thought for himself at all—only his eyes were upon -her, of how he could help her, how serve her, now—at -once—before it was too late. -</p> - -<p> -He was deeply touched that she should trust him, but he also realised -that at that particular moment she would have trusted anybody. And yet -she had waited, watching him through all the first part of that meal, -making up her mind—there was some tribute to him at least in that! -</p> - -<p> -It was a considerable time before he could fight his way behind his own -singing happiness into any detailed consideration of the facts. -</p> - -<p> -He was in touch with real life at last, had it in both hands like a -magic ball of crystal, after which for so long he had been searching. -</p> - -<p> -Where had he been all his life, fancying that this was love and that? -That ridiculous touching of hands over a tea-cup, that fancied glance at -a crowded party, that half uttered suggested exchange of gimcrack -phrases? And this! Why, he could not have stopped himself had he wished! -None of the old considered caution to which he had now grown so -accustomed that it had seemed like part of his very soul, could have any -say in this. He was committed up to his very boots in the thing, and he -was glad, glad, glad! -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile he had lost his way. He pulled himself up short. He had been -walking just in any direction. He was in a far part of the garden. A -lawn in the twilight like dark glass beneath whose surface green water -played, stretched between scattered trees and beds of flowers now grey -and shadowy. Sparks of fire were already scattered across a sky that was -smoky with coils of mist as though some giant train had but now -thundered through on its journey to Paradise. Little whistles of wind -stole about the garden making secret appointments among the trees. -Somewhere near to him a fountain was splashing, and behind the lingering -liquid sound of it he could hear the merry-go-round and the drum. He -cared little about the dance now, but in some fashion he must pass the -time until nine-thirty when he would see her friend and learn what he -might do. -</p> - -<p> -Her friend? A sudden agitation held him. Her friend? Had she a lover? Was -that all that there was behind this—that she had married in haste, -for money, luxury, to see the world, perhaps, and now that she had had a -month of it with that miserable bag-of-bones and his painted, talkative -father, discovered that she could not endure it and called to her aid -some earlier lover? Was that all that his fine knight-errantry came to -that he should assist in some vulgar ordinary intrigue? He stopped, -standing beside a small white gate that led out from the garden into the -road. It was as though the gate held him from the outer world and he -would never pass through it until this was decided for him. Her face -came before him as she had sat there on the other side of the table, as -it had been when their glances met. No, he did not doubt her for an -instant. -</p> - -<p> -Whatever her experiences of the last month she was pure in heart and -soul as some child at her mother's knee. She had her pride, her pluck, -her resolve, but also, above all else, her innocent simplicity, her -ignorance of all the evil in the world. And as though the most urgent -problem of all his life had been solved, he gave the little white gate -a push and stepped through it into the open road. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -He was now in the country to the left of, and above, the town. He could -see its lights clustered, like gold coins thrown into some capacious -lap, there below him in the valley. -</p> - -<p> -He struck off along a path that led between deeply scented fields and -that led straight down the hill. He began now more soberly to consider -the facts of the case, and a certain depression stole about him. He -didn't after all see very well what he would be able to do. They were -going, on the following morning, the three of them, abroad, and once -there how was he to effect any sort of rescue? -</p> - -<p> -The girl was apparently quite legally married and, although the horrible -young Crispin had been silent and sinister, there were no signs that he -was positively cruel. The deeper Harkness looked into it the more he was -certain that the secret of the whole mystery lay in the older -Crispin—it was of him that the girl was terrified rather than the -son. Harkness did not know how he was sure of this, he could trace no -actual words or looks, but there—yes, there, the centre of the -plot lay. -</p> - -<p> -The man was strange and queer enough to look at, but a more charming -companion you could not find. He had been nothing but amiable, friendly -and courteous. His attitude to his daughter-in-law had been everything -that any one could wish. He had seemed to consider her in every possible -way. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness, with his American naïveté of conduct, was fond of the word -"wholesome," or rather, had he not spent so much of his life in Europe, -would have found it his highest term of praise to call his fellow-man "a -regular feller!" Crispin Senior was <i>not</i> "a regular feller" whatever -else he might be. There had, too, been one moment towards the end of -dinner when a waiter, passing, had jolted the little man's chair. There -had been for an instant a glance that Harkness now, in his general -survey of the situation, was glad to have caught—a glance that seemed -to tear the pale powdered mask away for the moment and to show a living -moving visage, something quite other, something the more alive in -contrast with its earlier immobility. Once, years before, Harkness had -seen in the Naples Aquarium two octopuses. They lay like grey slimy -stones at the bottom of the shining sun-lit tank. An attendant had let -down through the water a small frog at the end of a string. The frog had -nearly reached the bottom of the tank when in one flashing instant the -pile of shiny stone had been a whirling sickening monster, tentacles, -thousands of them it seemed, curving, two loathsome eyes glowing. In one -moment of time the frog was gone and in another moment the muddy pile -was immobile once again. An unpleasant sight. Were the etchings of -Samuel Palmer Crispin's only appetite? Harkness fancied not. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Plunging almost recklessly down the hill he was soon in the town and, -pushing his way through two or three narrow little streets, found -himself in the market-place. -</p> - -<p> -He caught his breath at the strange transformation of the place since -his last view of it more than three hours before. He learnt later that -this dance was held always as the Grand Finale of the Three Days' Annual -Fair, and on the last of the days there is an old custom that, from -four-thirty to six-thirty no trading shall be done, but that every one -shall entertain or be entertained within their homes. This pause had its -origin, I should fancy, in some kind of religious ceremony, to ask the -good God's blessing on the trading of the three days, but it had become -by now a most convenient interval for the purpose of drinking healths, -so that when, at seven o'clock, all the citizens of the town poured out -of their doors once again, they were truly and happily primed for the -fun of the evening. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness found, therefore, what at first seemed to be naked pandemonium -and, stepping into it, crossed into the third room of his house of -delivery. The old buildings—the town hall, the church, the old grey -tower—were lit up as though by some supernatural splendour, all the -lights of the booths, the hanging clusters of fairy lamps, and, in the -very middle of the place, a huge bonfire flinging arms of flame to -heaven. -</p> - -<p> -In one corner there was the merry-go-round. A twisting, heaving, -gesticulating monster screaming out "Coal Black Mammy of Mine," and -suddenly whooping with its own excitement, showing so much emotion that -it would not have been surprising to find it, at any moment, leap its -bearings and come hurtling down into the middle of the crowd. -</p> - -<p> -The booths were thick with buyers and sellers, and every one, to -Harkness's excited fancy, seemed to be screaming at the highest pitch of -his or her strident voice. -</p> - -<p> -Here was everything for sale—hats, feathers, coats, skirts, dolls, -wooden dolls, rag dolls, china dolls, monkeys on sticks, ribbons, -gloves, shoes, umbrellas, pies, puddings, cakes, jams, oranges, apples, -melons, cucumbers, potatoes, cabbages, cauliflowers, broaches, diamonds -(glass), rubies (glass), emeralds (glass), prayer books, bibles, -pictures (King George, Queen Mary), cups, plates, tea-pots, coffee-pots, -rabbits, white mice, dogs, sheep, pigs, one grey horse, tables, chairs, -beds, and one wooden house on wheels. More than these, much more. And -around them, about them, in and out of them, before them and beside them -and behind them men, women, children, singing, crying, shouting, -sneezing, laughing, hiccuping, quarrelling, kissing, arguing, denying, -confirming, whistling, and snoring. Men of the sea bronzed with dark -hair, flashing eyes, rings on their fingers and bells on their toes; men -of the fields, the soil interpenetrated with the very soul of their -being, bearded to the eyes, broad-shouldered, broad-buttocked, their -Sunday coats flapping over their corduroyed thighs, their rough thick -necks moving restlessly in their unaccustomed collars; women of the fair -with eyes like black coals; gipsy women straight from the tents with -crimson kerchiefs and black hair piled high under feathered hats; women -of the town with soft voices, sidling eyes and creeping hands; women of -the farm with gaze wondering and adrift, hands like leather, children at -their skirts; women householders with their purses carefully clutched, -their hands feeling the cabbages, pinching the cauliflowers, estimating -the chairs and tables, stroking the china; young boys and girls, -confidence in their gaze, timidity in their hearts, suddenly catching -hands, suddenly embracing, suddenly triumphant on their merry-go-round, -suddenly everything, conscious of the last penny burning deep down in -the pocket, conscious of love, conscious of appetite, conscious of -possible remorse, conscious of blood pounding in their veins. And the -magicians, the wonder workers, the steal-a-pennies, the old men with -white beards and trays of coloured treasures, the bold bad men with -their thimble and their penny, the little stumpy, fellow with -his cards, the long thin melancholy fellow with his medicines, -the thick jolly drunken fellow with his tales of the sea, the twisty -turn-his-head-both-ways fellow with his gold watches and silver chains, -the red wizard with his fortunes in envelopes, his magic on strings of -coloured paper, his mysterious signs and countersigns whispered into -blushing ears. And then the children that should have been in bed hours -ago—little children, large children, young children, old children, -fat children, thin children, children clinging-to-mother's-skirts, children -running in and out, like mice, between legs and trousers, children -riding on father's shoulder, children sticky with sweets and sucking -their thumbs, children screaming with pleasure, shrieking with terror, -howling with weariness—and one child all by itself on the steps of -the town hall, curled up and fast asleep. -</p> - -<p> -Away, to one side of the place, just as he had been there fifteen years -ago when Maradick had been present, was a preacher, aloft on an -overturned box, singing with hand raised, his thin earnest face -illumined with the lights, his scant hair blowing in the breeze. Around -him a thin scattering of people singing just as fifteen years ago they -had sung: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">So like little candles</span><br /> -<span class="i4">We shall shine,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">You in your small corner</span><br /> -<span class="i4">And I in mine.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The same recipé, the same cure, the same key offered to the unlocking -of the same mysterious door—and so it will be to the end of created -life—Amen! -</p> - -<p> -The hymn was over. The preacher's voice was raised. Children step to the -edge of the circle, looking up with wondering eyes, their fingers in -their mouths. -</p> - -<p> -"And so, dear friends, we have offered to us here the Blood of the Lamb -for our salvation. Can we refuse it? What right have we to disregard our -salvation? I tell you, my dear friends, that Judgment is upon us even -now. There cometh the night when no man may work. How shall we be found? -Sleeping? With our sins heavy upon us? There is yet time. The hour is -not yet. Let us remember that God is merciful—there is still time -given us for repentance——" -</p> - -<p> -The Town Hall clock stridently, with clanging reverberation, heard -clearly above all the din, struck nine. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Even as the strokes sounded in the air the wide doors of the Town Hall -unfolded and a tall stout man, dressed in the cocked hat and the cape -and cloak of a Dickensian beadle, appeared. Flaming red they were, and -very fine and important he looked as he stood there on the steps, his -legs spread, holding his gold staff in his hands. He was attended by -several other gentlemen who looked down with benignant approval upon the -crowd, and by a drum, a trumpet, and a flute, these last being -instruments rather than men. -</p> - -<p> -A crowd began to gather at the foot of the steps and the beadle to -address them at the top of his voice, but unlike his rival, the -preacher, his voice did not carry very far. -</p> - -<p> -And now the Fair, having only five minutes more of life before it, -lifted itself into a final screaming manifestation. Now was the time for -which the wise and the cautious had been waiting throughout the three -days of the Fair—the moment when all the prices would tumble down -with a rush because it was now or never. The merry-go-round shrieked, the -animals bellowed, lowed, mooed and grunted, the purchasers argued, -quarrelled, shouted and triumphed, the preacher and his followers sang -and sang again, the bells clanged, the gas-jets flared, the bonfire rose -furiously to heaven. But meanwhile the crowd was growing larger and -larger around the Town Hall steps; they came with penny whistles and -horns and hand-bells and even tea-trays. Then suddenly, strong above the -babel, carried by men's stout voices, the song began: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Now, gentles all, attend this song,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>, la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">It is but short, it can't be long,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">How Farmer Brown one summer day</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Was in his field a-gathering hay,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When by there came a pretty maid</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Who smiling sweetly to him said,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la</i>,</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Then Farmer Brown, though forty year,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>, la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When he that pretty voice did hear,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">He threw his fork the nearest ditch</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And caught the maiden tightly, which</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Was what she wanted him to do,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And so the same would all of you,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la</i>,</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">But she withdrew from his embrace,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And mocked poor Farmer to his face,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And danced away along the lane</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And cried "Before I'm here again</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Poor Farmer Brown you'll dance with Pain,"</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la</i>,</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">And that was true as you shall hear,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>, la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Poor Farmer Brown danced many a year,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la, Tra-<i>la</i>,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">But never once that maid did see,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">He grew as aged as aged could be,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And danced in<i>to</i> Eterni-tee,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la</i>.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The red-flaming beadle moved down the steps, and behind him came the -drum, the trumpet and the flute. The drum a stout fellow with wide -spreading legs, had from the practice of many a year, and his father and -grandfather having been drummers before him, caught the exact measure of -the tune. Along the market-place went the beadle, the drum, the trumpet -and the flute. -</p> - -<p> -For a moment a marvellous silence fell. -</p> - -<p> -To Harkness this silence was exquisite. The myriad stars, the high -buildings, their façades ruby-coloured with the leaping light, the dark -piled background, the crowd humming now with quiet, like water on the -boil, the glow of rich suffused colour sheltering everything with its -beautiful cloak, the rich voices tossing into the air the jolly song, -the sense of well-being and the tradition of the lasting old time and -the spirit of England eternally fresh and sturdy and strong; all this -sank into his very soul and seemed to give him some hint of the -deliverance that was, very soon, to come to him. -</p> - -<p> -Then the procession definitely formed. All the voices—men's, women's -and children's alike—caught it up. One—two—three, -one—two—three. The drum, the trumpet and the flute came to -them through the air: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">How Farmer Brown one summer day</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Was in his field a-gathering hay,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When by there came a pretty maid</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Who smiling sweetly to him said,</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la.</i></span> -</div></div> - -<p> -He was never to be sure whether or no he had intended to join in the -dance. He was not aware of more than the colour, the lights, the rhythm -of the tune when a man like a mountain caught him by the arm, shouting, -"Now we're off, brother—now we're off," and he was carried along. -</p> - -<p> -There had always been a superstition about the dance that to join in it, -to be in it from the beginning to the end, meant the best of good luck, -and to miss it was misfortune. There was, therefore, now a flinging from -all sides of eager bodies into the fray. No one must be left out and as -the path between the line of bodies and houses was a narrow one, every -one was pressed close together, and as there had been much friendly -swilling of beer and ale, every one was in the highest humour, shouting, -laughing, singing, ringing their bells and blowing their whistles. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was crushed in upon his enormous friend so completely that he -had no other impression for the moment but of a vast expanse of heaving, -leaping, corduroy waistcoat, of a hard brass button in his eye, and of -himself clutching with both hands to a shiny trouser that must hold -himself from falling. But they were off indeed! Four of them now in a -row and the song was swinging fine and strong. One—two—three, -one—two—three. Forward bend, one leg in air, backward bend, -t'other leg in air, forward bend again, down the market-place and round the -corner voices raised in one tremendous song. -</p> - -<p> -He was easier now and able more clearly to realise his position. One arm -was tightly wedged in that of his companion, and he could feel the thick -welling muscles taut through the stuff of the shirt. On the other side -of him was a girl, and he could feel her hand pressing on his sleeve. On -her side, again, was a young man—her lover. He said so, and shouted -it to the world. -</p> - -<p> -He leaned across her and cried out her beauties as they moved, and she -threw her head back and sang. -</p> - -<p> -The giant on the hitherside seemed to have taken Harkness into his -especial protection. He had been drinking well, but it had done him no -order of harm. Only he loved the world and especially Harkness. He felt, -he knew, that Harkness was a stranger from "up-along." On an average day -he would have resented him, been suspicious of him, and tried "to do him -out of some of his blasted money." But to-night he would be his friend -and protect him from the world. -</p> - -<p> -He would rather have had a girl crooked there under his arm, but the -girl he had intended to have had somehow missed him when the fun -began—but it didn't matter—the beer made everything glorious -for him—and after all he had two daughters "nigh grown up," and -his old missus was around somewhere, and it was just as good he didn't -slip into any sort of mischief which it was easy to do on a night like -this—and his name was Gideon. All this he confided to Harkness -while the procession halted, for a minute or two, at the corner of the -market-place to pull itself straight before it started down the hill. -</p> - -<p> -He had his arm around Harkness's neck and words poured from him. Gideon -what or something Gideon? It didn't matter. Gideon it was and Gideon it -would be so long as Harkness's memory remained. -</p> - -<p> -All the soil of the English country, all the deep lanes with their high -dark hedges, the russet cornfields with their sudden dips to the sea, -the high ridges with the white cottages perched like birds resting -against the sky, the smell of the earth, the savour of the leaves wet -after rain, the thick smoke and damp of the closed-in rooms, the mud, -the clay, the running streams, the wind through the thick-sheltering -trees, all these were in Gideon's speech as he stood, close pressed, -thigh to thigh with Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -He was happy although he knew not why, and Harkness was happy because he -was in love for the first time in his life and tingled from head to foot -with that knowledge. And up and down and all around it was the same. -This was the night of all the nights of the year when enmities were -forgotten and new friendships made. As Maradick once had felt the -current of love running strong and true through a thousand souls, so -Harkness felt it now, and, as with Maradick once, so with Harkness now, -it seemed strange that life might not be simply run, that the lion might -not lie down with the lamb, that nations might not be for ever at peace -the one with another, and that the Grand Millennium might not -immediately be at hand. -</p> - -<p> -All beer you say? Maybe, and yet not altogether so. Something anxious -and longing in the human heart was rising, free and strong, that night, -and would never again entirely leave some of the hearts that knew it. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness for one. There were to be many years in the future when he was -to feel again the beating of Gideon's heart under his arm. Something of -Gideon's was his, and something of his was Gideon's forevermore, though -they would never meet again. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -And now the procession was arranged. Harkness looking back could see how -it stretched, a winding serpent black in the shadows of the leaping -bonfire, through the square. They were off again. The drum had started. -Down the hill they went, all packed together, all swinging with the -tune. A kind of divine frenzy united them all. Young and old, men and -women, married and single, good and evil, vicious and virtuous, all were -together bound in one chain. Harkness was with them. For the first time -in all his life restraint was flung aside. He did not smell the beer nor -did the sweat of the perspiring bodies offend his sensitive nostrils, -nor the dung from the fields, nor the fishy odours of the sea. With -Gideon on one side and a young man's girl on the other, he swung through -the town. -</p> - -<p> -Details for a time eluded him. He was singing the song at the top of his -voice, but what words he was singing he could not have told you; he was -dancing to the measure, but for the life of him he could not have -afterwards repeated the rhythm. -</p> - -<p> -They swung down into the heart of the town. The doors of all the houses -were crowded with the very aged and the very young who stood laughing -and crying out, pointing to their friends and acquaintances, laughing at -this and cheering at that. -</p> - -<p> -And always more were joining in, pushing their way, dancing the more -energetically because they had missed the first five minutes. Now they -were down on the fish-market all sprinkled with silver under the little -moon and the cloth of stars. Here the wind from the sea came to meet -them, and through the music and the singing and the laughter and the -press-press of the dancing crowd could be heard the faint breath of the -tide on the shore "seep-seep-sough-sough," wistful and powerful, -remaining for ever when they all were gone. The sheds of the fish-market -were gaunt and dark and deserted. For one moment all the naked place was -filled with colour and movement. Then up the hill they all pressed. -</p> - -<p> -It was difficult up the hill. There were breaths and pants and "Eh, -sirs," and "Oh, the poor worm," and "But my heart's beating," and "I -cannot! I cannot!" One woman fell, was picked up and planted by the side -of the road, a young man staying with melancholy kindness beside her. -The rest passed on. -</p> - -<p> -Soon they were at the top of the hill before they turned to the left -again back into the town. And this was Harkness's greatest moment. For -an instant the dance paused, and just then it happened that Harkness was -at the highest point of the climb. -</p> - -<p> -Catching his breath, his hand to his heart, for he was out of training, -and the going had been hard, he looked about him. Below him to the right -and to the left and to the farthest horizon the sea, a grey silk shadow, -hung, so soft, so gentle, that the stars that crackled above it seemed -to be taunting it with its lethargy. On the other side of the hill was -all the clustered town, and before him and behind him the dark -multitudes of human beings. Pressed close to Gideon, who was drinking -something out of a bottle, he was unconscious of any personality—only -that time had found for him, it seemed, a solution to the whole problem -of life. The sea-wind fanning his temples, the salt snap of the sea, the -pounding of his own heart in union with that other heart of his -companion who was with him—all these things together made of him who -had been always afraid and timorous and edged with caution, a triumphant -soul. -</p> - -<p> -And it was good that it was so because of all that he would be called -upon to do that night. -</p> - -<p> -Gideon put his arm around him, pressing him close to him, and pushed the -bottle up to his lips. "Drink, brother," he said. "Drink, then, my -dear." And Harkness drank. -</p> - -<p> -Now they were starting down the hill into the town once more, and the -dance reached the height of its madness. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">He threw his fork the nearest ditch</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And caught the maiden tightly, which</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Was what she wanted him to do—</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And so the same would all of you</span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la.</i></span> -</div></div> - -<p> -They screamed, they shrieked, they tumbled on to one another, they held -on where they could, they swung from side to side. The red beadle -himself caught the frenzy, flinging his fat body now here, now there. -The very houses and the cobbles of the streets seemed to swing and sway -as the lights flashed and flared. All the bells of the town were -pealing. In the market-place they were setting off the fireworks, and -the rockets, green and red and gold, streaked the purple sky and fought -for rivalry with the stars. All the sky now was scattered with sparks of -gold. From the highest heaven to the lowest of man's ditches the world -crackled and split and sang. -</p> - -<p> -Now was the moment when all enemies were truly forgotten, when love was -declared without fear, when lips sought lips and hands clasped hands, -and heaven opened and all the human souls marched in. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la</i></span><br /> -<span class="i6">Tra-<i>la</i>-la-la-Tra-<i>la.</i></span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Back into the market-place they all tumbled, then, standing in a serried -mass as the beadle and his followers mounted the Town Hall steps, they -shouted: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"All together: One—two—three.</span><br /> -<span class="i6">One—Two—Three.</span><br /> -<span class="i6">One. Two. Three.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">HURRAY! HURRAY! HURRAY!"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The dance of all the hearts was, for one more year, at an end. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -Every one was splitting up into little groups, some to look at the -fireworks, some to have a last drink together, some to creep off into -the dark shadows and there confirm their vows, some to drive home on -their carts and waggons to their distant farms, some to sit in their -homes for a last chatting about all the news, some to go straight to -their beds—the common impulse was over although it would not be -forgotten. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked around to find Gideon, but that giant was gone nor was -he ever to see him again. He paused there panting, happy, forgetting for -an instant everything but the fun and freedom that he had just passed -through. Then, as though it would forcibly remind him, the Town Hall -clock struck half-past nine. -</p> - -<p> -He spoke to a man standing near him: -</p> - -<p> -"Can you kindly tell me where a hotel called the 'Feathered Duck' is?" -he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," said the man, wiping the sweat from the hair matted on his -forehead. "It's out on the sea-front. Go down High Street—that'll -take you to the sea-front. Then walk to your right and it's about five -houses down." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness thanked him and hurried away. He had no difficulty in finding -the High Street, but there how strange to walk so quietly down it, -hearing your own foot tread, watched by all the silent houses, when only -five minutes ago you had been whirling in Dionysian frenzy! He was on -the sea-front and two steps afterwards was looking up at the quiet and -modest exterior of "The Feathered Duck." -</p> - -<p> -The long road stretched shining and sleek. Not a living soul about. The -little hotel offered a discreet welcome with plants in large green pots, -one on either side of the door, a light warm enough to greet you and not -too startling to frighten you, and the knob gleaming like an inviting -eye. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness pushed open the door and entered. The hall was anæmic and -dark, with the trap to catch visitors some way down on the right. There -seemed to be no one about. Harkness pushed open a door and at once found -himself in one of those little hotel drawing-rooms that are so -peculiarly British, compounded as they are of ferns and discretion, -convention and an untuned piano. In this little room a young man was -sitting alone. Harkness knew at once that his search was over. He knew -where it was that he had heard the name Dunbar before—this was his -young man of the high road, the wandering seaman and the serious -appointment, the young man of his expectant charge. -</p> - -<p> -There was yet, however, room for mistake and so he waited standing in -the doorway. The young man was bending forward in a red plush armchair, -eagerly watching. He recognised Harkness at once as his friend of the -afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -"Hullo!" he said, and then hurriedly, "why, what <i>has</i> been happening -to you?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness stepped forward into the room. "To me?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, yes. You're sweating. Your collar's undone. You look as though you -had run a mile." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that!" Harkness blushed, fingering his collar that had broken from -its stud. "I've been dancing." -</p> - -<p> -"Dancing?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. All round the town. Like the lion and the unicorn." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I heard you. On any other night——" He broke off. During -this time he had been watching Harkness with a curious expression, -something between eagerness, distrust, and an impatience which he was -finding very difficult to conceal. He said nothing more. Harkness also -was silent. They stared the one at the other, and could hear beyond the -door the noises of the little hotel, a shrill female voice, the rattle -of plates, some man's laughter. -</p> - -<p> -At last Harkness said: "Your name is Dunbar, isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -The young man, instead of answering, asked his own question. "Look here, -what the devil are you after? I don't say that it is or it isn't, but -anyway why do <i>you</i> want to know?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's only this," said Harkness slowly, "that if your name <i>is</i> -Dunbar, then I have a message for you." -</p> - -<p> -"You <i>have</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -He started out of his chair, standing up in front of Harkness as though -challenging him. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, a friend of yours asked me to come here, to meet you at half-past -nine and tell you that she agrees to your proposal——" -</p> - -<p> -"She does? . . . At last!" -</p> - -<p> -Then his voice changed to suspicion. "You seem to be a lot in this. -Forgive my curiosity. I don't want to seem rude, but meeting me on the -hill this afternoon and now this. . . . I've got to be so <i>damn</i> -careful——" -</p> - -<p> -"My name is Harkness. It was quite by chance that I was walking down the -hill this afternoon and met you. As I told you then, I was on my way to -the 'Man-at-Arms.' This evening I offered my help to a lady there who -seemed to be in distress, and asked her whether there was anything that -I could do. She asked me to bring you that message. There was no one -else for her to ask." -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar stared at Harkness, then suddenly held out his hand. "Jolly -decent of you. I won't forget it. My name is Dunbar as you know, David -Dunbar." -</p> - -<p> -"And mine Harkness, Charles Harkness." -</p> - -<p> -"I can't tell you what you've done for me by bringing me that message. -Here, don't go for a minute. Have something, won't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I think I will," said Harkness, conscious of a sudden weariness. -</p> - -<p> -"What shall it be? Whisky? Large soda?" -</p> - -<p> -They sat down. Dunbar touched a bell and then, in silence, they waited. -Harkness was humorously conscious that he seemed to be the younger of -the two. The boy had taken complete command of the situation. -</p> - -<p> -The older man was also aware that there was some very actual and -positive situation here that was developing under his eyes. As he sat -there, sticking to the plush of his chair, listening to the ridiculous -chatter of the marble clock, staring into the Wardour Street Puritans of -"When did you see father last?" he felt urgency beating in upon them -both. A shabby waiter looked in upon them, received his order and -departed. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar suddenly plunged. "Look here, I know I can trust you. I'm sure of -it. And <i>she</i> trusted you, so that should be enough for me. -But—would you mind—telling me exactly how it happened that -you got this message?" -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," Harkness said. "I——" -</p> - -<p> -"Wait," Dunbar interrupted, "forgive me, but drop your voice, will you? -One doesn't know who's hanging round here." -</p> - -<p> -They drew their chairs closer together and Harkness, sitting forward, -continued. "I had dressed for dinner early. A friend of mine in London -had told me that there was a little old room at the top of the hotel -that was well worth seeing. I guess, like most Americans, I care for -old-fashioned things, so I got to the top of the house and found the -room. I was up in a little gallery at the back when two people came in, -a man and a girl. They began to talk before I could move or let them -know I was there. It was all too quick for me to do anything. The girl -begged the man, to whom she was apparently married, to let her go home -for a week before they went abroad, and the man refused. That was all -there was, but the girl's terror struck me as extreme——" -</p> - -<p> -"My God!" Dunbar broke in, "if you only knew!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I was touched by that and I didn't like the man's face, either. -They went out. I came down to dinner. While I was waiting in the garden -an extraordinary man spoke to me—extraordinary to look at, I mean. -Short, fat, red hair—" -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't describe him," Dunbar interrupted, "I know him." -</p> - -<p> -"He came and asked me for a match. He was very polite, and finally -invited me to dine with him, his son and daughter-in-law. I accepted. Of -course the son and daughter-in-law were the two that I had overheard -upstairs. I saw that throughout dinner she was in great distress, and at -the end as we were leaving the room I let her know that I had overheard -her inadvertently before dinner, and that I was eager to help her if -there was any way in which I could do so. We had only a moment, Crispin -and his son were close upon us. She was, I suppose, at the end of her -endurance and snatched at any chance, so she told me to do this—to -find you here and give you that message—that's all—absolutely -all." -</p> - -<p> -"The door opened, making both men turn apprehensively. It was only the -shabby little waiter with his tray and the whiskies. He set down the -glasses, split the soda, and stared at them both as Dunbar paid him. -</p> - -<p> -"Will that be all, gentlemen?" he asked, scratching his ear. -</p> - -<p> -"Everything," said Dunbar abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -"Gentlemen sleeping here?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, we're not. Good-night." -</p> - -<p> -"Good-night, sir." With a little sigh the waiter withdrew. The door -closed, and instantly the ferns in the pots, the plush chairs and sofa -closed round as though they also wanted to hear. -</p> - -<p> -"It's an extraordinary piece of luck," Dunbar began. Then he hesitated. -"But I don't want to bother you with any more of this. It isn't your -affair. You've come into it, after all, only by accident——" -</p> - -<p> -He hesitated as though he were making an invitation to Harkness. And -Harkness hesitated. He saw that this was his last opportunity of -withdrawal. Once again he could hear the voice of the Imp behind his -shoulder: "Well, clear out if you want to. You have still plenty of -time. And this is positively the last chance I give you——" -</p> - -<p> -He drank his whisky and, drinking, crossed his Rubicon. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, I am interested, tremendously interested. Tell me anything you -care to and if I can be of any help——" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," Dunbar assured him, "I'm not going to drag you into it. You -needn't be afraid of that." -</p> - -<p> -"But I <i>am</i> in it!" Harkness answered, smiling; "I'm going back with -Crispin to his house this evening!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -The effect of that upon Dunbar was fantastic. The young man jumped from -his chair crying: -</p> - -<p> -"You're going back?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"To the house?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, yes!" -</p> - -<p> -"And to-night!" -</p> - -<p> -He stared down at him as though he could not believe the evidence of his -ears nor of his eyes nor of anything that was his. Then he finished his -whisky with a desperate gulp. -</p> - -<p> -"But what's pushing you into this anyway?" he cried at last. "You don't -look like the kind of man—— And yet there you were on the -hill this afternoon, and then at the hotel and overhearing what Hesther -said, and then dining with the man and his asking you—— He -did ask you, didn't he?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course he asked me," Harkness answered. "You don't suppose I'd have -gone if he didn't." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I don't suppose you would," agreed Dunbar. "I bet he offered to -show you his jewels and his pictures, his collections." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, "he did." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that's just a miracle of good luck for me, that's all. You can -help me to-night, help me marvellously. But I don't like to ask you. -Things might turn out all wrong and then we'd all be in for a bad time -and that wouldn't be fair to you." He paused, thinking, then he went on. -"I'll tell you what I'll do. You saw that girl to-night and talked to -her, didn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness nodded his head. -</p> - -<p> -"You saw that she was a damned fine girl?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness nodded again. -</p> - -<p> -"Worth doing a lot for. Well, I'll put the whole story to you—let you -have it all. We've got nearly three-quarters of an hour. I can tell you -most of it in that time, and then you can make up your mind. If, when -I've told you everything, you decide to have nothing whatever to do with -it, that's all right. There's no obligation on you at all, of course. -But if you <i>did</i> help me, being in the house at that very time, it -would make the whole difference. My God, yes!" he ended with a sigh of -eagerness, staring at Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness sat there, thinking only of the girl. His own personal history, -the town, the dance, Crispin and his son, all these things had faded -away from his mind; he saw only her—as she had been when turning her -head for a moment she had spoken to him with such marvellous -self-control. -</p> - -<p> -He loved her just as she stood there granting him permission to help -her. His own prayer was that it might not be long before he was allowed -to help her again. He was recalled to the immediate moment by Dunbar's -voice: -</p> - -<p> -"You'll forgive me if I go back to the beginning of things—it's the -only way really to explain. Have you ever heard of Polchester, a town in -Glebeshire, north of this? There's a rather famous cathedral there." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, "I thought I might go there from here." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," Dunbar went on, "out of Polchester about ten miles there's a -village—Milton Haxt. I was born there and so was Hesther. Her name -was Hesther Tobin, and she was the only daughter of the doctor of the -place—she had two brothers younger than herself. We've known one -another all our lives." -</p> - -<p> -"Wait a moment," Harkness interrupted; "are you and she the same age?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I'm thirty, she's only twenty." -</p> - -<p> -"You look younger than that, or you did this afternoon, I'm not so sure -now." Indeed the boy seemed to have acquired some new weight and -responsibility as he sat there. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he went on. "When I said that we'd known one another always I mean -that she's always known about me. I used to take her on my knee and toss -her up and down. That was where all the trouble began. If she hadn't -been always used to me and fancied that I was years older than she—a -kind of grandfather—she'd have married me." -</p> - -<p> -"Married you!" Harkness brought out. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with her. I always -was, and she never was with me. She liked me—she likes me -now—but she's always been so used to the idea of me. I've always -been David Dunbar—and that's all. A friend who was always there -but nothing more. There was just a moment when I was missing for six -months in the middle of the war, I think she really cared then—but -soon they heard that I was safe in Germany and it was all as it had been -before." -</p> - -<p> -"Were her father and mother living?" Harkness asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Her father. Her mother died when her youngest brother was born, when -she was only six years old. The mother's death upset the father, and he -took to drink. He'd always been inclined that way I expect. He was too -brilliant a doctor to have landed in that small village without there -being some reason. Well, after Mrs. Tobin's death there was simply one -trouble after another. Tobin's patients deserted him. The big house on -the hill had to be sold and they moved into a small one in the village. -He had been a big, jolly, laughing, generous man before, now he was -always quarrelling with everybody, insulting the few patients left to -him, and so on. Hesther was wonderful. How she kept the house together -all those years nobody knew. There was very little she didn't know about -life by the time she was ten years old—ordinary life, I mean, not -this damned Crispin monstrosity. She always had the pluck and the courage -of the devil, and you can fancy what I felt just now when you told me -about her asking young Crispin to let her off. That <i>swine</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -He paused for a moment, then went on hurriedly: -</p> - -<p> -"But we haven't much time. I must buck ahead. I was quite an ordinary -sort of fellow, of course, but there was nothing I wouldn't do for her -if I got a chance. I helped her sometimes, but not so much as I'd have -liked. She was always terribly proud. All the things that happened at -home made her hold up her head in a kind of defiance. -</p> - -<p> -"The odd thing was that she loved her father, and the worse he got the -more she loved him. But she loved her young brothers still more. She was -mother, sister, nurse, everything to them, and would be still if she'd -been let alone. They were nice little chaps too, only a lot younger, of -course—one three years, one six. One's in the Navy—very decent -fellow—and if he'd been home he'd never have allowed any of this to -happen. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, the war came when she was quite a kid. I was away most of that -time. Then in 1918 my father died and left me a bit of property there in -Milton. I came home and asked her to marry me. She thought I was pitying -her, and anyway she didn't love me. And I hadn't enough of this world's -goods to make the old man keen about me. -</p> - -<p> -"Then this devil came along." Dunbar stopped for a moment. They both -listened. There was not a sound in the whole house. -</p> - -<p> -"What brought him to a village like yours?" asked Harkness, lowering his -voice. "I shouldn't have thought that a man like that——" -</p> - -<p> -"No, you wouldn't," said Dunbar. "But that's one of his passions -apparently, suddenly landing on some small village where there's a big -house and bossing every one around him. . . . I shall never forget the -day I first saw him. It was just about a year ago. -</p> - -<p> -"I had heard that some foreigner had taken Haxt, that was the big house -in Milton that the Dombeys, the owners, were too poor to keep up. Soon -all the village was talking. Furniture arrived, then lots of servants, -Japs and all sorts. Then one evening going up the hill I saw him leaning -over one of the Haxt gates looking into the road. -</p> - -<p> -"It was a lovely July evening and he was without a hat. You've spoken of -his hair. I tell you that evening it was just flaming in the sun. It -looked for a moment like some strange sort of red flower growing on the -top of the gate. He stopped me as I was passing and asked me for a -match." -</p> - -<p> -"That's what he asked me for," murmured Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, his opening gambits are all the same. He offered me a cigarette -and I took one. We talked for a little. I didn't like him at first, of -course, with his hair, white face, painted lips, but—did you notice -what a beautiful voice he has?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should think I did," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"And then he can make himself perfectly charming. The beginning of your -acquaintance with him is exactly like your introduction to the villain -of any melodrama—painted face, charming voice, cosmopolitan, -delightful information. The change comes afterwards. But I must hurry on, -I'll never be done. I'm as bad as Conrad's Marlowe. Have another whisky, -won't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, thanks," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it wasn't long before he was the talk of the whole place. At -first every one liked him. Odd though he looked you can just fancy how a -man with his wealth and knowledge of the world would fascinate a -country-side if he chose to make himself agreeable, and he <i>did</i> -choose. He gave parties, he went round to people's houses, sent his -motors to give old ladies a ride, allowed people to pick flowers in his -garden, adored showing people his collections. I happened to be in -Milton during the rest of that year looking after my little property, -and he seemed to take to me. I was up at Haxt a good deal. -</p> - -<p> -"Looking back now I can see that I never really liked him. I was aware -of my caution and laughed at myself for it. I liked pretty things, you -know, and I loved his jade and emeralds, and still more his prints. And -he knew so much and was never tired of telling me and never seemed to -laugh at one's ignorance. -</p> - -<p> -"He was, as I have said, all the talk that summer. It was 'Mr. Crispin' -this and 'Mr. Crispin' that—Mr. Crispin everything. The men didn't -take to him much, but of course they wouldn't! They had always thought -<i>me</i> a bit queer because I liked reading and played the piano. The -first thing that people didn't like about him was his son. That beauty -arrived at Haxt somewhere in September, and everybody hated him. I ask -you, could you help it? And he was the exact opposite of his father. -<i>He</i> didn't try to make himself agreeable to anybody—simply -went about scowling and frowning. But it wasn't that people -disliked—it was his relation to his father. He was absolutely in -his father's power—that is the only way to put it—and there -was something despicable, something almost obscene, you know, almost as -though he were hypnotized, the way he obeyed him, listened to his voice, -slaved away for him." -</p> - -<p> -"I noticed something of that myself this evening," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"You couldn't help it if you saw them together. Somehow the son turning -up beside the father made the <i>father</i> look queer—as though the -son showed him up. People round Milton are not very perceptive, you know, -but they soon smelt a rat, several rats in fact. For one thing the -people in the village didn't like the Jap servants, then one or two -maids that Crispin had hired abruptly left. They wouldn't say anything -except that they didn't like the place, that old Crispin walked in his -sleep or something of the kind. -</p> - -<p> -"It was just about this time, early in October or so, that Crispin -became friendly with the Tobins. Young Crispin had a cold or something -and Tobin came up and doctored him. Crispin gave him the best liquor -he'd ever had in his life so he came again and then again. That was the -beginning of my dislike of Crispin. It seemed to me rotten of him, when -Tobin was already going as fast downhill as he could, to give him an -extra push. And Crispin liked doing that. One could see it at a glance. -I hated him from the moment when I caught him watching with amused -smiles Tobin fuddled in his chair. You can imagine that Tobin's -drunkenness, having cared for Hesther as I had for so long, was a matter -of some importance for me. I had tried to pull him up, without any sort -of success, of course, and it simply maddened me to see what Crispin was -doing. So I lost my temper and spoke out. I told him what I thought of -him. He listened to me very quietly, then he suddenly threw his head up -at me like a snake hissing. He said a lot of things. That was the first -time I heard all his nonsensical stuff about sensations. We haven't time -now, and anyway it wasn't very new—the philosophy that as this was -our only existence we had better make the most of it, that we had been -given our senses to use, not to stifle, and the rest of it. Omar put it -better than Crispin. -</p> - -<p> -"He had also a lot of talk about Power, that if he liked he could have -any one in his power, and so could I if I liked. You had only to know -other people's weaknesses enough. And more than that. Some stuff about -its being good for people to suffer. That the thing that made life -interesting and worth while was its intensity, and that life was never -so intense as when we were suffering. That, after all, God liked us to -suffer. Why shouldn't <i>we</i> be gods? We might be if we only had courage -enough. -</p> - -<p> -"It was then, that morning, that it first entered my head that there was -something wrong with him—something wrong with his brain. It had never -occurred to me during all those months because he had always been so -logical, but now—he seemed to step across the little bridge that -separates the sane from the insane. You know how small that bridge is?" -Harkness nodded his head. -</p> - -<p> -"Then all in a moment he took my arm and twisted it. I can't give you -any sort of idea how queer and nasty that was. As he did it he peered -into my face as though he didn't want to miss the slightest shadow of an -expression. Then—I don't know if you noticed when he shook hands with -you—his fingers haven't any bones in them, and yet they are beastly -powerful. He ought to be soft all over and he <i>isn't.</i> He twisted my -arm once and smiled. It was all I could do to keep from knocking him down. -But I broke away, told him to go to hell and left the house. From that -moment I hated him. -</p> - -<p> -"It was directly after this that I noticed for the first time that he -had his eye on Hesther, and he had his eye upon her exactly because she -hated him and wouldn't go near him if she could possibly help it. I must -stop for a moment and tell you something about her. You've seen her, but -you cannot have any kind of idea how wonderful she really is. -</p> - -<p> -"She has the most honourable loyal character you've ever seen in woman. -And she's never been in love—she doesn't know what love is. Those are -the two most important things about her. That doesn't mean that she's -ignorant of life. There's nothing mean or sordid or disgusting that -hasn't come into her experience through her beauty of a father, but -she's stood up to it all—until this, this Crispin marriage. The first -thing in her life she's funked. -</p> - -<p> -"She's been saved all along by her devotion to one thing, her -family—her father and two brothers. She must have given her father up -pretty completely by now, seeing that it was hopeless; but her small -brothers—why, they are the key to the whole thing! If it weren't for -them she wouldn't be where she is to-night, and, as I have said, if the -elder one had known anything about it he wouldn't have allowed it, but -he's away on a foreign station and Bobby's too young to understand. -</p> - -<p> -"She was always very independent in the village, keeping to herself. Not -being rude to people, you understand, but making no real friends. She -simply lived for those two boys, and she had to work so hard that she had -no time for friends. She knew that I loved her—I had told her often -enough. She saw more of me than of any one else, and she would allow me -to do things for her sometimes, but even with me she kept her -independence. To-night is the very first time in both our lives that she -has begged me to do anything!" -</p> - -<p> -He stopped for a moment. "By God!" he cried, "if I can't help her -to-night I'll finish myself; there'll be nothing left in life for me!" -</p> - -<p> -"We <i>will</i> help her," Harkness said. "Both of us. But go on. Time's -advancing. I mustn't miss my appointment." -</p> - -<p> -"No, by Jove, you mustn't," said Dunbar. "Everything hangs on that. -Well, to get on. It didn't take me very long to see what Crispin was -doing to her father, and one day she went up to see him alone and begged -him to be merciful. She says that he was charming to her and that she -hated him worse than ever. -</p> - -<p> -"He promised her that he would stop her father's drinking, and, of -course, he didn't keep his promise, but made Tobin drink more than ever. -</p> - -<p> -"It was round about Christmas that these things happened, and just about -this time all sorts of stories began to circulate about him. He suddenly -left, came over to Treliss, and took the White Tower where you're going -to-night. After he had gone <i>the</i> stories grew in volume—the -most ridiculous things you ever heard, about his catching rabbits and -skinning them alive and holding witches' Sabbaths with his Japs—every -kind of fantastic thing. And all the women who had gone to see his -pretty things and raved about him when he first came said they didn't -know how they 'ever could have seen anything in him,' and that he -deserved imprisonment and worse. -</p> - -<p> -"It was now that I discovered that Hesther was desperately worried. I -had known her all my life and had never seen her worried like this -before. She lost her colour, was always thinking about other things when -one spoke to her, and, several times, had been crying when I came upon -her. Naturally I couldn't stand this, and I bullied her until I got the -truth out of her. And what do you think that was? Why, of all the -horrible things, that the younger Crispin had asked her to marry him, -and that all the time her blackguard of a father was pressing her to do -it. -</p> - -<p> -"You can imagine what I felt like when I heard this! I cursed and swore -and blasphemed and still couldn't believe that she was in any way taking -it seriously until, when I pressed her, I found that she was! -</p> - -<p> -"She was always as obstinate as sin, had her own way of looking at -things, made up her own mind and stuck to it. She didn't hate the son as -she hated the father, although she disliked the little she'd seen of him -well enough; but, remember, she knew very little about marriage. All her -thoughts were on those two boys, her brothers. -</p> - -<p> -"I found out that old Crispin had offered Tobin any amount of money if -he'd give his daughter up, and that Tobin had put this to Hesther, -telling her that he was desperately in debt, that he'd be put in prison -if the money didn't turn up from somewhere, and, above all, that the -boys would be ruined if she didn't agree, that he'd have to take the -younger boy away from school and so on. -</p> - -<p> -"I did everything I could. I went and saw Tobin and told him what I -thought of him, and he was drunk as usual and we had a scuffle, in the -course of which I unfortunately tumbled him over. Hesther came in and -saw him on the floor, turned on me, and then said she'd marry young -Crispin. -</p> - -<p> -"I begged, I implored her. I said that if she would marry me I'd give -her everything that I had in the world, that we'd manage so that Bobby -shouldn't have to be taken away from school and the rest of it. Then -Father Tobin got up from the floor and asked me with a sneer how much -I'd got, and I tried to bluster it out, but of course they both of them -knew that I hadn't got very much. -</p> - -<p> -"Anyway Hesther was angry with me—ashamed, I think, that I'd seen her -father in such a state, and her pride hurt that I should know how badly -they were placed. She accepted young Crispin by the next mail. If the -Crispins had actually been there in the flesh I don't think she would -have done it, but some weeks' absence had softened her horror of them, -and she could only think how wonderful it was going to be to do all the -marvellous things for the boys that she was planning. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure that when young Crispin did turn up with his long body and -cadaverous face she repented and was frightened, but her pride wouldn't -let her then back out of it. -</p> - -<p> -"I had one last talk with her before her marriage. I begged her to -forgive me for anything that I had done that might seem casual or -insulting, that she must put me out of her mind altogether, but just -consider in a general way whether this wasn't a horrible thing that she -was doing, marrying a man that she didn't love, taking on a -father-in-law whom she hated. -</p> - -<p> -"She was very sweet to me, sweeter than she had ever been before. She -just shook her head and let me kiss her. And I knew that this was a -final good-bye." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -"She married Crispin and came to Treliss. I wasn't at the wedding. I -heard nothing from her. And then a story came to my ears that, after I -had once heard it, gave me no peace. -</p> - -<p> -"It was an old woman—a Mrs. Martin. She had, months before, been -up at Haxt doing some kind of extra help. She was an old mottled woman -like a strawberry—I'd known her all my life—and a -grandmother. She suddenly left, and it was only weeks after Crispin went -that I found out why. She was very shy about it, and to this day I've -never discovered exactly what happened. Something one evening when she -was alone in the kitchen preparing to go home. The elder Crispin came in -followed by one of his Japs. He made her sit down in one of the kitchen -chairs, sat down beside her, and began to talk to her in his soft -beautiful voice. What it was all about to this day she doesn't -know—some of his fine stuff about Sensation, I daresay, and the -benefit of suffering so that you could touch life at its fullest! I -shouldn't wonder—anyway an old woman like Mrs. Martin, who had -borne eight or nine children of her husband who beat her, knew plenty -about suffering without Crispin trying to teach her. Anyway he went on -in his soft beautiful voice, and she sat there bewildered, fascinated a -bit by his red hair which she told me "she never could get out of her -mind like," and the Jap standing silent beside her. -</p> - -<p> -"Suddenly Crispin took hold of her old wrinkled neck and began stroking -it, putting his face close to hers, talking, talking, talking all the -time. Then the Jap stepped behind her, caught the back of her head and -pulled it. -</p> - -<p> -"What would have happened next I don't know had not the younger Crispin -come in, and at the sight of him the older man instantly got up, the Jap -disappeared—it was as though nothing had been. Old Mrs. Martin got -out of the house, then tumbled to pieces in the shrubbery. She was ill for -days afterwards, but she kept the whole thing quiet with a kind of -villager's pride, you know—'she wasn't going to have other folks -talking as they did anyway when they saw how quickly she had left.' -</p> - -<p> -"But she told one of her daughters and the daughter told me. There was -almost nothing in the actual incident, but it told me two things, one, -that the older Crispin really is mad—definitely, positively insane, -the other that the son, in spite of his seeming so submissive, has some -sort of hold over him. There is something between the two that I don't -understand. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that decided me. I went to Treliss to find out what I could. I -had to hang about for quite a time before I could learn anything at all. -Crispin was going on at Treliss just as he had done at Milton. He's -taken this strange house outside the town which you'll see to-night. -Quite a famous place in a way, built on the sea-cliff with a tangled -overgrown wood behind it and a high white tower that you can see for -miles over the country-side. At first the people liked him just as they -had done at Milton and were interested in him. Then there were stories -and more stories. Suddenly, only a week ago, he said he was going -abroad, and to-morrow he's going. -</p> - -<p> -"Now the point I want to make clear to you is that the man's mad. I'm -not a clever chap. I don't know any of your medical theories. I've never -had any leaning that way, but I take it that the moment that any one -crosses the division between sanity and insanity it means that they can -control their brain no longer, that they are dominated by some desire or -ambition or lust or terror that nothing can stop, no fear of the law, of -public shame, of losing social caste. Crispin is mad, and Hesther, whom -I love more than anything in this world and the next, is in his hands -completely and absolutely. They go abroad to-morrow morning where no one -can touch them. -</p> - -<p> -"The time's been so short, and I've not been sufficiently clever to give -you any clear idea of the man himself. I've got practically no facts. -You can't say that his stroking an old woman's neck is a fact that -proves anything. All the same I believe you've seen enough yourself to -know that it isn't all imagination, and that the girl is in terrible -peril. My God, sir," the boy's voice was shaking, "before the war there -were all sorts of things that didn't seem possible, we knew that they -couldn't exist outside the books of the story-tellers. But the war's -changed all that. There's nothing too horrible, nothing too beastly, -nothing too bad to be true—yes, and nothing too fine, nothing too -sporting. -</p> - -<p> -"And this thing is quite simple. There are those two madmen and my girl -in their hands, and only to-night to get her out of them. -</p> - -<p> -"I must tell you something more," he went on more quietly. "I've been -making desperate attempts to see her, and at the same time to prevent -either of those devils from seeing <i>me.</i> I saw her twice, once in the -grounds of the White Tower, once on the beach below the house. Neither -time would she listen to me. I could see that she was miserable, -altogether changed, but all that she would say was that she was married -and that she must go through with what she had begun. -</p> - -<p> -"She begged me to go away and leave Treliss. Her one fear seemed to be -lest Crispin should find out I was there and do something to me. -</p> - -<p> -"Her terror of him was dreadful to witness—but she would tell me -nothing. I hung about the place and made a friend of a fisherman he had -up there working on the place—Jabez Marriot—you saw him on the -hill to-day. -</p> - -<p> -"He's a fine fellow. He's only been working on the grounds, had nothing -to do with inside the house, but he didn't love the Crispins any better -than I did, and he had lost his heart to Hesther. She spoke to him once -or twice, and he would do anything for her. I sent letters to her -through him: she replied to me in the same way, but they were all to the -same effect, that I was to go away quickly lest Crispin should do -something to me, that she wasn't being badly treated and that there was -nothing to be done. -</p> - -<p> -"Then, about a week ago, Crispin saw me. It was in one of the Treliss -lanes, and we met face to face. He just gave me one look and passed on, -but since then I've had to be terribly careful. All the same I've made -my plans. All that was needed was her consent to them, and that, until -to-night, she has steadily refused to give. However, something worse -than usual has broken her down. What he has been doing to her I don't -know, I dare not think—but to-night I've got to get her out. I've -<i>got</i> to, or never show my face anywhere again. Now I've told you -this as quickly as I could. Will you help me?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness stood up holding out his hand: "Yes," he said, "I will." -</p> - -<p> -"It can be beastly, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"That's all right." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't mind what happens?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't mind what happens." -</p> - -<p> -"Sportsman." -</p> - -<p> -The two men shook hands. They sat down again. Dunbar spread out a paper -on the little green-topped table. -</p> - -<p> -"This is a rough plan of the house," he said. "I can't draw, but I think -you can make this out. -</p> - -<p> -"Please forgive this childish drawing," he said again. "It's the best I -can do. I think it makes the main things plain. Here's the house, the -tower over the sea, the wood, the garden, the high road. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="350" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Now look at this other plan of the second floor. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="350" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"You'll see from this that Hesther's room is at the very end of the -house and her husband's room next to hers. The two guest rooms are -empty, and there are no other bedrooms on that floor. The picture -gallery runs right along the whole floor. The small library is a rather -cheerful bright room. Crispin has put his prints in there, some on the -walls, the rest in solander boxes. The large library is a gaunt, dusty -deserted place hung with heads of many animals that one of the -Pontifexes (the real owners of the place) shot at some time or other. No -one ever goes there. In fact this second floor is generally deserted. -Crispin spends his time either in the tower or on the ground floor. He -is in the small library playing about with his prints some of the time -though. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, my plan is this. I have told Hesther everything to the very -tiniest detail, and all that she had to do was to send word at any -moment that she agreed to it. That she has now done. -</p> - -<p> -"To-night at one o'clock I am going to be up the high road under the -shadow of the wood at the back of the kitchen garden with a jingle and -pony——" -</p> - -<p> -"A jingle?" asked Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, a jingle is Cornish for a pony trap. The obvious thing for me to -have had was a car, but after thinking about it I decided against it for -a number of reasons. One of them was the noise that it makes in -starting, then it might easily stick over the ground that we shall have -to cover, then I fancy that it will be the first thing that Crispin will -look for if he starts in pursuit. We have only to go three miles anyway, -and most of it over the turf of the moor." -</p> - -<p> -"Only three miles?" Harkness asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I'll tell you about that in a moment. Crispin Senior is pretty -regular in his movements, and just about one o'clock he goes up to his -bedroom at the top of the tower with his two Japs in attendance. That is -the only time of the day or night that one or another of those Japs -isn't hanging about somewhere. They are up there with him on exactly the -opposite side of the house from Hesther's room at just that time. That -leaves only young Crispin. We shall have to chance him, but, according -to Jabez, he has the habit of going to bed between eleven and twelve, -and by one o'clock he ought to be sound asleep. -</p> - -<p> -"However, that is one of the things we ought to look out for, one of the -things indeed that I want your help about. Meanwhile Jabez is patrolling -in the grounds outside." -</p> - -<p> -"Jabez!" Harkness cried, startled. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, that is our great piece of luck. Crispin has had some fellow of -his own in the grounds all this time, but three nights ago he sent him -up to London on some job and Jabez has taken his place. I don't think he -trusts Jabez altogether, but he trusts the others still less. He is -always cursing the Cornishmen, and they don't love him any the better -for it." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, when you've got safely to your pony cart what happens next?" -</p> - -<p> -"We drive up Shepherd's Lane, down across the moor until we reach the -cliff just above Starling Cove. Here I've got a boat waiting, and we'll -row across that corner of the bay to another cove—Selton—and -just above Selton is Selton Minor where there's a station. At four in -the morning there's the first train, local, to Truro, and at Truro we -can catch the six o'clock to Drymouth. In Drymouth there are an uncle -and aunt of hers—the Bresdins—who have long been fond of her -and wanted her often to stay with them. Stephen Bresdin is a good fellow -and will stand up for her, I know, once she's in his hands. Then we can -get the law to work." -</p> - -<p> -"Won't Crispin be after you before you reach the Truro train?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'm reckoning first that he doesn't discover anything at all -until he wakes in the morning. They are making an early start for London -that day, but he shouldn't be aware of anything until six at least. But -secondly, if he does, I'm calculating that first he'll think she's -catching the three o'clock Treliss to Drymouth, or that she's motored -straight into Truro. If he goes into Truro after her or sends young -Crispin I'm reckoning that he won't have the patience to wait for that -six o'clock or won't imagine that we have, and will be sure that we will -have motored direct into Drymouth. -</p> - -<p> -"He'll post after us there. I don't think he knows about the Bresdins in -Drymouth. He may, but I don't think so. Of course it's all chance, but -I figure that is the best we can do." -</p> - -<p> -"And what's my part in this?" asked Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Of course you're not to do a thing more than you want to," said Dunbar. -"But this is where you could be of use. The thing that we're mainly -afraid of is young Crispin. Hesther can get out of her room easily -enough. It is only a short drop on to an outhouse roof, and then a short -drop from there again, but if young Crispin is moving about, coming into -her room and so on, it may be very difficult. What I suggest is that you -stay with the older Crispin looking at his collections and the rest -until half-past twelve or so, then bid him a fond good-night and go. -Wait for a quarter of an hour in the grounds. Jabez will be there, and -then at about a quarter to one he will let you into the house again. -Crispin Senior should be up in the tower by then, but if he isn't you -can pretend that you have lost something, take him back into the small -library where the prints are and keep him well occupied until after one. -If he <i>has</i> gone up to his tower, Hesther will leave a small piece of -white paper under her door <i>if</i> Crispin Junior is in the way and -hanging about. In that case I should knock on his door, apologise, say that -you lost your gold match-box, had to come back for it as they are all -leaving early the next day, think it must be in the small library; he -goes back with you to look for it and—you keep him there. Do you -think you could manage that?" -</p> - -<p> -"I will," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"There's more than that. One of the principal reasons that Hesther -refused to consider any of this was—well, running off alone with me -in the middle of the night. But if you are with us—some one, if I -may say so, so entirely——" -</p> - -<p> -"Respectable," Harkness suggested as Dunbar hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, yes—if you don't mind that word. It alters everything, don't -you see. Especially as you've never seen me before, aren't in love with her -or anything." -</p> - -<p> -"Exactly," said Harkness gravely. -</p> - -<p> -"There you are. The thing's full of holes. It can fall down in all sorts -of places, and if Crispin catches us and knows what we are up to it -won't be pleasant. But there's nothing else. No other plan that seems -any less dangerous. Are you for it, sir?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm for it," said Harkness. At that moment the little marble clock -struck the half-hour. -</p> - -<p> -"My God!" Harkness cried, "I should be at the hotel this very minute. If -I miss them there's our plan spoiled." -</p> - -<p> -He gripped Dunbar's hand once and was off. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IX</h4> - -<p> -He went racing through the darkness, the two thoughts changing, mingling, -changing incessantly over and over in his brain—that he must -catch them at the hotel before they left it, and that he loved, he loved -her, he loved her with an intensity that seemed to increase with every -step that he ran. -</p> - -<p> -In some way, although Dunbar had said so little about her, his picture -of her was infinitely clearer and stronger than it had been before. He -saw her in that small village of hers struggling with that drunken -father, with insufficient means, with the individualities and rebellions -of her two brothers who however deeply they loved her (and normal boys -are not conscious of their deep emotions), must have kicked often enough -against the limitations of their conditions, sneering servants, spying -neighbours, jesting and scornful relations, the father in his cups -abusing her, insulting her and for ever complaining—and yet she, -through all of this, showing a spirit, a hardihood, a pluck and, he -suspected, a humour that only this last fatal intercourse with the -Crispin family had broken down. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was the American man at his simplest and most idealistic, and -than this there is nothing simpler and more idealistic in the whole of -modern civilisation. The Englishman has too much common sense and too -little imagination, the Frenchman is too mercenary, the Southern peoples -too sensuous to provide the modern Quixote. In the United States of -America to-day there are as many Quixotes as there are builders of -windmills to be tilted at—and that is saying much. -</p> - -<p> -So that, with his idealism, his hatred of cruelty and abnormality, -Harkness saw far beyond any personal aggrandisement in this pursuit. He -was not thinking now of himself at all, he had danced himself that night -into a new world. -</p> - -<p> -In the market-place he had to pause for breath. He had run all the way -down the High Street, meeting no one as he went; he had already had -considerable exercise that evening, and he was in no very fine condition -of training. The market-place was quiet enough, only a few stragglers -about; the Town Hall clock told him it was twenty-eight minutes to -eleven. -</p> - -<p> -He started up the hill, he arrived breathless at the hotel gates, the -sweat pouring down his face. He stopped and tried to arrange himself a -little. It would be a funny thing coming in upon them all with his tie -undone and lines of sweat running down his face. But, after all, he -could make the dance account for a good deal. He pushed his stud through -the two ends of his collar and pulled his tie up, finding it difficult -to use his hands because they were so hot, wiped his face with his -handkerchief, pushed his cap straight on his head. -</p> - -<p> -His face wore an expression of grim seriousness as though he were indeed -Sir George off to rescue his Princess from the Dragon. -</p> - -<p> -His heart gave a jump of relief when he saw that the Dragon was still -there, standing quite unconcernedly in the main hall of the hotel, his -son and daughter-in-law quietly beside him. Harkness's first thought at -view of him was that Dunbar's story was built up of imagination. The -little man was standing, a soft felt hat tilted a little on one side of -his head, a dark thin overcoat covering his evening clothes. Because his -hair was covered and his face shaded there was nothing about him that -was at all startling or highly coloured. He simply looked to be a nice -plump little English gentleman who was waiting, a smile on his face, for -his car to arrive that it might take him home. Nor was there anything in -the least exceptional in the pair that stood beside him, the man, thin, -dark, immobile; the girl, her head a little bent, a soft white wrap over -her shoulders, her hands at her side. At once it flashed into Harkness's -brain that all the scene with Dunbar had been imagined; there had been -no "Feathered Duck," no melodramatic story of madness and tyranny, no -twopence-coloured plan for a midnight rescue. -</p> - -<p> -He was about to drive a mile or two to see some beautiful things, to -smoke a good cigar and drink some admirable brandy—then to retire and -sleep the sleep of the divinely worthy. -</p> - -<p> -The girl raised her head. Her eyes met his, and he knew that whatever -else was true or false his love for her was certain and resolved. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin looked extremely pleased to see him. He came towards him smiling -and holding out his hand: -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Mr. Harkness, this is splendid," he said. "We were just wondering -what we should do about you. We were giving you up." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness was conscious that, in spite of his attempts outside, he was -still in considerable disorder. He fingered his collar nervously: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry," he began. "But I'm so glad that I've caught you after all." -</p> - -<p> -"Were the revels in the town amusing?" Crispin asked. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness had a sudden impulse, whence he knew not, to make the younger -Crispin speak. -</p> - -<p> -"Why didn't you come down?" he asked. "You'd have enjoyed it." -</p> - -<p> -The man was astonished at being addressed. He sprang into sudden life -like any Jack-in-the-Box: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh I," he said, "I had to go with my father, you know—yes, to see -some old friends." -</p> - -<p> -He was looking at Harkness as though he were wondering why, exactly, he -had done that. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you still willing to come and see my few things?" Crispin asked. -"It's only half-an-hour's drive and my car will bring you back." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be delighted to come," Harkness said quickly. "I would have -been deeply disappointed if I had missed you. But you must not think of -sending me back. I shall enjoy the walk greatly." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, of course not!" said Crispin. "Walk back at that time of the -night! I couldn't allow it for a moment." -</p> - -<p> -"But I assure you," Harkness pressed, laughing, "I infinitely prefer it. -You probably imagine that Americans never move a step unless they have a -car to carry them. Not in my case. I won't come if I feel that during -every minute that I am with you I am keeping your chauffeur up." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, well—all right," said Crispin, laughing. "Have it your own -way. You're a very obstinate fellow. Perhaps you will change your mind -when the time really arrives." -</p> - -<p> -They moved out to the doorway, then into the car. Mrs. Crispin sat in -one corner. Harkness was about to pull up the seat opposite, but Crispin -said: -</p> - -<p> -"No, no. Plenty of room on the back for three of us. Herrick doesn't -mind the other seat. He's used to it." -</p> - -<p> -They sat down. Harkness between the elder Crispin and the girl. The -night was black beyond their windows. Crispin pressed the button. The -interior of the car was at once in darkness, and instantly the night was -no longer black but purple and threaded with wisps of grey lavender that -seemed to hold in their spider filigree all the loaded scent of the -summer evening. Again, as the car turned into the long ribbon of the -dark road. Harkness was conscious through the open window of the smell -of innumerable roses, the late evening smell when the heat of the day is -over and the flowers are grateful. -</p> - -<p> -Then a curious thing happened. Through the darkness, Harkness felt one -of the fingers of Crispin's left hand creeping like an insect about his -knee. They were sitting very closely together inside the car's -enclosure. Harkness was conscious that Hesther Crispin was pressed, -almost crouching, against the corner of the car, and although the stuff -of her dress touched him he was aware that she was striving desperately -that he should not be aware of her proximity, and then directly after -that, of why she was so striving—it was because she was -shivering—shivering in little spasms and tremors that shook her from -head to foot—and she was wishing that he should not realise this. -</p> - -<p> -And even as he caught from her the consciousness of her trembling, at -the same moment he was aware of the pressing of Crispin's finger upon -his knee. He was so close to Crispin, and his leg was pushed so firmly -against Crispin's leg, that this movement might have been accidental had -Crispin's whole hand rested there. But there was only the finger, and -soon it began its movement, staying for an instant, pressing through the -cloth on to the bone of the knee, then moving very slowly up the thigh, -the sharp finger-nail suddenly pushing more firmly into the flesh, then -the finger relaxing again and making only a faint tickling creeping -suggestion of a pressure. Half-way up the thigh it stopped; for an -instant the whole hand, soft, warm and boneless, rested on the stuff of -Harkness's trousers, then withdrew, and the fingers, like a cautious -animal, moved on. -</p> - -<p> -When Harkness was first conscious of this he tried to move his knee, but -he was so tightly wedged in that he could not stir. Then he could not -move for another reason, that he was transfixed with apprehension. It -was exactly as though a gigantic hand had slipped forward and enclosed -him in its grasp, congealing him there, stiffening him into helpless -clay—and this was the apprehension of immediate physical pain. -</p> - -<p> -He had known all his days that he was a coward about physical pain, and -that was always the form of human experience that he had shrunk from -observing, compelling himself sometimes because he so deeply hated his -cowardice, to notice, to listen, but suffering after these contacts -acute physical reactions. Only once or twice in his life had pain -actually come to him. He did not mind it so deeply were it part of -illness or natural causes, but the deliberate anticipation of it—the -doctor's "Now look out; I am going to hurt," the dentist's "I may give -you a twinge for a moment," these things froze him with terror. During -the war, when he had offered his service, this was the thing that from -the clammy darkness of the night leapt out upon him. He had done his -utmost to serve at the front, and it was in no way his own fault when he -was given clerical work at home. He had tried again and again, but his -poor sight, his absurd inside that was always wrong in one fashion or -another, these things had held him back—and behind it all was there -not a faint ring of relief, something that he dared not face lest it should -reveal itself as cowardice? There had been times at the dentist's and -one operation. That operation had been a slight one, but it had involved -for several weeks the withdrawing of tubes and the probing with bright -shining instruments. Every morning for several hours before this -withdrawing and probing he lay panting in bed, the beads of sweat -gathering on his forehead, his hands clutching and unclutching, saying -to himself that he did not care, that he was above it, beyond it . . . -but closer and closer and closer the animal came, and soon he was at his -bedside, and soon bending over him, and soon his claws were upon his -flesh and the pain would swoop down, like a cry of a discoverer, and the -voice would be sharper and sharper, the determination not to listen, not -to hear, not to feel weaker and weaker, until at length out it would -come, the defeat, the submission, the scream for pity. -</p> - -<p> -The creeping finger upon his knee had the same sudden warning of -imminent physical peril. The swiftly moving car, the silence, these things -seemed to bear in upon him the urgency of the other—that it was -no longer any game that he was playing but something of the deadliest -earnest. Once again the soft hand closed upon his thigh, then the finger -once more like a creeping animal felt its way. His body was responsive -from head to foot. He was all tingling with apprehension. His hand -resting firmly on his other knee began to tremble. Why was he in this -affair at all? If Crispin were mad, as Dunbar declared, what was to stop -him from taking any revenge he pleased on those who interfered with him? -</p> - -<p> -The tale was no longer one of pleasant romantic colour, the rescuing of -a distressed damsel from an enchanted castle, but rather something quite -real and definite, as real as the car in which they were sitting or the -clothes that they were wearing. He, suddenly feeling that he could -endure it no longer—in another moment he would have cried out -aloud—jerked his knee upwards. The hand vanished, and at the same -moment Crispin's voice said: "We are almost there. We are going through -the gates now." -</p> - -<p> -Lamps flashed upon their faces and Crispin's eyes seemed to have -vanished into his fat white face. He had, in that sudden illumination, -the most curious effect of blindness. His lids were closed over his -eyes, lying like little pieces of pale yellow parchment under the faint -red eyelashes. -</p> - -<p> -"Here we are!" he cried. "Out you get, Herrick." And as Harkness stepped -out of the car something deep within him whispered: "I am going to be -hurt. Pain is coming——" -</p> - -<p> -Before him swung a cavern of light. It swung because on his stepping -from the car he was dizzy, dizzy with a kind of poignant thick scent in -the soul's nostrils, deep deep down as though he were at the edge of -being spiritually anæsthetised. He paused for a moment looking back -into the night piled up behind him. -</p> - -<p> -Then he walked in. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>X</h4> - -<p> -It was an old house. The long hall was panelled and hung with the heads -of animals. A torn banner of faded red and yellow with long tassels of -gold hung above the stone fireplace. The floor was of stone, and some -dim rugs of uncertain colour lay like splashes of damp here and there. -The first thing of which he was aware was that a strong cold draught -blew through the hall. It seemed to come from a wide oak staircase on -his right. There were no portraits on the panelled walls. The house gave -a deep sense of emptiness. Two Japanese servants, short, slim, immobile, -their hair gleaming black, their faces impassive, waited. The outer door -closed. The banner fluttered, the only movement in the house. -</p> - -<p> -"Come in here, Mr. Harkness," Crispin said. "It is more comfortable." -</p> - -<p> -His little figure moved forward. Harkness followed him, but he had had -one moment with the girl as he entered the hall. The two Crispins had -been for an instant back by the car. He had said, his lips scarcely -moving: -</p> - -<p> -"I gave him the message. He is coming," and she had answered without -turning her head or looking at him: "Thank you." -</p> - -<p> -Only as he walked after Crispin he wondered whether the Japanese could -have understood. No. He was sure that no one could have heard those -words, but he turned before leaving the hall, and he had a strange -impression of the bare, empty, faded place, the staircase running darkly -up into mystery, and the four figures, the two servants, Hesther and the -younger Crispin, at that moment immobile, waiting as though they were -listening—and for what? -</p> - -<p> -The room into which Crispin led him was even shabbier than the hall. It -was a large ugly place with dim cherry-coloured paper, and a great glass -candelabrum suspended from the ceiling. The walls had, it seemed, once -been covered with pictures of all shapes and sizes, because the -wall-paper showed everywhere pale yellow squares and ovals and lozenges -of colour where the frames had been. The wall-paper had indeed leprosy, -and although there were still some pictures—a large Landseer, an -engraving of a Millais, a shabby oil painting of a green and windy -sea—it was these strange sea-sick evidences of a vanished hand that -invaded the air. -</p> - -<p> -There was very little furniture in the place, two shabby armchairs, a -round shining table, a green sofa. The draught that had swept the hall -crept here, now come now gone, stealing on hands and feet from corner to -corner. -</p> - -<p> -"You see," said Crispin, standing beside the empty fireplace, "I am here -but little. I have pulled down the pictures from the walls and then left -it all shabby. I enjoy the contrast." At the far end of the room were -long oak cupboards. Crispin went to them and pulled back the heavy -doors, and instantly in the shabby place there were blazing such -treasures as Harkness had never set eyes on before. -</p> - -<p> -Not very many as numbers went—some dozen shelves in all—but -gleaming, glittering, shining, flinging out their flashes of purple and -amber and gold, here crystalline, now deeply wine-coloured, pink with -the petals of the rose, white with the purity of the rising moon. There -was jewelry here that seemed to move with its own independent life -before Harkness's eyes—Jaipur enamel of transparent red and green, -lovely patterns with thick long strips of enamel on a ground of bright -gold, over which, while still soft from the furnace, an open-work -pattern of gold had been pressed; large rough turquoises set in silver; -Chinese work of carved ivory and jade, cap ornaments exquisitely worked, -a cap of a Chinese emperor with its embroidered gold dragon and its -crown of pearls. Then the inlaid Chinese feather work, and at the sight -of these tears of pleasure came into Harkness's eyes, cells made as -though for cloisonné enamel, and into these are daintily affixed tiny -fragments of king-fisher feather. Colours of blue, green and mauve here -blend and tone one into another miraculously, and the effect of all is a -glittering sheen of gold and blue. There was one tiny fish, barely half -an inch long, and here there were thirty cells on the body, each with -its separate piece of feather. Chinese enamel buttons and clasps, -nail-guards beautifully ornamented, Japanese hair combs marvellously -wrought in lacquer, horn, gold lac on wood, wood with ivory appliqués, -and stained ivory. -</p> - -<p> -Then the Netsukes! Had any one in the world such lovely things! With the -ivory and its colour richly toned with age, the metal ones showing a -glorious patina. The sword guards—made of various metals and alloys -and gold and silver, the metal so beautifully finished that it had the rich -texture of old lace. -</p> - -<p> -There was then the Renaissance jewelry, pieces lying like fragments of -sky, of peach tree in bloom, of cherry and apple, a lovely pendant -parrot enamelled in natural colours, a beautiful ship pendant of -Venetian workmanship, an Italian earring formed of a large irregular -pear-shaped pearl, in a gold setting a Cinquecento jewel—an emerald -lizard set with a baroque pearl holding an emerald in its mouth. -</p> - -<p> -Eighteenth-century glory. Gold studs with little skeletons on silk, -covered with glass and set in gold. Initials of fine gold with a ground -of plaited hair, this edged with blue and covered with faceted glass on -crystal and the border of garnets. A pair of earrings, paintings in -gouache mounted in gold. A brooch set with garnets. A French vinaigrette -enamelled in panels of green on a gold and white ground. -</p> - -<p> -Loveliest of anything yet seen, a sixteenth-century cameo portrait of -Lucius Verius cut in a dark onyx. The enamel was green with little white -"peas" and small diamonds were set in each pod. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah this!" said Harkness, holding it in his hand. "This is exquisite!" -</p> - -<p> -But Crispin was restless. The eyes closed, the short body moved to -another part of the room leaving all the treasures carelessly exposed -behind him. "That is enough," he said—"enough of those, I bore you. -And now," turning aside with a deprecatory child-like smile, as though he -had been exhibiting his doll's house, "you must see the prints." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness turning back to the room saw it as even shabbier than before. -It was lit by candle-light, and in the centre of the round shining table -there were four tall amber-coloured candlesticks that threw around them -a flickering colour as the draught ruffled their power. To this table -Crispin drew two chairs. Then he went to a handsome old oak cabinet -carved stiffly with flowers and fruit. He stayed looking with a long -lingering glance at the drawers, then sharply up at Harkness. Seen there -in the mellow light, with the coloured glory of the open cabinets dimly -shining in the far room, with the pleasant timid smile that a collector -wears when he is approaching his beloved friends, he might have stood to -Rembrandt for another "Jan Six," short and stumpy though he be. -</p> - -<p> -"Now what will you have? Dürer, Whistlers, Little Masters, Meryons, -Dutch seventeenth century, Callot, Hollar? What you will. . . . No, you -shall have only a few, and those not the most celebrated but perhaps the -best loved. Now, here's for your pleasure. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He came to the table bearing carefully, reverentially, his treasures. He -set them down. From one after another he withdrew the paper, there -gleaming between the stiff white shining mats they breathed, they lived, -they smiled. There was the Rembrandt "Landscape with a flock of sheep," -there the Muirhead Bone "Orvieto," the Hollar "Seasons," Callot's -"Passion," Meryon's "College Henri Quatre," Paul Potter's "Two Horses," -a seascape of Zeeman, Cotman's "Windmill," Bracquemond's "Teal -Alighting," a seascape of Moreau, and Aldegrever's "Labour of Hercules" -to close the list. Not more than thirty in all, but living there on the -table with their personal glow spontaneity. He bent over them caressing -them, fondling them, smiling at them. Harkness drew near and, looking at -the tender wistfulness of the two old Potter's horses, bravely living -out there the last days of their broken forgotten lives, he felt a -sudden friendliness to all the world, a reassurance, a comfort. -</p> - -<p> -Those glittering jewelled things had had at their heart a warning, an -alarm; but no one, he was suddenly aware, who cared for these prints -could be bad. There are no things in the world so kindly, so simple, so -warm in their humanity. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The little man was near to him. He put his hand on his knee. -</p> - -<p> -"They are fine, eh? They know you, recognise you. They are alive, eh?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, smiling. "They are the most friendly things in -art." -</p> - -<p> -The door opened and one of the Japanese servants came in with liqueurs. -They were put on the table close to Harkness, and soon he was drinking -the most wonderful brandy that it had ever been his happy fortune to -encounter. -</p> - -<p> -He was warm, cosy, quite unalarmed. The prints smiled at him, the dim -room received him as a friend. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin was talking, leaning back now from the table, his fat body -hugged up like a cushion into his chair. -</p> - -<p> -His red hair stood, flaming, on end. Harkness was, at first, only -vaguely conscious that Crispin was speaking, then the words began to -gather about him, to force their way in upon his brain; then, as the -monologue continued, his comfort, his cosiness, his sense of security -slowly slipped from him. His eyes passed from the "Two Horses" to the -high sharp cliffs of the "Orvieto," to the thick naked Hercules of the -Aldegrever. Then, he was aware that he was frightened, as he had been on -the road, in the hotel, in the car. Then, with a flash of awareness, -like the sharp contact with unexpected steel, he was on his guard as -though he were standing alone with his back to the wall against an army -of terrors. -</p> - -<p> -". . . And so as I like you so much, dear Mr. Harkness, I feel that I -can talk to you freely about these things and that you will understand. -That has always been my trouble—that I have not been understood -sufficiently, and if now I go my own way and have my own fashion of -dealing with life I am sure that it is comprehensible enough. -</p> - -<p> -"I was a very lonely child, Mr. Harkness, and mocked at by every one who -saw me. No, I have not been understood sufficiently. The colour of my -hair has been a barrier. I realise that I am, and always have been, -absurd in appearance, and from the very earliest age I was aware that I -was different from other human beings and must pursue another course -from theirs. I make no complaint about that, but it justifies, I think, -my later conduct." -</p> - -<p> -Here, as though some wire had sprung taut inside him he sat forward -upright in his chair, staring with his little pale eyes at Harkness, and -it was now that Harkness was abruptly aware of his conversation. -</p> - -<p> -"I am not boring you, I trust, but I have taken a sympathetic liking to -you, and it may interest you to understand my somewhat unusual -philosophy of life. -</p> - -<p> -"My mother died when I was very young. My father was a surgeon, a very -wealthy man, money inherited from an uncle. He was a strange man, -peculiar, odd. Cruel to me. Very cruel to me. He hated the sight of me, -and told me once that it was a continual temptation to him to lay hands -on me and cut my heart out—to see, in fact, whether I had a heart. He -liked to torment and tease me, as indeed did every one else. I am not -telling you these things, Mr. Harkness, to rouse your pity, but rather -that you should understand exactly the point at which I have arrived." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, dragging his eyes with strange difficulty from the -pursed white face, the red hair, and glancing about the dim faded room -and the farther spaces where the jewels flashed in the candle-light. -</p> - -<p> -"Many people would have called my father insane, did not hesitate to do -so. He was a large, extremely powerful man, given to violent tempers. -But, after all, what is insanity? There are cases—many I -suppose—where the brain breaks down and is unable to perform any -longer its ordinary functions, but in most cases insanity is only the -name given by envious persons to those who have strength of character -enough to realise their own ideas regardless of public opinion. Such was -my father. He cared nothing for public opinion. We led a strange life, -he and I, in a big black house in Bloomsbury. Yes, black, that's how it -was. I went to Westminster School, and they all mocked me, my hair, my -body, my difference. Yes, my difference. I was different from them all, -different from my father, different from all the world. And I was glad -that I was different. I hugged my difference. Different. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He lent forward, tapped Harkness's knee with his hand, staring into his -face. -</p> - -<p> -"Different, Mr. Harkness, different. Different. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -And the long draughty room echoed "Different . . . different . . . -different." -</p> - -<p> -"My father beat me one night terribly, beat me so that I could not move -for pain. For no reason, simply because, he said, he wished that I -should understand life, and first to understand life one must learn to -suffer pain, and that then, if one could suffer pain enough, one could -be as God—perhaps greater than God. -</p> - -<p> -"It was to that night in the Bloomsbury house that I owe everything. I -was fifteen years of age. He stripped me naked and made me bleed. It was -terribly cold, and I came in that bare room right into the very heart of -life, into the heart of the heart, where the true meaning is at last -revealed—and the true meaning——" -</p> - -<p> -He broke off suddenly, then whispered: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you believe in God, Mr. Harkness?" and the draught went whispering -on hands and feet round the room, "Do you believe in God, Mr. Harkness?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Crispin, in his lovely melodious voice; "but in a good God, -a sweet God, a kind beneficent God. That is no God. God is first cruel, -terrible, lashing, punishing. Then when He has punished enough, and the -victim is in His power, bleeding at His feet, owning Him as Lord and -Master, then He bends down and lifts the wounded brow and kisses the -torn mouth, and in His heart there is a great and mighty triumph. . . . -Even so will I do, even so will I be . . . and greater than God -Himself!" -</p> - -<p> -There was silence in the room. Then he curled up in his chair as he had -done before, and went on with his friendly air: -</p> - -<p> -"Dear Mr. Harkness, it is good indeed of you to listen to me so -patiently. Tell me at once when I bore you. My father died when I was -seventeen and left me all his wealth. He died in a Turkish bath very -suddenly—ill-temper with some casual masseur, I fancy. -</p> - -<p> -"I realised that I had a power. The realisation was very satisfactory to -me. I married and during the three years of my married life I collected -most of the things that I have shown you this evening. I married a woman -whom I was unfortunately unable to make happy. She could have been -happy, I am sure, could she have only understood, a little, the -philosophy that my father had taught me. My father was a very remarkable -man, Mr. Harkness, as perhaps you have perceived, and he had, as I have -told you, shown me the real meaning of this strange life in which we are -forced, against our wills, to take part. It was foolish of my wife not -to benefit by this knowledge. But she did not, and died sooner than I -had anticipated, leaving me one child. -</p> - -<p> -"A widower's life is not a happy one, and you will have undoubtedly -perceived how many widowers marry again." -</p> - -<p> -He paused as though he expected some comment, so Harkness said yes, that -he had perceived it. Crispin sat forward looking at him inquisitively, -and making, with his fingers, a kind of pattern in the air as though he -were tracing there a bar of music. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I did not marry again, but rather gave myself up to the -continuation of my father's philosophy. The philosophy of pain as -related to power one might perhaps term it. God—of whose existence no -thinking man can truly permit himself to doubt—have you ever thought, -Mr. Harkness, that the whole of His power is derived from the pain that -He inflicts upon those less powerful than Himself? We conceive of Him as -a beneficent Being, and from that it follows that He must have -determined that pain is, from Him, our greatest beneficence. It is -plainly for our good that He torments us. Should not then we, in our -turn, realising that pain is our greatest happiness, seek, ourselves, -for more pain, and also teach our fellow human beings that it is only -<i>through</i> pain that we can reach the true heart and meaning of life? -Through Pain we reach Power. -</p> - -<p> -"I test you with pain, and as you overcome the pain so do you climb up -beside me, who have also overcome it, and we are in time as gods knowing -good and evil. . . . A concrete case, Mr. Harkness. I slash your face -with a knife. You are so powerful that you take the pain, twist it in -your hand and throw it away. You rise up to me, and suddenly I, who have -inflicted the pain on you, love you because you have taken my power over -you and used it for your soul's advantage." -</p> - -<p> -"And do I love you because you have slashed my face?" asked Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin's eyes narrowed. He put out his hand and laid it on Harkness's -knee. -</p> - -<p> -"We would have to see," Crispin murmured. "We would have to see. I -wonder—I wonder...." -</p> - -<p> -They were silent. Harkness's body was cold, but the room was very hot. -The candles seemed to throw out a metallic radiant heat. Harkness moved -his knee. -</p> - -<p> -"It would not do to prove your theory too frequently," he said at last. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, of course it would not. It is, you understand, only a theory -that I have inherited from my father. Yes. But I will confess that when -an individuality comes close to me and remains entirely outside my -influence I am tempted to wonder. . . . Well, to speculate. . . . I like -to see how far one personality <i>will</i> surrender to another. It is -interesting—simply as a speculation. For instance, you have noticed -my daughter-in-law?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, "I have. A charming girl." -</p> - -<p> -"Charming. Exactly. But independent, refusing to make the most of the -advantages that are open to her. Like my poor late wife, for instance. -Unfortunate, because she is young and might benefit so much from my -older and more experienced brain. -</p> - -<p> -"But she refuses to come under my influence, remains severely outside -it. Now, my son is almost too willing to understand my meaning. Were I -to plunge a knife into his arm no blood would flow. I am speaking -metaphorically of course. After a very slight training in his early -youth he was all that I could wish. But too submissive—oh yes, -altogether too submissive. -</p> - -<p> -"His wife's independence, however, is quite of another kind. It might -almost seem as though during these last weeks she had taken a dislike -both to myself and my son. However, she is very young and a little time -will alter that, I have no doubt. Especially as we shall be in foreign -countries and to some extent alone by ourselves." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness pressed his hands tightly together. A little shiver ran, as -though it responded to the draught that blew through the room, up and -down his body. He was anxious that Crispin should not notice that he was -shivering. -</p> - -<p> -"Have you any idea where you will go?" he asked—and his voice sounded -strangely unlike his own, as though some third person were in the room -and speaking just behind him. -</p> - -<p> -"We have no idea," said Crispin, smiling. "That will depend on many -things. On Mrs. Crispin herself of course amongst others. A young wife -must not show too complete an independence. After all, there are others -whose feelings must be considered——" He was smiling as it were -to himself and as though his thoughts were pleasant ones. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly he sprang up and began to walk the room. The effect on Harkness -was strange—it was as though he were suddenly shut in there with an -animal. So often in zoological gardens he had seen that haunting -monotonous movement, that encounter with the bars of the cage and the -indifferent acceptance of their inevitability, indifferent only because -of endless repetition. Crispin, padding now up and down the long room, -reminded Harkness of one of the smaller animals, the little jaguars, the -half-wolf, half-fox; his head forward, his hands crossed behind his -short thick back, his eyes, restless now, moving here, there about the -room, his movements soft, almost furtive, every instinct towards escape. -As he moved in the room half-clouded with light, the soft resolute step -pervaded Harkness's sense, and soon the thick confined scent of a caged -animal seemed to creep up to his nostrils and linger there. -</p> - -<p> -Furry—captive—danger hanging behind the plodding step, so that -if a sudden release were to come. . . . And he sat there fixed in his seat -as though nailed to it while the sweet voice continued: "And so, my dear -Mr. Harkness, I have devoted my later years to the solution of this -problem. -</p> - -<p> -"I feel, if I may say so, without too much arrogance, that I am -intending to help poor human nature along the road to a better -understanding of life. Poor, muddled human nature. Defeated always by -Fear. Yes, Fear. And if they have surmounted Pain and stand with their -foot on its body, what remains? It is gone, vanished. I myself am -increasing my power every day. First one, then another. First through -Pain. Then through Love. I love all the world, yes, everything in it, -but first it must be taught, and it is so reluctant—so strangely -reluctant—to receive its teaching. And I myself suffer because I am -too tender-hearted. I should myself be superior to the suffering of others -because I know how good it is for them to suffer. But I am not. Alas, -no. It is only where my indignation is aroused, and aroused justly, that -I can conquer my tenderness, and then—well then . . . I can make my -important experiments. My daughter-in-law, for instance. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He paused, not far from Harkness, and once again his hands made a -curious motion in the air as though he were transcribing a bar of music. -He stepped close to Harkness. His breath, scented curiously with a faint -odour of orange, was in Harkness's face. He leaned forward, his hands -were on Harkness's shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -"For instance, I have taken a fancy to you, my friend. A real fancy. I -liked you from the first moment that I saw you. I don't know when, so -suddenly, I have taken a fancy to any one. But to care for you deeply, -first—yes, first—I would show you the meaning of pain. . . ." -Here his body suddenly quivered from the feet to the head. ". . . And I -could not, liking you so much, do that unless you were seriously to annoy -me, interfere in any way with my simple plans"—the hands pressed -deeply into the shoulders—"yes, only then could we come really to -know one another . . . after such a crisis what friends we might be, -sharing our power together! What friends! Dear me! Dear me!" -</p> - -<p> -He moved away, turning to the table, looking down on the prints that -were spread out there. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, yes, I could show you then my power." His voice vibrated with -sudden excitement. "You think me absurd. Yes, yes, you do. You do. Don't -deny it now. As though I couldn't perceive it. Do you think me so -stupid? Absurd, with my ridiculous hair, my ugly body. Oh! I know! You -can't hide it from me. You laugh like the rest. Secretly, you laugh. You -are smiling behind your hand. Well, smile then, but how foolish of you -to be so taken in by physical appearances. Do you know my power? Do you -know what I could do to you now by merely clapping my hands? -</p> - -<p> -"If my fingers were at your throat, at your breast, and you could not -move but must wait my wish, my plan for you, would you think me then so -absurd, my figure, my hair, ridiculous? You would be as though in the -hands of a god. I should be as a god to you to do with you what I -wished. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"What is there that is so beautiful that I, ugly as I am, cannot do as I -wish with it? This——" Suddenly he took up the "Orvieto" and -held it forward under the candle-light. "This is one of the most -beautiful things of its kind that man has ever made, and I—am I -not one of the ugliest human beings at whom men laugh?—well, would -you see my power over it? I have it in my hands. It is mine. It is mine. -I can destroy it in one instant——" -</p> - -<p> -The beautiful thing shook in his hand. To Harkness it seemed suddenly to -be endued with a human vitality. He saw it—the high sharp razor-edged -rocks, the town so confidingly resting on that strength, all the daily -life at the foot, the oxen, the peasants, the lovely flame-like trees, -the shining reaches of valley beyond, all radiating the heat of that -Italian summer. -</p> - -<p> -He sprang to his feet. "Don't touch it!" he cried. "Leave it! Leave it!" -</p> - -<p> -Crispin tore it into a thousand pieces, wrenching it, snapping at it -with his fingers like an animal. The pieces flaked the air. A white -shower circled in the candle-light then scattered about the table, about -the floor. -</p> - -<p> -Something died. -</p> - -<p> -A clock somewhere struck half-past twelve. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin moved from the table. Very gently, almost beseechingly, he -looked into Harkness's face. -</p> - -<p> -"Forgive me my little game," he said. "It is all part of my theory. To -be above these things, you know. What would happen to me if I -surrendered to all that beauty?" -</p> - -<p> -The eyes that looked into Harkness's face were pathetic, caged, wistful, -longing. And they were mad. Somewhere deep within him his soul, caught -in the wreckage of his bodily life like a human being pinned beneath a -ruined train, besought—yes, besought Harkness for deliverance. -</p> - -<p> -But he had no thought at that moment of anything but his own escape. To -flee from that room—from that room at any cost! He said something. -Crispin did not try to keep him. They moved together into the hall. -</p> - -<p> -"And you won't allow my chauffeur to drive you back?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no thank you, I shall love the walk." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, well. It has been delightful. We shall meet some day again I have -no doubt. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -Silence flooded the house. Once more Harkness's hand touched that other -soft one. The door was open. The lovely night air brushed his face, and -he had stepped into the dim star-drenched garden. The door closed. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_III">PART III: THE SEA-FOG</a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p> -In the garden the silence was like a warning, as though the night had -her finger to her lips holding back a multitude of breathing, deeply -interested spectators. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness, slipping from the path on to the lawn, felt a relief, as -though with the touch of his foot on the cool turf there had come a -freedom from imprisonment. -</p> - -<p> -The garden was so friendly, so safe, so homely in its welcome. The scent -of roses that had seemed to follow him throughout the adventures of that -queer evening came to him now as though crowding up to reassure him. The -night sky pierced with stars, but they were thick and dim seen through a -veil of mist. The trees of the garden, like serried ranks of giants in -black armour, seemed to stand, in silent attention, on every side of -him, awaiting his orders. The voice of all this world was the sea -stirring, with a sigh and a whisper, below the wall of rock. -</p> - -<p> -His first impulse as he stood on the lawn was to go away as far as he -could from that house. Yes, as far as ever he could—miles and miles -and miles—China if you like. Ah, no! That was just where that man -would be! -</p> - -<p> -He was trembling and shaking and wiping his forehead with his -handkerchief; the breeze stroked him with cool fingers. He must run for -ever to be clear of that house—and then suddenly remembered that he -must not run because he had his duty to do—and even as he remembered -that a figure stepped up to him out of the trees. He would have called -out—so wild and trembling were his nerves—had he not at once -recognized from his great size that this was Jabez the fisherman. -</p> - -<p> -He might have been an incarnation of the night with his deep black -beard, his grave kindly face, and his simple, natural quiet. He was -dressed in his fisherman's jersey and blue trousers and had no covering -on his head. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening, sir," he said. "Mr. Dunbar told me as how you'd be -wanting to be back in the house for a moment to fetch something you'd -forgotten. -</p> - -<p> -"We'd best be just stepping off the lawn, sir, if you don't mind. They -foreigners are always nosing around." -</p> - -<p> -They turned quietly off the grass and stood closely together under the -dark shadow of the house. -</p> - -<p> -"I must go back at once," said Harkness. "There's no time to lose. It -struck half-past twelve some time ago." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know nothing about that, sir," said Jabez; "I only know as how -you must be going back into the house for something you'd forgotten and -I was to let you in." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, his teeth chattering, "that's right." -</p> - -<p> -He wasn't made, in any kind of way at all, for this sort of adventure. -He had never before realised how utterly inefficient he was. And of all -absurdities to go back into the house when he was now safely out of it! -Of all Dunbar's mad plan this was the maddest part. What could he do but -be seen or heard and then rouse suspicion when it might so easily have -been undisturbed? -</p> - -<p> -Let Crispin find him groping among those dark passages and what was his -fate likely to be? There flashed into his consciousness then a sudden -suspicion of Dunbar. It might suit the boy's plans only too well that he -should be found, and so turn attention to another part of the house, -leaving the girl free. But no! There was Dunbar's own steady clear gaze -to answer him, and beyond that the certainty that Crispin's suspicions, -roused by the discovery of himself, would proceed immediately to the -girl. -</p> - -<p> -No, did he return at once, the plan was quite feasible. Seeing him there -so soon after his departure, they could do nothing but accept his -reasons, and that especially if he returned quite openly with no thought -of concealment. -</p> - -<p> -But oh how he hated to go back! He put his hand on the rough stuff of -Jabez's jersey, listened for a moment to the regular, consoling -breathing of the sea, sniffed the roses and the cool, gentle night air, -then said: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, come along, Jabez; show me how to get back." -</p> - -<p> -As they moved round to the door the thought came to him as to whether he -had given the elder Crispin and his two nasty servants time enough to -retire up to their part of the house. A difficult thing that, to hit the -precise medium between too lengthy a wait and too short. He could not -remember exactly what Dunbar had said as to that. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think I've waited long enough, Jabez?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, if you'd forgotten something, sir," said Jabez, "you'd want to be -sure of finding it before the house is sleeping. They don't bolt this -door, sir," he continued in a whisper, "because Mr. Crispin don't like -to be bolted in. His fancy. After half-past one or so one of they Japs -is around. It's just their hour like from half-past twelve to half-past -one that I have to watch this part of the house extra careful. Yes, -sir," he added as he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door -quietly open. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -The hall was very dark. From half-way up the staircase some of the -starlit evening scattered mistily through a narrow window, splintering -the boards with spars of pale milky shadow. -</p> - -<p> -A clock chattered cluck-cluck-spin-spin-cluck close to Harkness's ear. -Otherwise there was not a sound anywhere. He reflected that several -things had been forgotten in his talk with Dunbar; one that there would, -in all probability, be no light in the upper passage. How was he then to -find the younger Crispin's door, or to see whether or no there were that -piece of paper under Mrs. Crispin's? Secondly, it would be in the room -on the ground floor where he had had his strange interview with the -elder Crispin that he must see the younger, because, of course, that -gloomy creature, dumb though he appeared to be, would be at least aware -that Harkness had never ventured into the upper floor at all and could -not therefore have left his gold match-box there. On the whole, this -would be the better for Dunbar's plan, because it would lead the younger -Crispin all the farther from his wife's door. But there were, at this -point, so many dangers and difficulties, so many opportunities of -disaster, that in absolute desperation he must perforce go forward. -</p> - -<p> -He was aware that for himself now the easiest fashion would be to -persuade himself that he had indeed lost his match-box and was returning -to secure it. He hesitated on the bottom step of the stairs as though he -were wondering what he ought to do, how he might find the tiresome thing -without rousing the whole house. -</p> - -<p> -He climbed the staircase slowly, walking softly, but not too softly, -accompanied all the way by the clock that attended him like a faithful -coughing dog. At the turn of the stairs he found the passage that Dunbar -had described to him, and he was instantly relieved to find that a wide -and deep window at the far end had no curtain, and that through it the -long stretch was suffused with a pale ghostly light turning the heavy -old frames, the faded green paper, into shadow opaque. -</p> - -<p> -He hesitated, looking about him, then clearly saw the two doors that -must be those of Crispin and his wife; from under one of them, quite -clearly, a small piece of white paper obtruded. -</p> - -<p> -He waited an instant, then moved boldly forward, not trying to walk -softly, and knocked on the nearer of the two doors. There was a moment's -pause, during which the wild beating of his own heart and the friendly -chatter of the clock from downstairs seemed to strive together to break -the silence. -</p> - -<p> -The door opened abruptly, and the younger Crispin, his white horse-face -unmoved above his dark evening clothes, appeared there. -</p> - -<p> -"I really must beg your pardon," Harkness said, smiling. "A most -ridiculous thing has happened. I left the house some ten minutes ago -after wishing your father good-night, and it was only after going a -little way that I discovered that I had lost a gold match-box of mine -that was of very great value to me. I hesitated as to what I ought to -do. I guess I should have gone straight back to my hotel, but it worried -me to think of losing it. It has some very intimate connections for me. -And I knew, you see, that you were leaving early to-morrow morning—or -<i>this</i> morning as it is by this time, I fancy. So that it was now or -never for my match-box. I came back very reluctantly, I can assure you, -Mr. Crispin. I do feel this to be an intrusion. I had hoped that your -father would still be about, and that I should simply ask him to give me -a light in the room where we were sitting. In a moment I am sure that we -would find the thing. Your night porter very kindly let me in, but -although I had only been gone ten minutes the house was dark and there -was no one about. I would have left again, but I tell you frankly I -couldn't bear to leave the thing. I saw a light behind your door, and -knew that some one at any rate had not gone to bed. The whole thing has -been unpardonable. But just lend me a candle, and in five minutes I -shall have found it." -</p> - -<p> -"I will go down with you myself," said Crispin, staring at Harkness as -though he had never seen him before. -</p> - -<p> -"That's mighty fine of you. Thank you." -</p> - -<p> -But still Crispin did not move, his eyes fixed on Harkness's face. The -eyes moved. They fell, and it seemed to Harkness that they were staring -at the small piece of paper underneath the next door. Crispin looked, -then without another word went back into his room, closing the door -behind him. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness's heart stopped; the floor pitched and heaved beneath his feet. -It was all over already, then: young Crispin was now in his wife's room, -had discovered her, in all probability, in the very act of escaping. In -another moment the house would be aroused. -</p> - -<p> -He prepared himself for what might come, standing back against the wall, -his hands spread palm-wise against the paper as though he would hold -himself up. -</p> - -<p> -Truly he was shaking at the knees: he could see nothing, only that -possibility of being once again in the presence of the elder Crispin, of -hearing again that sweet voice, of feeling once more the touch of those -boneless fingers, of seeing for another time those mad beseeching eyes. -His tongue was dry in his throat. Yes, he was afraid, more utterly -afraid than he would have fancied it possible for a grown man ever to -be. . . . -</p> - -<p> -The door opened. Crispin appeared holding in his hand a lighted candle. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, let us go down," he said quietly. -</p> - -<p> -The relief was so great that Harkness began to babble, "You have no -idea . . . the trouble I am causing you. . . . At this late -hour. . . . What must you think . . .?" -</p> - -<p> -The young man said nothing. Harkness meekly followed, the candle-light -splashing the walls and floor with its wavering shadows. Their heads -were gigantic on the faded wall-paper, and Harkness had a sudden fancy -that the shadows here were the realities and he a mist. The younger -Crispin gave that sense of unreality. -</p> - -<p> -A kind of weariness went with him as though he were the personification -of a strangled yawn. And yet beneath the weariness and indifference -there was a flame burning. One realised it in that strange absorbed -stare of the eyes, in a kind of determination in the movements, in a -concentrated indifference to any motive of life but the intended one. -Harkness was to realise this with a start of alarmed surprise when, once -more in the long shabby room lit only by the light of one uncertain -candle, young Crispin turned upon him and shot out at him in his harsh -rasping voice: -</p> - -<p> -"What are you here for?" -</p> - -<p> -They were standing one on either side of the table, and between them on -the floor were the white scattered fragments of the torn "Orvieto." -</p> - -<p> -"I told you," said Harkness. "I left my match-box. I won't keep you a -moment if you'll allow me to take that candle——" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," said the other impatiently, "I don't mean that. What do I care -for your match-box? You are worrying my father. I must beg you, very -seriously, never to come near him again." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed," said Harkness, laughing, "I don't understand you. How could I -worry your father? I have never seen him in my life before this evening. -He invited me out here for an hour's chat. I am going now. He is leaving -for abroad to-morrow. I don't suppose that we shall ever meet again. -Please allow me just to find my match-box and go." -</p> - -<p> -But Crispin had apparently heard nothing. He stood, his hand tapping the -table. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't wish to appear rude, Mr.—Mr.——" -</p> - -<p> -"Harkness is my name," Harkness said. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon. I didn't catch it when my father introduced me this -evening. I don't want to seem offensive in any way. I simply thought -this a good opportunity for a few words that may help you to understand -the situation. -</p> - -<p> -"My father is my chief care, Mr. Harkness. He is everything to me in the -world. He has no one to look after him but myself. He is, as you must -have seen, very nervous and susceptible to different personalities. I -could see at once to-night that your personality is one that would have -a very disturbing effect on him. He does not recognise these things -himself, and so I have to protect him. I beg you to leave him alone." -</p> - -<p> -"But really," Harkness cried, "the boot's on the other leg. Your father -has been very charming in showing me his lovely things, but it was he -who sought me out, not I him. I haven't the least desire to push my -acquaintance with him, or indeed with yourself, any further." -</p> - -<p> -Crispin's cold eyes regarded Harkness steadily, then he moved round the -table until he was close beside him. -</p> - -<p> -"I will tell you something, Mr.—ah—Harkness—something -that probably you do not know. There have been one or two persons as -foolish and interfering as to suggest that my father is not in complete -control of his faculties, even that he is dangerous to the public peace. -My father is an original mind. There is no one like him in this whole -world, no one who has the good of the human race at heart as he has. He -goes his own way, and at times has pursued certain experiments that were -necessary for the development of his general plan. He was the judge of -their true necessity and he has had the courage of his -opinions—hence the inquisitive meddlesomeness of certain people." -He paused, then added: -</p> - -<p> -"If you have come here with any idea, Mr.—Mr.—Harkness, of -interfering with my father's liberty, I warn you that one visit is enough. -It will be dangerous for you to make another." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness's temper, so seldom at his command when he needed it, now -happily flamed up. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Crispin?" he asked. "It looks mighty -like it. Let me tell you once again, and really now for the last time, -that I am an American travelling for pleasure in Cornwall, that I had -never heard of your father before this evening, that he spoke to me -first and asked me to dine with him, and that he invited me here. I am -not in the habit of spying on anybody. I would be greatly obliged if you -would allow me to look for my match-box and depart. I am not likely to -disturb you again." -</p> - -<p> -But this show of force did not disturb young Crispin in the least. He -stood there as though he were a wax model for evening clothes in a -tailor's window, his black hair had just that wig-like sleekness, his -face that waxen pallor, his body that wooden patience. -</p> - -<p> -"My father is everything to me," he said simply. "If my father died I -should die too. Life would simply come to an end for me. I am of no -importance to my father. He is frequently irritated by my stupidity. That -is natural—but I am there to protect him, and protect him I will. -We have been really driven from place to place, Mr. Harkness, during the -last year by the ridiculous ignorant superstitions of local gossip. -Great men always seem odd to their inferiors, and my father seems odd to -a number of people, but I warn them all that any spying, asking of -questions, and the like, is dangerous. We know how to protect -ourselves." -</p> - -<p> -His eyes suddenly fell on the fragments of the "Orvieto." He bent down -and picked some of them up. A look of true human anxiety and distress -crept into his queer fish-like eyes that gave him a new air and colour. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh dear! oh dear!" he said. "Did he do this while you were with him?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Harkness, "he did." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! it was one of his favourites. He must have been in great distress. -This only confirms what I said to you just now about disturbing him. I -beg you to go—now, at once, immediately—and never, never -return. It is so bad for my father to be disturbed. He has so excitable -a temperament. Please, please leave at once——" -</p> - -<p> -"But my match-box," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Give me your London address. I promise you that it shall be forwarded -to you." He held the candle high and swept the room with it, the sudden -shadows playing on the walls, like a troop of dancing scarecrows. "You -don't see it anywhere?" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked about him, then up at the face of the chattering clock. -Time enough had elapsed. She was safe away by now. -</p> - -<p> -"Very well, then," he said. "I will give you my address. Here is my -card." -</p> - -<p> -Young Crispin, who seemed in great agitation and, under this emotion, a -new and different human being from anything that Harkness had believed -to be possible, took the card, and with the candle moved into the hall. -</p> - -<p> -He turned the key, opened the door, and the night air rushed in blowing -the flame. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish you good-night," he said, holding out his hand. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness touched it—it was cold and hard—bowed, said: "I must -apologise again for disturbing you. I would only reassure you that it is -for the last time." -</p> - -<p> -Both bowed. The door closed, and Harkness was once again in the garden. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Jabez was waiting for him. They were both in the shadow; beyond them the -lawn was scattered with star-dust mist as though sewn with immortal -daisies; the stars above were veiled. The world was so still that it -seemed to march forward with the rhythm of the sea, that could be heard -stamping now like a whole army of marching men. -</p> - -<p> -"They are waiting for you, sir," Jabez whispered. "I was terrible feared -you'd be too long in there." -</p> - -<p> -They moved, keeping to the shadows, and reached the path that led to the -door in the wall. Here their feet crunched on the gravel, and every step -was an agony of anticipated alarm. It seemed to Harkness that the house -sprang into life, that lights jumped in the windows, figures passed to -and fro, but he dared not look back, and then Jabez's hand was on the -door, he was through and out safely in the wide free road. -</p> - -<p> -Then, for an instant, he did look back, and there the house was, dark, -motionless, rising out of the trees like part of the rock on which it -was built, the high tower climbing pale in the mist above it. -</p> - -<p> -Only an instant's glimpse, because there was the jingle, the pony, -Dunbar and the girl. An absurd emotion took possession of him at the -sight of them. He had been through a good deal that evening, and the -picture of them, safe, honest, sane, after the house and the company -that he had left, came with the breeze from the sea reassuring him of -normality and youth. -</p> - -<p> -Jabez, too, standing over them like a protective deity. His whole heart -warmed to the man, and he vowed that in the morning he would do -something for him that would give him security for the rest of his days. -There was something in the patient, statuesque simplicity of that giant -figure that he was never afterwards to forget. -</p> - -<p> -But he had little time to think of anything. He had climbed into the -jingle, and without a word exchanged between any of them they were off, -turning at once away from the road to the right over a turfy path that -led to the Downs. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar, who had the reins, spoke at last. -</p> - -<p> -"My God," he said, "I thought you were never coming." -</p> - -<p> -"I had a queer time," Harkness answered, whispering because he was still -under the obsession of his escape from the house. "You must remember -that I'm not accustomed to such adventures. I've never had such an odd -two hours before, and I shouldn't think that I'm ever likely to have -such another again." -</p> - -<p> -They all clustered together as though to assure one another of their -happiness at their escape. The strong tang now of the sea in their -faces, the freshness of the wide open sky, the spring of the turf -beneath the jingle's wheels, all spoke to them of their freedom. They -were so happy that, had they dared, they would have sung aloud. -</p> - -<p> -But Harkness now was conscious only of one thing, that Hesther Crispin, -a black shawl over her head, only the outline of her figure to be seen -against the blue night, was pressed close to him. Her hand touched his -knee, the strands of her hair, escaping the shawl, blew close to his -face, he could feel the beating of her heart. An ecstasy seized him at -the sense of her closeness. Whatever was to come of that night, at least -this he had—his perfect hour. The elder Crispin and his madness, the -younger and his strangeness, the dim faded house, the jewels and the -torn "Orvieto," the mad talk, all these vanished into unreality, and, -curiously, this ride was joined directly to the dance around the town as -though no other events had intervened. -</p> - -<p> -Then he had won his freedom, this sanctified it. Then he had felt his -common humanity with all life, now he knew his own passionate share of -it. -</p> - -<p> -He wanted nothing for himself but this, that, like Browning's strong -peasant, he might serve his duchess, at the last receiving his white -rose and watching her vanish into her own magical kingdom. A romantic, -idealistic American, as has been already declared in this history; but -ten hours ago both romance and idealism were theoretic, now they were -pulsing, living things. -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther's the one for my money," Dunbar said, some of his happiness at -their safety ringing through his voice. "You should have seen her climb -out of that window. She landed on the roof of that tool-house so lightly -that not a mouse could have heard her. And then she swung down the pipe -like a monkey. Tell me how you managed with friend Crispin." -</p> - -<p> -"It wasn't difficult," Harkness answered. "He went with me to that long -room downstairs like a lamb. He told me that he had been wanting to -speak with me to tell me that I was bothering his father and must keep -away." -</p> - -<p> -"That you were bothering his father?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. He—— Wait. Do you hear any one coming?" -</p> - -<p> -They listened. The ramp-ramp of the sea was now very loud. They had come -nearly two miles on the soft track across the Downs. They stayed -listening, staring into the distance. There was no sound but the sea. -Then a bell ringing mournfully, regretfully, through the air. -</p> - -<p> -"That's the Liddon," said Dunbar. "We must be nearly at our cottage. But -I don't hear anything. Unless they saw the jingle they never would think -of this. Our only danger was the younger Crispin going into Hesther's -room after he left you. I believe we're safe." -</p> - -<p> -They stayed there listening. Very strange in that wide expanse, with -only the bell for their company. They drove on a little way, and a -building loomed up. This was a deserted cottage, simply the four walls -standing. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm to tie the pony to this," Dunbar said. "Jabez will fetch it in the -morning." -</p> - -<p> -They climbed out of the jingle and waited while the pony was tied. -Having done it, Dunbar raised his head sniffing the air. -</p> - -<p> -"I say, don't you think the mist's coming up a bit? It won't do if it -gets too thick. We'll have difficulty in finding the Cove." -</p> - -<p> -It was true. The mist was spreading like very thin smoky glass. The pony -was etherealised, the cottage a ghostly cottage. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, come on," Dunbar said. "We haven't a great deal of time, but the -Cove's only a step of the way. Along here to the right." -</p> - -<p> -He led, the others followed. Hesther had hitherto said nothing. Now she -looked up at Harkness. "Thank you for helping us. It was generous of -you." -</p> - -<p> -He couldn't see her face. He touched her hand with his for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -"I guess that was the least any one could do," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm so glad it's over!" She gave a little shiver. "To be out here -free after those weeks, after that house—you don't know, you don't -know what that was." -</p> - -<p> -"I can pretty well imagine," Harkness answered grimly, "from the hour or -two I spent in your father-in-law's company. But don't let's talk about -it just now. Afterwards we'll tell each other all our adventures." -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't it strange," she said simply, "we've only exchanged a word or -two, we never knew one another before this evening, and yet we're like -old friends? Isn't it pleasant?" -</p> - -<p> -"Very pleasant," he answered. "We must always be friends." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, always," she said. -</p> - -<p> -They were standing close to the broken wall of the cottage. It had a -wonderfully romantic air in the night air. It was so lonely, and so -independent as well. The storms that must beat around it on wild nights, -the screams of the birds, the battering roar of the waves, and then to -sink into that silence with only the voice of the bell for its company. -But Dunbar was no poet—a ruined cottage was a ruined cottage to him. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't like this mist," he said. "It's made me a little uncertain of -my bearings. I wonder if you'd mind, Hesther, waiting here for five -minutes while I go and see——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no, we'll all stick together," she interrupted. "Why should we -separate? Why, I'm more sure-footed than you are, David. You're trying -to mother me again." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I'm not," he answered doggedly; "but I'm really not quite sure of -the way down, and if we got in a mess half way it would be much worse -your being there. Really these paths can be awfully nasty. I want to be -<i>sure</i> of my way before you come—really Hesther——" -</p> - -<p> -She saw that it was important to him. She laughed. -</p> - -<p> -"It's stupid, when I'm a better climber than you are. But if you like -it—you're the commander of this expedition." -</p> - -<p> -She seated herself on a stone near the pony. The two men walked off. The -sea mist was very faint, blowing in little wisps like tattered lawn, not -obscuring anything but rendering the whole scene ethereal and unreal. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, however, as though out of friendly interest, the stars, that -had been quite obscured, again appeared, twinkling, humorous eyes -looking down over the wall of heaven. -</p> - -<p> -"We should be all right," Dunbar said as the two men set off; "we are up -to time. The boat is bound to be there. It's lucky the fog hasn't come. -That's a contingency I never thought of. The path down to the Cove is -off here, to the right of the cottage somewhere. I've studied every inch -of the country round here." -</p> - -<p> -The path appeared. "Tell me, did you have a queer time with -Crispin—the elder one, I mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've never had so strange a conversation with any one," said Harkness. -"Madness is a queer thing when you are in actual contact with it, -because we have, every one of us, enough madness in ourselves to wonder -whether some one else <i>is</i> so mad after all. He talked the most awful -nonsense, and <i>dangerous</i> nonsense too, but there was a kind of theory -behind it, something that almost held it all together. A sort of pathos -too, so that you felt, in spite of yourself, sorry for the man." -</p> - -<p> -But Dunbar was no analyser of human motives. He despised fine shades, -and was a man of action. "Sorry for him! Just about as sorry as you are -for a spider that is spinning a nest in your clothes cupboard. Sorry! He -wants crushing under foot like a white slug, and that he'll get before -I've finished with him. Why, man, he's murderous! He loves torture and -slow fire like the old Spaniards in the Inquisition. There's so little -to catch on to—that's the trouble; but I bet that if he had caught us -helping Hesther out of that house to-night there would be something to -catch on to! Why, if we were to fall into his hands now! Ugh! it doesn't -bear thinking of!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, of course," Harkness agreed. "He's dangerously mad. He'll be in -an asylum before many days are out. If ever I have been justified in any -action of my life it has been this, in helping that poor girl out of the -hands of those two men. All the same . . . oh! it's sad, Dunbar! There -is something so tragic in madness, whether it's dangerous or -no—something captive, like a bird in a cage, and something common to -us all. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, if you think that the kind of things that Crispin Senior is after -are common to us all you must have a pretty low view of humanity. The -beastly swine! Something pathetic? Why, you're a curious fellow, -Harkness, to feel pathos in that situation." -</p> - -<p> -"You may hate it and detest it, you <i>must</i> confine it because it's -dangerous to the community, but you can pity it all the same. His -eyes—that longing to escape." -</p> - -<p> -But Dunbar had found the cleft. They were now right above the sea. -Although there was so slight a wind, the waves were breaking noisily on -the shore. The stars had gone again, but the edge of the cliff was -clear, and far below it a thin line of ragged white leapt to the eye, -vanished, and leapt again. -</p> - -<p> -"Here's the path down," said Dunbar. "There isn't much light, but -enough, I fancy. We'll both go down so that we can be sure of our way -when we come back with Hesther, and we may be both needed to help her. -The path's all right, though. It's slippery after wet weather, but -there's been no rain for days. Can you make it out clearly enough?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Harkness said, but he felt anything but happy. Of all the things -that he had done that evening this was the one that he liked least. He -had a very poor head for heights, growing dizzy under any provocation; -the angry snarl of the sea bewildered him, and little breaths of vapour -curled about him changing from moment to moment the form and shape of -the scene. He would have liked to suggest to Dunbar that there was no -need for him to go down this first time, but, coward though he might be, -he had come down to Treliss to beat that cowardice. -</p> - -<p> -Certainly the adventures of that night were giving him every -opportunity. He went to the edge and looked over. The sea banged up to -him, and the grey curved shadow of the Cove seemed to be miles below -him. The little path ran on the edge of the cliff between two -precipitous slopes, and its downward curve was sharp. -</p> - -<p> -He pulled himself together, thinking of Hesther waiting there by the -cottage alone. Dunbar had already started; he followed. -</p> - -<p> -When he had gone a little way his knees began to wobble, his legs taking -on a strange life of their own. His imagination had all his days been -dangerous for him in any crisis, because he always saw more than was -truly there: now the sea breeze blew on either side of him, the path was -so narrow that there was not room to plant his two feet at the same -time, the dim shadow light confused his eyes and the roar of the sea -leapt at him like a wild animal. -</p> - -<p> -However he pressed forward, looking neither to right nor to left, and, -with what thankfulness, he felt the wet sand yield beneath him and saw -the boat drawn up under an overhanging rock only a few feet away from -him! -</p> - -<p> -"There it is," said Dunbar, eyeing the boat with intense satisfaction. -"Now I think we're all right. I don't see what's going to stop us. We'll -be across there in half an hour and then have a good hour before the -train." He held out his hand. -</p> - -<p> -"Harkness, I simply can't tell you what I think of your doing all this -for us. Coming down here just to have a holiday, and then taking all -these risks for people you'd never seen before. It's fine of you and -I'll never forget it." -</p> - -<p> -"It's nothing at all," said Harkness, blushing, as he always did when -himself was at all in discussion. "As a matter of fact, I've had what -has been, I suppose, the most interesting evening of my life, and I -daresay it isn't all over yet." -</p> - -<p> -"There's not much fear of their catching us now," said Dunbar; "but -you've been in more real actual danger than you imagine. As I said just -now, anything might have happened to us if he had caught us. You don't -know how remote that house is. He could do what he pleased without any -one being the wiser, and be off in the morning leaving our corpses -behind him. The only servants in that house are those two Japs." -</p> - -<p> -"There's Jabez," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Jabez is outside and is only temporary. He wouldn't have stayed after -to-morrow anyway. He hates the man. Fine fellow, Jabez. I don't know how -I would have managed this affair without him. He fell in love with -Hesther. He'd do anything for her. And then like the rest of the -neighbourhood he detested the Japanese. -</p> - -<p> -"They are funny conservative people these Cornishmen. Whatever they may -pretend, they've no use for foreigners and especially foreigners like -Crispin." -</p> - -<p> -They stood a moment listening to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -"The tide's going out," said Dunbar. "I was a little anxious lest I'd -pulled the boat up high enough this afternoon, and then, of course, some -one might have come along and taken a fancy to it. However, I was pretty -safe. No one ever comes down into this cove. But we've taken a lot of -chances to-night and everything's come off. The Lord's on our side—as -He well may be considering the kind of characters the Crispins have." -</p> - -<p> -He looked at Harkness. "Hullo, you're shivering. Are you cold?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, "I suddenly got the creeps. Some one walking over -my grave, I suppose. I feel as though Crispin had followed us and was -listening to every word we were saying. I could swear I could see his -horrid red head poking over that rock now. However, to tell you the -exact truth, Dunbar, I didn't care overmuch for coming down that bit of -rock just now. I'm not much at heights." -</p> - -<p> -"What! that path!" cried Dunbar. "That's nothing. However, there's no -need for both of us to go back. You can stay by the boat." -</p> - -<p> -But a sudden determination flamed up in Harkness that it should be he, -and none other, that should fetch Hesther Crispin. -</p> - -<p> -"No, I'll go. There's no need for you to come though. We'll be back here -in ten minutes. I'll see that she gets down all right." -</p> - -<p> -"Very well," said Dunbar. "But look after her. She's not so good a -climber as she thinks she is." -</p> - -<p> -So Harkness started off. He waved his hand to Dunbar who was now busied -with the boat, and began his climb. He stumbled over the wet rocks, -nearly fell once or twice, and then came to the little path. His thought -now was all of Hesther. He played with his imagination, picturing to -himself that he was going right out of the world to some unknown heights -where she awaited him, having chosen him out of all the world, and there -they would live together, alone, happy always in one another's -company. . . . -</p> - -<p> -What a fool he was when she was married, and, even if she freed herself -from that horrid encumbrance, had that boy down there in the Cove -waiting for her. But he could not help his own state. It did no harm. He -told no one. It was so new for him, this rich thrilling tingle of -emotion at the thought of some other human being, something so different -from his love for his sisters and his admiration for his friends. And -to-night from first to last there had been all the time this same -<i>tingling</i> of experience. From his first getting into the train until -now he had seemed to be in direct contact with life, contact with all -the wrappers off, with nothing in between him and it! -</p> - -<p> -That he must never lose again. After this night he must never slip back -to that old half-life with its dilettante pleasures, its mild -disappointments, its vague sense of exile. He could not have Hesther for -himself, but, at least, he could live the full life that she and her -country had shown to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Ours is a great wild country. . . ." Never back to the level plains -again! -</p> - -<p> -Full of these fine brave exulting thoughts he had climbed a very -considerable way when—suddenly the path was gone. There was no -path, no rocks, no hillside, no Cove, no sea, no stars—nothing. He -was standing on air. The fog in one second had crept upon him. Not the -thin glassy mist of twenty minutes ago but a thick, dense, blinding fog -that hemmed in like walls of wadding on every side. In the sudden panic -his legs gave way and he fell on to his knees and hands, clutching both -sides of the narrow path, staring desperately before him. He heard the -Liddon bell, as it seemed, quite close to his side, ringing down upon -him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -His first thought was of Hesther—then of Dunbar. Here they were all -three of them, separated. The fog might last for hours. -</p> - -<p> -He called, "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -The bell echoed him, mocking him, "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -Very cautiously he climbed upon his feet, steadying himself. The wind -seemed completely to have died, and the sea sent up now only a faint -rustle, like the mysterious movement of some hidden woman's dress, but -the fog was so thick that it seemed to embrace Harkness ever more -tightly—and it was cold with a bitter piercing chill. Harkness called -again, "Dunbar! Dunbar!" listened, and then, as there was no kind of -answer, began to move slowly forward. -</p> - -<p> -Once, many years before, when a small boy at his private school, there -had been an hour that every week he had feared beforehand with a panic -dread. This had been the time of the fire-escape practice, when the -boys, from some second floor window, were pushed down, feet foremost, -into a long canvas funnel through which they slipped safely to the -ground. The passing through this funnel was only of a moment's duration, -but that moment to Harkness had been terrible in its nightmare stifling -sense, pressing blinding confinement. Something of that he felt now. He -seemed to be compelled to push against blankets of cold damp -obstruction. The Fog assumed a personality, and it was a personality -strangely connected in Harkness's confused brain with that little -red-headed man who seemed now always to be pursuing him. He was -somewhere there in the fog; it was part of his game that he was playing -with Harkness, and he could hear that sweet melodious voice whispering: -"Pain, you know. Pain. That's the thing to teach you what life really -means. You'll be thankful to me before I've done with you. You shouldn't -have interfered with my plans, you know. I warned you not to." -</p> - -<p> -He tried to drive down his fancies and to control his body. That was his -trouble—that every limb, every nerve, every muscle, seemed to be -asserting its own independent life. His legs now—they belonged to -him, but never would you have supposed it. His arms tugged away from him -as though striving to be free. He was not trained for this kind of -thing—a cultured American gentleman with two sisters who read -papers to women's clubs in Oregon. -</p> - -<p> -He beat down his imagination. He had been crawling on his hands and his -knees, and now he put out one hand and touched space. His heart gave a -sickening bound and lay still. Which way went the path, to right or to -left? He tried to throw his memory back and recapture the shape of it. -There had been a sharp curve somewhere as it bent out towards the sea, -but he did not know how far now he had gone. He strained with his eyes -but could see nothing but the wall of grey. Should he wait there until -the fog cleared or Dunbar came to him: but the fog might be there for -hours, and Dunbar might never come. No, he must not wait. The thought of -Hesther alone in the fog, fearing every moment recapture by the -Crispins, filled with every terror that her loneliness could breed in -her, spurred him on. He <i>must</i> reach her, whatever the risk. -</p> - -<p> -Stretching his arm at full length he touched the path again, but there -was an interval. Had there been any break in the path when he came down -it? He could not remember any. He felt backwards with his hand and found -the curve, crept forward, then his foot slipt and his leg slid over the -edge. He waited to stop the hammering of his heart, then, balancing -himself, pulled it back then forward again. -</p> - -<p> -Lucky for him that there was no wind, but again not lucky because had -there been wind the fog might have been blown out of its course: as it -was, with every instant it seemed to grow thicker and thicker. -</p> - -<p> -Then he grew calmer. He must soon now be reaching the top, and happiness -came to him when he thought that for a time at least he would be -Hesther's only protection. On him, until Dunbar reached them, she would -have absolutely to rely. She would be cold and he must shelter her, and -at the thought of her proximity to him, he with his arm around her, -wrapping her with his coat; holding perhaps her hand in his, he was, -himself, suddenly warm, and his body pulled together and was taut and -strong. -</p> - -<p> -He fancied that he might walk now. Very carefully he pulled himself up, -stood on his feet, stepped forward—and fell. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -He screamed, and as he did so the Fog seemed to put its clammy hand -against his mouth, filling it with boneless fingers. This was the -end—this death. All space was about him and a roar of air sweeping up -to meet him. -</p> - -<p> -Then dimly there came to his brain the message, thrown to him like a -life-line, that he was not falling in space but was slipping down a -slope. He lurched out with his hands, caught some thick tufts of grass, -and held. His legs slid forward and then dangled. With all his -forces—and the muscles of his arms were but weak—he pulled -himself upward and then held himself there, his legs hanging over space. -</p> - -<p> -While the tufts held, and so long as his arms had the strength, he could -stay. How long might that be? Sickness attacked him, a kind of -sea-sickness. Tears were in his eyes, and an intense self-pity seized -him. What a shame that such an end should come to a man who had meant no -harm to any one, whose life had yet such possibilities. He thought of -his sisters. How they would miss him! He had been tiresome sometimes, -and been restless at home, and pulled them up sharply when they had said -things that he thought stupid, but now only his good points would be -remembered. He had been kind to them; he had a warm heart. He—and -here his brain, working it seemed through his aching, straining arms, -began suddenly to whirl like a top, flinging in front of his eyes a -succession of the most absurd pictures—days in spring woods -gathering flowers, his mother and father laughing at something childish -that he had said, a bar of music from some musical comedy, Erda -appearing before Wotan in <i>Siegfried</i>, a night when he had come to -a dinner party and had forgotten to wear a dress tie, the moment when -once before an operation he had been wheeled into the operating theatre, -the day when he had plucked up his courage and decided that he could buy -the Whistler "Little Mast," the grave, anxious, kindly eyes of Strang as -he leant across the etching table, a morning when he had run for an -omnibus up Shaftesbury Avenue and missed it, and the conductor had -laughed, that hour with Maradick at the club, lights, scents, the cold -fog drowning his mouth, his nose, his eyes—then chill space, a -roaring wind and silence. . . . -</p> - -<p> -How strange after that—and hours afterwards it seemed although it -must have been seconds—to find that he was still living, that his -arms were aching as though they were one extended toothache, and that he -was still holding to those tufts of grass. He had a kind of marvel at -his endurance, and now, suddenly, a wonder as to why he was doing this. -Was it worth while? How stupid this energy! How much better to let -himself go and to sleep, to sleep. How delicious to sleep and be rid of -the ache, the cold, the clammy fog! -</p> - -<p> -With that, one of the grass tufts to which he was clinging lurched -slightly, and his whole soul was active in its energy to preserve that -life that but now he had thought to throw away. With a struggle to which -he would have supposed he could not have risen he drew his body up -against the slope so that the earth to which he was clinging might the -better restrain his weight. Then resting there, his fingers digging deep -into the soil of the cliff, his head pressed against the rock, he -uttered a prayer: -</p> - -<p> -"O Lord, help me now. I have a life that has been of little use to the -world, but I have, in this very day, seen better the uses to which I may -put it. Help me from this, give me strength to live and I will try to -leave my idleness and my selfishness and meanness and be a worthier man. -O Lord, I know not whether Thou dost exist or not, but, if Thou art near -me, help me at least now to bear my death worthily, if it must be that, -and to live my life to some real purpose if I am to have it back again. -Amen." Then he repeated the Lord's Prayer. After that he seemed to be -quieted; a great comfort came to him so that he no longer had any -anxiety, his heart beat tranquilly, and he only rested there, passive -for the issue. "If death comes," he thought to himself, "I believe that -it will be very swift. I shall feel no more than I felt just now when I -first tumbled. I shall not have so much pain as with a toothache. I am -leaving no one in the whole world whose existence will be empty because -I have gone. Hesther after to-night I shall never, in any case, see -again, and I am fortunate because, before I die, I have been able to -feel the reality of life, what love is, and caring for others more than -myself." He was quite tranquil. The tuft of grass tugged again. His legs -were numb, and he had the curious fancy that one of his boots had -slipped off, and that one foot, as light as a feather, was blowing -loosely in the air. -</p> - -<p> -Then it seemed to him—and now it was as though he were half -asleep, working in a dream—that some one was, very gently, pushing -him upwards. At least he was rising. His hands, one by one, left their -tufts of grass and caught higher refuge, first a projecting rock, then a -thick hummock of soil, then a bunch of sea-pinks. In another while, his -heart now beating again with a new excited anticipation, his head -lurched forward on the earth into space. With a last frantic urge he -pulled all his body together and lay huddled on the path safe once more. -</p> - -<p> -He had now a new trouble because his body refused to move. He had no -body, nothing that he could count upon for action. He tried to find his -connection with it, endeavoured to rest upon his knees, but it was as -though he had been all dissipated into the fog and was turned, himself -now, into mist and vapour. Then this passed, and once more he crawled -forward. -</p> - -<p> -He turned a corner and met again the Liddon bell. It was strange how -deeply this voice reassured him. He had been all alone in a world -utterly dead. He had not had, like Hardy's hero, the sight of the -crustacean to connect him with eternal life. But this sudden, -melancholy, lowing sound like a creature deserted, crying for its mate, -brought him once more into reality. The bell was insistent and very -loud. It swung through the fog up to him, ringing in his ear, then -fading away again into distance. He spoke aloud as men do when they are -in desperate straits: "Well, old bell," he cried, "I'm not beaten yet, -you see. They've done what they can to finish me, but I'm back again. -You don't get rid of me so easily as that, you know. You can come and -look, if you like. Here I am, company for you after all." -</p> - -<p> -There was a little breeze blowing now in his eyes and this cheered him. -If only the wind rose the fog would move and all might yet be well. His -clothes were torn, his hands bleeding, his hat gone. He crawled into a -sitting position, shook his fist in the air, and cried: -</p> - -<p> -"You old devil, you're there, are you! It's your game all this. You're -seeing whether you can finish me. But I'll be even with you yet." And it -did indeed seem to him that he could see through the mist that red head -sticking out like a furze bush on fire. The hair, the damp pale face, -the melancholy eyes, and then the voice: -</p> - -<p> -"It's only a theory, of course, Mr. Harkness. My father, who was a most -remarkable man. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -The thought of Crispin enraged him, and the rage drove him on to his -feet. He was standing up and moving forward quite briskly. He moved like -a blind man, his hands before him as though he were expecting at every -moment to strike some hard, sharp substance, but whereas before the fog -had seemed to envelope him, strangling him, penetrating into his very -heart and vitals, now it retreated from before him like a moving wall. -The incline was now less sharp, and now less sharp again. Little pebbles -rolled from beneath his feet, and he could hear them fall over down into -distant space, but he had no longer any fear. He was on level ground. He -knew that the down was spreading about him. He called out, "Hesther! -Hesther!" not realising that this was the first time he had spoken her -name. He called it again, "Hesther! Hesther!" and again and again, -always moving as he fancied forward. -</p> - -<p> -Then, as though it had been hurled at him out of some gigantic distance, -the rugged wall of the cottage pierced the sky. He saw it, then herself -patiently seated beneath it. In another moment he was kneeling beside -her, both her hands in his, his voice murmuring unintelligible words. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -She was so happy to see him. His face was close to hers and for the -first time he could really see her, her large, grave, questioning eyes, -her child's face, half developed, nothing very beautiful in her -features, but to him something inexpressibly lovely for which all his -life he had been waiting. -</p> - -<p> -She was damp with the fog, and the first thing he did was to take off -his coat and try to put it around her. But she stood up resisting him. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no, I'm not cold. I'm not really. And do you think I'll let you? -Why, you! What have you done? Your hands are all torn and your face!" -</p> - -<p> -She was very close to him. She put up her hand and touched his face. It -needed to muster everything that he had in him not to put his arms -around her. He conquered himself. "That's nothing," he said; "I had some -trouble climbing up from the cliff. I was just half-way up when the fog -came on. It wasn't much of a path in any case." -</p> - -<p> -She stood with her hand on his arm. "Oh, what shall we do? We shall -never find the boat now. The fog will clear and we will be caught. We -can't move from here while it lasts." -</p> - -<p> -"No," he said firmly, "we can't move. This is the place where Dunbar -will expect us. He'll turn up here at any moment. Meanwhile, we must -just wait for him. Is the pony all right?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know what I'd have done without the pony," she said. "When the -fog came up I was terrified. I didn't know what I'd better do. I called -your names, but, of course, you didn't hear. And then it got colder and -colder and I kept thinking that I was seeing Them. His red hair. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She suddenly, shivering, put her hand on his arm. "Oh, don't let them -find us," she said; "I couldn't go back to that. I would rather kill -myself. I <i>would</i> kill myself if I went back. What they are—oh! -you don't know!" -</p> - -<p> -He took her hand and held it firmly. "Now see here, we don't know how -long Dunbar will be, or how long the fog will last, or anything. We -can't do anything but stay here, and it's no good if we stay here and -think of all the terrible things that may happen. The fog can't last for -ever. Dunbar may come any minute. What we have to do is to sit down on -this stone here and imagine we are sitting in front of our fire at home -talking like old friends about—oh well, anything you -like—whatever old friends do talk about. Can your imagination help -you that far?" -</p> - -<p> -He saw that she was at the very edge of her nerves; a step further and -she would topple over into wild hysteria; he knew enough already about -her character to be sure that nothing would cause her such self-scorn -and regret as that loss of self-control. He was not very sure of his own -control; everything had piled up upon him pretty heavily during the last -hour; but she was such a child that he had an immense sense of -responsibility as though he had been fifteen years older at least. -</p> - -<p> -"I haven't very much imagination," she said, in a voice hovering between -laughter and tears. "Father always used to tell me that was my chief -lack. And we <i>are</i> old friends, as we said a while ago, even though -we have just met." -</p> - -<p> -"That's right," he said. "Now we will have to sit rather close together. -There's only one stone and the grass is most awfully wet. Every three -minutes or so I'll get up and shout Dunbar's name in case he is -wandering about quite close to us." -</p> - -<p> -He stood up and, putting his hands to his mouth, shouted with all his -might: "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -He waited. There was no answer. Only the fog seemed to grow closer. He -turned to her and said: -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think the fog's clearing a little?" -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head. There was still a little quaver in her voice: "I'm -afraid not. You're saying that to cheer me up. You needn't. I'm not -frightened. Think how lucky I am to have you with me. You mightn't have -come back. You might have missed your way for hours." -</p> - -<p> -When he thought of how nearly he had missed his way for ever and ever he -trembled. He mustn't let his thoughts wander in those paths; he was here -to make her feel happy and safe until Dunbar came. They sat down on the -stone together, and he put his arm around her to hold her there and to -keep her warm. -</p> - -<p> -"Now what shall we talk about?" she asked him. -</p> - -<p> -"Ourselves," he answered her. "We have a splendid opportunity. Here we -are, cut off by the fog, away from every one in the world. We know -nothing about one another, or almost nothing. We can scarcely see one -another's faces. It is a wonderful opportunity." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you tell me about yourself first." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! there's the trouble. I'm so terribly dull. I've never been or -thought or said anything interesting. I'm like thousands and thousands -of people in this world who are simply shadows to everybody else." -</p> - -<p> -"Remember we're to tell the truth," she said. "No one ever honestly -thinks that about themselves—that they are just shadows of somebody -else. Every one has their own secret importance for themselves—at -least, every one in our village had. People you would have supposed had -<i>nothing</i> in them, yet if you talked to them you soon saw that they -fancied that the world would end if they weren't in it to make it go -round." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, honestly, that isn't my opinion of myself," Harkness answered. "I -don't think that I help the world to go round at all. Of course, I think -that there have to be all the ordinary people in it like myself to -appreciate all the doings and sayings of the others, the geniuses—to -make the audience. There are so many things I don't care for." -</p> - -<p> -"What <i>do</i> you care for?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, different things at different times—not permanently for much. -Pictures—especially etchings—music, travel. But never very -deeply or urgently, except for the etchings. . . . Until to-night," he -suddenly added, lowering his voice. -</p> - -<p> -"Until to-night?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, ever since I left Paddington—let me see—how many hours -ago? It's now about two o'clock, I suppose." He looked at his watch. -"Ten minutes to two. Nearly nine hours. Ever since nine hours ago. I've -felt a new kind of energy, a new spirit, the thrill, the excitement that -all my life I've wanted to have but that never came until now. Being -really <i>in</i> life instead of just watching it like a spectator." -</p> - -<p> -She put her hand on his. "I am so glad you're here. Do you know I used -to boast that I never could be frightened by anything? But these last -weeks—all my courage has gone. Oh, why has this fog come? We were -getting on so well, everything was all right—and now I know they'll -find us, I know they'll find us. I'm sure he's just behind there, -somewhere, hiding in the fog, listening to us. And perhaps David is -killed. I can't bear it. I can't bear it!" -</p> - -<p> -She suddenly clung to him, hiding her face in his coat. He soothed her -just as he would his own child, as though she had been his child all her -life. "Hesther! Hesther! You mustn't. You mustn't break down. Think how -brave you've been all this time. The fog can clear in a moment and then -we'll still have time to catch the train. Anyway the fog's a protection. -If Crispin were after us he'd never find us in this. Don't cry, Hesther. -Don't be unhappy. Let's just go on talking as though we were at home. -You're quite safe here. No one can touch you." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I'm safe," she whispered, "so long as you're here." His heart -leapt up. He forced himself to speak very quietly: -</p> - -<p> -"Now I'll tell you about <i>myself.</i> It will be soon over. I grew up in -a place called Baker in Oregon in the United States. It is a long way from -anywhere, but all the big trains go through it on the way out to the -Pacific coast. I grew up there with my two sisters and my father. I lost -my mother when I was very young. We had a funny ramshackle old house -under the mountains, full of books. We had very long winters and very -hot summers. I went to a place called Andover to school. Then my father -died and left me some money, and since then—oh! since then I dare not -tell you what a waste I have made of my life, never settling anywhere, -longing for Europe and the old beautiful things when I was in America -and longing for the energy and vitality of America when I was in Europe. -That's what it is to be really cosmopolitan—to have no home anywhere. -</p> - -<p> -"The only intimate friends I have are the etchings, and I sometimes -think that they also despise me for the idle life I lead." -</p> - -<p> -He could see that she was interested. She was quietly sitting, her head -against his shoulder, her hand in his just as a little girl might listen -to her elder brother. -</p> - -<p> -"And that's all?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Absolutely all. I'm ashamed to let you look at so miserable a -picture. I have been like so many people in the world, especially since -the war. Modern cleverness has taken one's beliefs away, modern -stupidity has deprived one of the possibility of hero-worship. No God, -no heroes any more. Only one's disappointing self. What is left to make -life worth while? So you think while you are on the bank watching the -stream of life pass by. It is different if some one or something pushes -you in. Then you must fight for existence for your own self or, better -still, for some one else. They who care for something or some one more -than themselves—some cause, some idea, some prophecy, some beauty, -some person—they are the happy ones." He laughed. "Here I am sitting -in the middle of this fog, a useless selfish creature who has suddenly -discovered the meaning of life. Congratulate me." -</p> - -<p> -He felt that she was looking up at him. He looked down at her. Their -eyes stared at one another. His heart beat riotously, and behind the -beating there was a strange pain, a poignant longing, a deep, deep -tenderness. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't understand everything you say," she replied at last. "Except -that I am sure you are doing an injustice to yourself when you give such -an account. But what you say about unselfishness I don't agree with. How -is one unselfish if one is doing things for people one loves? I wasn't -unselfish because I worked for the boys. I had to. They needed it." -</p> - -<p> -"Tell me about your home," he said. -</p> - -<p> -She sighed, then drew herself a little away from him, as though she were -suddenly determined to be independent, to owe no man anything. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother died when I was very young," she said. "I only remember her as -some one who was always tired, but very, very kind. But she liked the -boys better. I remember I used to be silly and feel hurt because she -liked them better. But the day before she died she told me to look after -them, and I was so proud, and promised. And I have tried." -</p> - -<p> -"Were they younger than you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. One was three years younger and the other five. I think they cared -for me, but never as much as I did for them." -</p> - -<p> -She stopped as though she were listening. The fog was now terribly thick -and was in their eyes, their nostrils, their mouths. They could see -nothing at all, and when he jumped to his feet and called again, -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" he knew that he vanished from her sight. He -could feel from the way that she caught his hand and held it when he sat -down again how, for a moment, she had lost him. -</p> - -<p> -"It's always that way, isn't it?" she went on, and he could tell from an -undertone in her voice that this talking was an immense relief to her. -She had, he supposed, not talked to any one for weeks. -</p> - -<p> -"Always what way?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"That if you love some one very much they don't love you so much. And -then the same the other way." -</p> - -<p> -"Very often," he agreed. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure that's what I did wrong at home. Showed them that I cared for -them too much. The boys were very good, but they were boys, you know, -and took everything for granted as men do." She said this with a very -old world-wise air. "They were dear boys—they were and are. But it -was better before they went to school, when they needed me always. -Afterwards when they had been to school they despised girls and thought -it silly to let girls do things for them. And then they didn't like -being at home—because father drank." -</p> - -<p> -She dropped her voice here and came very close to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know what it is to hate and love the same person? I was like -that with father. When he had drunk too much and broke all the -things—when we had so few anyway—and hit the boys, and did -things—oh, dreadful things that men do when they're drunk, then I -hated him. I didn't love him. I didn't want to help him—I just -wanted to get away. And before—before he drank so much he was so -good and so sweet and so clever. Do you know that my father was one of -the cleverest doctors in the whole of England? He was. If he hadn't -drunk he might have been anywhere and done anything. But sometimes when -he <i>was</i> drunk and the boys were away at school, and the house was -in such a mess, and the servant wouldn't stay because of father, I felt -I couldn't go on—I <i>couldn't!</i>—and that I'd run down -the road leaving everything as it was, into the town and hide so that -they'd never find me. . . . And now," she suddenly broke out, "I have -run away—and see what I've made of it!" -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't over yet," he said to her quietly. "Life's just beginning for -you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, anyway," she answered, with a sudden resolute calm that made her -seem ever so much older and more mature, "I've helped the boys to start -in life, and I won't have to go back to all that again—that's -something. It's fine to love some one and work for them as you said just -now, but if it's always dirty, and there's never enough money, and the -servants are always in a bad temper, and you never have enough clothes, -and all the people in the village laugh at you because your father -drinks, then you want to stop loving for a little while and to escape -anywhere, anywhere to anybody where it isn't dirty. Love isn't -enough—no, it isn't—if you're so tired with work that you -haven't any energy to think whether you love or not." -</p> - -<p> -She hesitated there, looking away from him, and said so softly that he -with difficulty caught her words: "I will tell you one thing that you -won't believe, but it's true. I wanted to go to Crispin." -</p> - -<p> -He turned to look at her in amazement. -</p> - -<p> -"You <i>wanted</i> to go?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I know you thought that I went for the boys and father. I know -that David thinks that too. Of course that was true a little. He -promised me that they should have everything. It was a relief to me that -I needn't think of them any more. But it wasn't only that. I wanted to -go. I wanted to be free." -</p> - -<p> -"To be free!" Harkness cried. "My God! What freedom! I can understand -your wanting to escape, but with <i>such</i> men. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She turned round upon him eagerly. "You don't know what he can be -like—the elder Crispin, I mean. And to a girl, an ignorant, conceited -girl. Yes, I was conceited, that was the cause of everything. Father had -all sorts of books in his room, I used to read everything I could -see—French and German in a kind of way, and secretly I was very proud -of myself. I thought that I was more learned than any one I knew, and I -used to smile to myself secretly when I overheard people saying how good -I was to the boys, and how unselfish, and I would think, 'That's not -what I am at all. If you only knew how much I know, and the kind of -things, you'd be surprised.' -</p> - -<p> -"I was always thinking of the day when I would escape and marry. I -fancied I knew everything about marriage from the books that I had read -and from the things that father said when he was drunk. I hadn't a nice -idea of marriage at all. I thought it was old-fashioned to fall in love, -but through marriage I could reach some fine position where I could do -great things in the world, and always in my mind I saw myself coming one -day back to my village and every one saying: 'Why, I had not an idea she -was like <i>that</i>. Fancy all the time she was with us we never knew she -was clever like this.'" -</p> - -<p> -She laughed like a child, a little maliciously, very simply and -confidingly. He saw that she had for the moment forgotten her danger, -and was sitting there in the middle of a dense fog on a lonely moor at a -quarter-past two in the morning with an almost complete stranger as -though she were giving him afternoon tea in the placid security of a -London suburb. He was glad; he did not wish to bring back her earlier -terror, but for himself now, with every moment that passed, he was -increasingly anxious. Time was flying; now they could never catch that -train. And above all, what could have happened to Dunbar? He must surely -have found them by now had some accident not come to him. Perhaps he had -slipped as Harkness had done and was now lying smashed to pieces at the -bottom of that cliff. But what could he, Harkness, do better than this? -While the fog was so dense it was madness to move off in search of any -one. And if the fog lasted were they to sit there until morning and be -caught like mice in a kitchen? -</p> - -<p> -And beneath his anxiety, as his arm held the child at his side, there -was that strange mixture of triumph and pain, of some odd piercing -loneliness and a deep burning satisfaction. Meanwhile her hand rested in -his, soft and warm like the touch of a bird's breast. -</p> - -<p> -"When Mr. Crispin came—the elder, the father—and talked to -me I was flattered. No one before had ever talked to me as he did about -his travels and his collections and the grand people he knew, -just as though I were as old as he was. And then David—Mr. -Dunbar—was always asking me to marry him. I'd known him all my -life, and I liked him better than any one else in the whole world; but -just because I'd always known him he wasn't exciting. He was the last -person I wanted to marry. Then Mr. Crispin made father drink and I hated -him for that, and I hated father for letting him do it. I went up to Mr. -Crispin's house and told him what I thought of him, and he talked and -talked and talked, all about having power over people for their good and -hurting them first and loving them all afterwards. I didn't understand -most of it, but the end of it was that he said that if I would marry his -son he would leave father alone and would give me everything. I should -see the world and all life, and that his son loved me and would be kind -to me. -</p> - -<p> -"After that it was the strangest thing. I don't say that he hypnotised -me. I knew that he was bad. Every one in the place was speaking about -him. He had done some cruel thing to a horse, and there was a story, -too, about some woman in the village. But I thought that I knew better -than all of them, that I would save father and the boys and be grand -myself—and then I would show David that he wasn't the only one who -cared for me. -</p> - -<p> -"And so—I consented. From the moment I promised I was terrified. I -knew that I had done a terrible thing. But it was too late. I was already -a prisoner. That is a hysterical thing to say, but it is true. They never -let me out of their sight. I was married very quickly after that. I -won't say anything about the first week of my marriage except that I -didn't need books any more to teach me. I knew the sin I'd committed. -But I was proud—I was as proud as I was frightened. I wasn't going to -let any one know what a terrible position I was in—and especially -David. When we went to Treliss, David came too and waited. In my heart I -was so glad he was there. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know what went on in that house. The younger Crispin wasn't -unkind. He was simply indifferent. He thought of nothing and nobody but -his father. His father mocked him, despised him, scorned him, but he -didn't care. He follows his father like a dog. At first you know I -thought I could make a job of it, carrying it through. And then I began -to understand. -</p> - -<p> -"First one little thing, then another. The elder Crispin was always -talking, floods of it. He was always looking at me and smiling at me. -After two days in the house with him I hated him as I hadn't known I -could hate any one. When he touched me I trembled all over. It became a -kind of duel between us. He was always talking nonsense about making me -love him through pain—and his eyes never said what his mouth said. -They were like the eyes of another person caught there by mistake. -</p> - -<p> -"Then one day I came into the library upstairs and found him with a dog. -A little fox-terrier. He had tied it to the leg of the table and was -flicking it with a whip. He would give it a flick, then stand back and -look at it, then give it another flick. The awful thing was that the dog -was too frightened to howl, too terrified to know that it was being hurt -at all. He was smiling, watching the dog very carefully, but his eyes -were sad and unhappy. After that there were many signs. I knew then two -things, that he was raving crazy mad and that I was a prisoner in that -house. They watched me night and day. I had no money. My only hope of -escape was through David who was always getting word to me, begging me -to let him help me. But I still had my pride, although it was nearly -beaten. I wouldn't yield until—until the night before you came, then -something happened, something he tried to do; the younger Crispin -stopped him that time, but another time—well, there mightn't be any -one there. That settled it all. I let David know through you that I would -go. I <i>had</i> to go. I couldn't risk another moment. I couldn't risk -another moment, I tell you." She suddenly sprang up, caught at -Harkness's hands in an agony, crying: -</p> - -<p> -"Don't stay here! Don't stay here! They can find us here! We're going to -be caught again. Oh, please come! Please! Please!" -</p> - -<p> -She was suddenly crazy with terror. Had he not held her with all his -force she would have rushed off into the fog. She struggled in his arms, -pulling and straining, crying, not knowing what she said. Then suddenly -she relaxed, would have tumbled had he not held her, and murmuring, "I -can't any more—oh, I can't any more!" collapsed, so that he knew she -had fainted. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -He sat down on the stone, laying her in his arms as though she were his -child. He was, himself, not strongly built, but she was so slight in his -hold that he could not believe that she was a woman. He murmured words -to her, stroked her forehead with his hand; she stirred, turning towards -him, and resting her head more securely on his breast. Then her hand -moved to his cheek and lay against it. -</p> - -<p> -At last after a long while she raised her head, looked about her, stared -up at him as though she had just awoken, turned and kissed him on the -cheek. She murmured something—he could not catch the words—then -nestled down into his arms as though she would sleep. -</p> - -<p> -There began for him then, sitting there, staring out into the unblinking -fog, his hardest test. As surely as never before in his life had he -known what love truly was, so did he know it now. This child in her -ignorance, her courage, her hard history, her contact with the worst -elements in human nature, her purity, had found her way into the -innermost recesses of his heart. He saw as he sat there, with a strange -almost divine clarity of vision, both into her soul and into his own. He -knew that when she faced life again he would be the first to whom she -would turn. He knew that with one word, one look, he could win her love. -He knew that she had also never felt what love was. He knew that the -circumstances of this night had turned her towards him as she would -never have been turned in ordinary conditions. Yes, he knew this -too—that had they met in everyday life she would never have loved -him, would not indeed have thought of him twice. -</p> - -<p> -He was not a man about whom any one thought twice. With the exception of -his sisters no woman had ever loved him; this child, driven to terrified -desperation by the horrors of the last weeks had been wakened to full -womanhood by those same horrors, and he had happened to be there at the -awakening. That was all. And yet he knew that so honest was she, and -good and true, that did she once go to him she would stay with him. He -saw steadily into the future. He saw her freedom from the madman to whom -she was married, then her union with himself. His happiness, and her -gradual discovery of the kind of man that he was. Not bad—oh -no—but older, far older than herself in many other ways than -years, tired so easily, caring nothing for all the young things in life, -above all a man in the middle state, solitary from some elemental -loneliness of soul. It was true that to-night had shown him a new energy -of living, a new happiness, a new vigour, and he would perhaps after -to-night never be the same man as he was before. But it was not enough. -No, not enough for this young girl just beginning life, so ignorant of -it, so trustful of him that she would follow the path that he pointed -out. And for himself! How often he had felt like Nejdanov in <i>Virgin -Soil</i> that "everything that he had said or done during the day seemed -to him so utterly false, such useless nonsense, and the thing that ought -to be done was nowhere to be found . . . unattainable . . . in the -depths of a bottomless pit." Well, of to-night that was not true. What -he had done was useful, was well done. But to-morrow how would he regard -it? Would it not seem like senseless melodrama, the mad Crispins, his -fall from the cliff, this eternal fog? How like his history that the -most conclusive and eternal acts of his life should take place in a fog! -And this girl whom he loved so dearly, if he married her and kept her -for himself would not his conscience, that eternal tiresome conscience -of his, would it not for ever reproach him, telling him that he had -spoilt her life, and would not he be for ever watching to catch that -moment when she would realize how dull, how old, how negative he was? -No, he could not . . . he could not . . . -</p> - -<p> -Then there swept over him all the fire of the other impulse. Why should -he not, at long last, be happy? Could any man in the world be better to -her than he would be? After all he was not so old. Had he not known when -he shared in that dance round the town that he could be part of life, -could feel with the common pulse of humanity? Did young Dunbar know life -better than he? With him she had lived always and yet did not love him. -</p> - -<p> -And then he knew with a flash like lightning through the fog that at -this moment, when she was waking to life and was trusting him, he could -by only a few words, lead her to love Dunbar. She had always seen him in -a commonplace, homely, familiar light, but he, Harkness, if he liked, -could show her quite another light, could turn all this fresh romantic -impulse that was now flowing towards himself into another channel. -</p> - -<p> -But why should he? Was that not simply sentimental idealism? Dunbar was -no friend of his, he had never seen him before yesterday, why should he -give up to him the only real thing that his life had yet known? -</p> - -<p> -But it was not sentimental, it was not false. Youth to youth. In years -he was not so old, but in his hesitating, quixotic, undetermined -character there were elements of analysis, self-questioning, regret, -that would make any human being with whom he was intimately related -unhappy. -</p> - -<p> -Sitting there, staring out into the fog, he knew the truth—that he -was a man doomed to be alone all his days. That did not mean that he could -not make much of his life, have many friends, much good fortune—but -in the last intimacy he could go to no one and no one could go to him. -</p> - -<p> -He bent down and kissed her forehead. She stirred, moved, sat up, -resting back against him, her feet on the ground. -</p> - -<p> -"Where am I?" she whispered. "Oh yes." She clung to his arm. "No one has -come? We are still alone?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," he answered her gently, "no one has come. We are still alone." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -"What time is it?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -He looked at his watch. "Half-past two." -</p> - -<p> -"We have missed that train now." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. And anyway there's probably another." -</p> - -<p> -"And David?" -</p> - -<p> -"He's lost his way in the fog. He'll turn up at any moment." He stood up -and shouted once again: -</p> - -<p> -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -No answer. -</p> - -<p> -He stood over her looking down at her as she sat with drooping head. She -looked up at him. "I'm ashamed at the way I've behaved," she said, -"fainting and crying. But you needn't be afraid any more. I shan't give -in again." -</p> - -<p> -Indeed, he seemed to see in her altogether a new spirit, something finer -and more secure. She put out her hand to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Come and sit down on the stone again as we were before. It's better for -us to talk and then we don't frighten ourselves with possibilities. -After all, we can't <i>do</i> anything, can we, so long as this horrid fog -lasts? We must just sit here and wait for David." -</p> - -<p> -He sat down, put his arm around her as he had done before. The moment had -come. He had only now to speak and the result was certain—the whole -of his future life and hers. He knew so exactly what he would say. The -words were forming on his lips. -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther dear, I've known you so short a time, but nevertheless -I love you with all my heart and being. When you are rid of this -horrible man will you marry me? I will spend all my life in making you -happy——" -</p> - -<p> -And she, oh, without an instant's doubt, would say "Yes," would hide in -his arms, and rest there as though secure, yes, utterly secure for life. -But the battle was over. He would not begin it again. He clipped the -words back and sat silent, one hand clenched on his knee. -</p> - -<p> -It was as though she were waiting for him to speak. Their silence was -packed with anticipation. At last she said: -</p> - -<p> -"What is the matter? Is there something you're afraid of that you don't -like to tell me? You needn't mind. I'm through my fear." -</p> - -<p> -"No, there's nothing," he answered. At last he said: "There <i>is</i> one -thing I'd like to say to you. I suppose I've no right to speak of it -seeing how recently I've known you, but I guess this night has made us -friends as months of ordinary living never would have made us." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you're right in that," she answered. He knew what she was -expecting him to say. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it's about Dunbar." He could feel her hand jump in his. "He loves -you so much—so terribly. He isn't a man, I should think, to say very -much about his feelings. I've only known him for an hour or two, and he -wouldn't have said anything to me if he hadn't <i>had</i> to. But from the -little he did say I could see what he feels. You're in luck to have a -man like that in love with you." -</p> - -<p> -She took her hand out of his, then, very quietly but very stiffly, -answered: -</p> - -<p> -"But I've known him all my life, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"That's just why I'm speaking about him," Harkness answered. -</p> - -<p> -"It's rather strange to have the friend of your life explained to you by -some one who has known him only for an hour or two." She laughed a -little angrily. -</p> - -<p> -"But that's just why I'm speaking," he answered. "When you've known some -one all your life you can't see them clearly. That's why one's own -family always knows so little about one. You can't see the wood for the -trees. In the first minutes a stranger sees more. I don't say that I -know Dunbar as <i>well</i> as you do—I only say that I probably see -things in him that you don't see." -</p> - -<p> -They had been so close to one another during this last hour that he felt -as though he could see, as through clear water, deep into her mind. -</p> - -<p> -He knew that, during those last minutes, she had been struggling -desperately. She came up to him victorious and, smiling and putting her -hand into his, said: -</p> - -<p> -"Tell me what <i>you</i> think about him." -</p> - -<p> -"Simply that he seems to me a wonderful fellow. He seems to you, I -expect, a little dull. You've always laughed at him a bit, and for that -very reason, and because he's loved you for so long, he's tongue-tied -when you're there and shy of showing you what he really thinks about -things. He has immense qualities of character—fidelity, honesty, -devotion, courage—things simply beyond price, and if you loved him -and showed him that you did you'd probably see quite new things—fun -and spontaneity and imagination—things that he had always been -afraid to show you until now." -</p> - -<p> -Her hand trembled in his. -</p> - -<p> -"You speak," she said, "as though you thought that you were so much -older than both of us. I don't feel that you are. Can't you——" -she broke off. He knew what she would say. -</p> - -<p> -"My dear," and his voice was eloquently paternal, "I <i>am</i> older than -both of you—years and years older. Not physically, perhaps, so much, -but in every other kind of way. I am an old fogey, nothing else. You've -both of you been kind to me to-night, but in the morning, when ordinary -life begins again, you'll soon see what a stuffy old thing I am. No, no. -Think of me as your uncle. But don't miss—oh, don't miss!—the -love of a man like Dunbar. There's so little of that unselfish devoted -love in the world, and when it comes to you it's a crime to miss it." -</p> - -<p> -"But you can't force yourself to love any one!" she cried, sharply. -</p> - -<p> -"No, you can't force yourself, but it's strange what seeing new -qualities in some one, looking at some one from another angle, will do. -Try and look at him as though you'd met him for the first time, forget -that you've known him always. I tell you that he's one in a million!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he's good," she answered softly. "He's been wonderful to me -always. If he'd been less wonderful perhaps—I don't know, perhaps I'd -have loved him more. But why are we talking about it? Aren't I married -as it is?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh that!" He made a little gesture of repulsion. "We must get rid of -that at once." -</p> - -<p> -"It won't be very difficult," she answered, dropping her voice to a -whisper. "He hasn't been faithful to me—even during these weeks." -</p> - -<p> -He put his arm round her and held her close as though he were truly her -father. "Poor child!" he said, "poor child!" -</p> - -<p> -She trembled in his arms. -</p> - -<p> -"You——" she began. "You——? Don't -you——?" She could say no more. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm your friend," he answered, "to the end of life. Your old avuncular -friend. That's my job. Think of your <i>young</i> friend freshly. See what -a fellow he is. I tell you that's a man!" -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer him, but stayed there hiding her head in his coat. -</p> - -<p> -There was a long silence, then, stroking her hair, he said: -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther dear. I'm going to try once again." He got up and, putting his -hands trumpet-wise to his mouth, shouted through the fog: -</p> - -<p> -"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -This time there was an answer, clear and definite. "Hallo! Hallo! -Hallo!" He turned excitedly to her. She also sprang to his feet. "He's -there! I can hear him!" -</p> - -<p> -"Dunbar! Dunbar!" -</p> - -<p> -The answer came more clearly: "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" -</p> - -<p> -They continued to exchange cries. Sometimes the reply was faint. Once it -seemed to be lost altogether. Then suddenly it was close at hand. A -ghostly figure was shadowed. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar came running. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IX</h4> - -<p> -He caught their hands in his. He was breathless. He sank down on the -stone beside them: -</p> - -<p> -"Give me a minute. . . . I'm done. Lord! this filthy fog. . . . Where -haven't I been?" He panted, staring up at them with wide distracted -eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you realize? I've failed. It's no use our crossing in that boat now -even if we could find it. We've missed that train. We're done." -</p> - -<p> -"Nonsense," Harkness broke in. "Why, man, what's happened to you? This -isn't like you to lose your courage. We're not done or anything like it. -In the first place we're all together again. That's something in a fog -like this. Besides so long as we stick together we're out of their -power. They can't force us, all of us, back into that house again. So -long as we're out of that house we're safe." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, are we?" said Dunbar. "Little you know that man. I tell you we're not -safe—or Hesther's not safe—until we're at least a hundred miles -away. But forgive me," he looked up at them both, smiling, "you're quite -right, Harkness. I haven't any right to talk like this. But you don't -know what a time I've had in that fog." -</p> - -<p> -"I had a little bit of a time myself," said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Well in the first place," went on Dunbar, "I was terrified about you. I -knew that you didn't know these cliffs well. When the fog started I -called to you to come back, but you didn't hear me, of course. I was an -idiot to let you start out at all. -</p> - -<p> -"And then, when it came to myself climbing them I wasn't very -successful. I was nearly over the edge fifty times at least. But at last -when I <i>did</i> get to the top the ridiculous thing was that I started -off in the wrong direction. There I was only five minutes from the cottage -and the pony and Hesther; I know the place like my own hand, and yet I -went in the wrong direction. -</p> - -<p> -"God knows where I got to. I was nearly over into the sea twice at -least. I kept calling your names, but the only thing I heard in answer -was that beastly bell. I never went very far, I imagine, because when I -heard your voice at last, Harkness, I was quite close to it. But just to -think of it! Every other emergency in the world I'd considered except -just this one! It simply never entered my head." -</p> - -<p> -"Well now," said Harkness, "let's face the facts. It's too late for that -train. Is there any other that we can catch?" -</p> - -<p> -"There's one at six, but I don't see ourselves hanging about here for -another three hours, nor, if the fog doesn't lift, can Hesther get down -into that cove. I'm not especially anxious to try it myself as a matter -of fact." -</p> - -<p> -"No, nor I," said Harkness, smiling. "Then we count the boat out. There -aren't many other things we can do. We can take the pony and follow him. -He'll lead us straight back to Treliss to whatever stables he came -from—a little too close to the Crispin family, I fancy. Secondly, we -can wait here until the fog clears; that <i>may</i> be in three minutes -time, it may be to-morrow. You both know more about these sea-fogs down -here than I do, but, from the look of it, it's solid till Christmas." -</p> - -<p> -"A heat fog this time of year," said Dunbar, "within three miles of the -sea can last for twenty-four hours or longer—not as thick as this -though—this is one of the thickest I've ever seen." -</p> - -<p> -"Well then," continued Harkness, "it isn't much good to wait until it -clears. The only thing remaining for us is to walk off somewhere. The -question is, where? Is there any garage within a mile or two or any -friend with a car? It isn't three o'clock yet. We still have time." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Dunbar, "there is. I've had it in my mind all along as an -alternative. Indeed it was the first thing of all that I thought of. -Three miles from here there's a village, Cranach. The rector of Cranach -is a sporting old man called Banting. During the last week or two we've -made friends. He's sixty or so, a bachelor, and he's got a car. Not much -of a car, but still it's something. I believe if we go and appeal to -him—we'll have to wake him up, of course—he'll help us. I know -that he disapproves strongly of the Crispins. I thought of him before, as -I say, but I didn't want to involve him in a row with Crispin. However, -now, as things have gone, it's got to be. I can think of no other -alternative." -</p> - -<p> -"Good," said Harkness, "that settles it. Our only remaining difficulty -is to find our way there through this fog." -</p> - -<p> -"I can start straight," said Dunbar. "Left from the cottage and then -straight ahead. Soon we ought to leave the Downs and strike some trees. -After that it's across the fields. I don't think I can miss it." -</p> - -<p> -"What about the pony?" asked Hesther. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll have to leave him. He must be there for Jabez in the morning or -Jabez will have to pay for both the pony and the cart." -</p> - -<p> -They started off. The character of the fog seemed now slightly to have -changed. It was certainly thicker in some places than in others. Here it -was an impenetrable wall, but there it seemed to be only a gauze -covering hanging before a multitude of changing scenes and persons. Now -it was a multitude of armed men advancing, and you could be sure that -you heard the clang of shield on shield and a thousand muffled steps. -Now it was horses wheeling, their manes tossing, their tails flying, now -secret furtive figures that moved and peered, stopped, bending forward -and listening, then moved on again. -</p> - -<p> -All the world was stirring. A breeze ran along the ground, rustling the -short thin grass. Sea-gulls were circling the mist crying. A ship at sea -was sounding its horn. Figures seemed to press in on every side. -</p> - -<p> -They linked arms as they went, stumbling over the tussocks at every -step. It was strange how the sudden vanishing of the cottage left them -forlorn. It had been their one sure substantial hold on life. They were -in their own world while they could touch those ruined stones, but now -they walked in air. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless Dunbar walked forward confidently. He thought that he -recognised this landmark and that. "Now we veer a bit to the left," he -said. "We should be off the moor in another step." -</p> - -<p> -They walked forward. Suddenly Hesther pulled back, crying. "Look out! -Look out!" Another instant and they would have walked forward into -space. The mist here twisted up into thinning spirals as though to show -them what they had escaped; they could just see the sharp black line of -the cliff. Far, far beneath them the sea purred like a cat. -</p> - -<p> -They stopped where they were as though fixed like images into the wall -of the fog. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar whispered: "That's awful. Another moment. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -It was Hesther who pulled them together again. "Let's turn sharp about," -she said, "and walk straight in front of us. At least we escape the -sea." -</p> - -<p> -They turned as she had said and then walked forward, but in the minds of -all of them there was the same thought. Some one was playing with them, -some one like an evil Will-o'-the-wisp was leading them, now here, now -there. Almost they could see his red poll gleaming through the fog and -could hear his silvery voice running like music up and down the scale of -the mist. -</p> - -<p> -They were, three of them, worn with the events of the night. They were -beginning to walk somnambulistically. Harkness found in himself now a -strange kind of intimacy with the Fog. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, spell it with a capital letter. The Fog. The FOG. Some emanation of -himself, rolling out of him, friendly and also hostile. He and Crispin -were of the Fog together. They had both created it, and as they were the -good and evil of the Fog so was all Life, shapeless, rolling hither and -thither, but having in its elements Good and Evil in eternal friendship -and eternal enmity. -</p> - -<p> -Every part of his body was aching. His legs were so weary that they -dragged with him, protesting; his eyes were for ever closing, his head -nodding. He stumbled as he walked, and at his side, step by step in time -the Fog accompanied him, a mountainous grey-swathed giant. -</p> - -<p> -He was talking, words were for ever pouring from him, words mixed with -fog, so that they were damp and thick before ever they were free. "In -life there are not, you know, enough moments of clear understanding. -Between nations, between individuals, those moments are too often -confused by winds that, blowing from nowhere in particular, ruffle the -clear water where peace of mind and love of soul for soul are -reflected. . . . Now the waters are clear. Let us look down." -</p> - -<p> -Yes, he had read that somewhere. In one of Galleon's books perhaps? No -matter. It meant nothing. "A fine sentiment. What it means. . . . Well, -no matter. Don't you smell roses? Roses out here on the moor. If it -wasn't for the fog you'd smell them—ever so many. And so he tore the -'Orvieto' into shreds. Little scraps flying in the air like goose -feathers. What a pity! Such a beautiful thing. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Hold up," cried Dunbar. "You're asleep, Harkness. You'll have us all -down." -</p> - -<p> -He pulled together with a start, and opening his eyes wide and staring -about him saw only the disgusting fog. -</p> - -<p> -"This fog is too much of a good thing. Don't you think so? I guess we -could blow it away if we all tried hard enough? You think Americans -always say 'I guess,' don't you? The English books always make them. But -don't you believe it. We only do it to please the English. They like it. -It satisfies their vanity." -</p> - -<p> -He seemed to be climbing an enormous endless staircase. He mounted -another step, two, and suddenly was wide awake. -</p> - -<p> -"What nonsense I'm talking! I've been half asleep. This fog gets into -your brain." He felt Hesther's arm within his. He patted her hand -encouragingly. "It's all right, Hesther. We'll be out of this soon. Just -another minute or two." -</p> - -<p> -"By Jove, you're right," Dunbar cried; "these are trees." -</p> - -<p> -And they were. A whole row of them. Crusoe was not more glad to see the -footprint on the sand than were those three to see those trees. "Now I -know where we are!" Dunbar cried triumphantly. "Here's the bridge and -here's the lane. What luck to have found it!" -</p> - -<p> -The trees seemed to step forward and greet them, each one tall and -dignified, welcoming them to a happier country. They were on a road and -had no longer the turf beneath their feet. The fog here was truly -thinner so that very dimly they could see the mark of the hedge like a -clothes-line in mid-air. -</p> - -<p> -They moved now much more rapidly, and in their hearts was an intense, an -eager relief. The fog thinned until it was a wall of silver. Nothing was -distant, but it was a world of tangible reality. They could kick pebbles -with their feet, could hear sheep moving on the farther side of the -hedge. -</p> - -<p> -"This is better," said Dunbar. "We'll get out of this yet. Cranach is -only a mile or so from here. I know this lane well. And the fog's going -to lift at last." -</p> - -<p> -Even as he spoke it swept up, thick and grey deeper than before. The -trees disappeared, the hedges. They had once more to grope for one -another's hands and walk close. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness could feel from the way that Hesther leaned against him, and -the drag of her feet, that she was near the end of her endurance. She -said nothing. Only walked on and on. -</p> - -<p> -They were all now silent. They must have walked it seemed to them, for -miles. An endless walk that had no beginning and no end. And then -Harkness was strangely aware—how, he never knew—that Dunbar and -Hesther were drawing closer together. -</p> - -<p> -He felt that new relation that he had in a way created beginning to grow -between them. She drew away from Harkness ever so slightly. Then -suddenly he knew that Dunbar had put his arm round her and was holding -her up. She was so weary that she did not know what she was doing—but -for that quiet, resolute, determined boy it must have been a moment of -great triumph, the first time in their two lives that she had in any way -surrendered to him or allowed him to care for her. Harkness was once -more alone. -</p> - -<p> -They walked and walked and walked. They did not know where they were -walking, but in their minds they were sure it was straight to Cranach. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, after, as it seemed, hours of silence in a dead world, Dunbar -cried: -</p> - -<p> -"We're there. Oh, thank God! we're there. This is the rectory wall." -</p> - -<p> -A wall was before them and an open gate. They walked through the gate, -only dimly seen, stumbled where the lawn rose from the gravel, then -forward again, down on to the gravel again. The door was open. -</p> - -<p> -Like somnambulists they walked forward. The door closed behind them. -</p> - -<p> -Like somnambulists awakened they saw lights, a dim hall where flags -waved. -</p> - -<p> -For Harkness there was something familiar—quite close to him, the -chatter-chatter of a clock, like a coughing dog. Familiar? He stared. -</p> - -<p> -Some one was standing, looking at him and smiling. -</p> - -<p> -With sudden agony in his voice, as a man cries in a terrible dream, -Harkness shouted: -</p> - -<p> -"Out, Dunbar! Back! Back! Run for your life!" -</p> - -<p> -But it was too late. -</p> - -<p> -That voice of exquisite melody greeted them: -</p> - -<p> -"I had no idea that of your own free will you would return. My son only -a quarter of an hour ago departed in search of you. I welcome you back." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_IV">PART IV: THE TOWER</a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p> -With an instinctive movement both Harkness and Dunbar closed in upon -Hesther. -</p> - -<p> -The three stood just in front of the heavy locked door facing the dim -hall. On the bottom stair was Crispin Senior, and on the floor below -him, one on either side, the two Japanese servants. -</p> - -<p> -A glittering candelabrum, hanging high up, was fully lit, but it seemed -to give a very feeble illumination, as though the fog had penetrated -here also. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin was wearing white silk pyjamas, brown leather slippers, and a -dressing-gown of a rich bronze-coloured silk flowered with gold buds and -leaves. His eyes were half-closed, as though the light, dim though it -was, was too strong for him. His face wore a look of petulant rather -childish melancholy. The two servants were statues indeed, no sign of -life proceeding from them. There was, however, very little movement -anywhere, the flags moving in the draught the chief. -</p> - -<p> -Hesther's face was white, and her breath came in little sharp pants, but -she held her body rigid. Harkness after that first cry was silent, but -Dunbar stepped forward shouting: -</p> - -<p> -"You damned hound—you let us go or you shall have this place about -your ears!" The hall echoed the words which, to tell the truth, sounded -very empty and theatrical. They were made to sound the more so by the -quietness of Crispin's reply. -</p> - -<p> -"There is no need," he said, "for all those words, Mr. Dunbar. It is -your own fault that you interfered and must pay for your interference. I -warned you weeks ago not to annoy me. Unfortunately you wouldn't take -advice. You <i>have</i> annoyed me—sadly, and must suffer the -consequences." -</p> - -<p> -"If you touch a hair of her head——-" Dunbar burst out. -</p> - -<p> -"As to my daughter-in-law," Crispin said, stepping down on to the floor, -and suddenly smiling, "I can assure you that she is in the best possible -hands. She knows that herself, I'm sure. What induced you, Hesther," he -said, addressing her directly, "to climb out of your window like the -heroine of a cinematograph and career about on the seashore with these -two gentlemen is best known only to yourself. At least you saw the error -of your ways and are in time, after all, to go abroad with us to-day." -</p> - -<p> -He advanced a step towards them. "And you, Mr. Harkness, don't you think -that you have rather violated the decencies of hospitality? I think you -will admit that I showed you nothing but courtesy as host. I invited you -to dinner, then to my house, showed you my few poor things, and how have -you repaid me? Is this the famous American courtesy? And may I ask while -we are on the question, what business this was of yours?" -</p> - -<p> -"It was anybody's business," said Harkness firmly, "to rescue a helpless -girl from such a house as this." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed?" asked Crispin, "And what is the matter with this house?" -</p> - -<p> -Here Hesther broke in: "Look back two nights ago," she cried, "and ask -yourself then what is the matter with this house and whether it is a -place for a woman to remain in." -</p> - -<p> -"For myself," said Crispin. "I think it is a very nice house, and I am -quite sorry that we are leaving it to-day. That is, some of us—not -all," he added, softly. -</p> - -<p> -"If you are going to murder us," Dunbar cried, "get done with it. We -don't fear you, you know, whatever colour your hair may be. But whether -you murder us or no I can tell you one thing, that your own time has -come—not many more hours of liberty for <i>you</i>." -</p> - -<p> -"All the more reason to make the most of those I <i>have</i> got," said -Crispin. "Murder you? No. But you have fallen in very opportunely for -the testing of certain theories of mine. I look forward to a very -interesting hour or two. It is now just four o'clock. We leave this -house at eight—or, at least, some of us do. I can promise all of us a -very interesting four hours with no time for sleep at all. I have no -doubt you are all tired, wandering about in the fog for so long must be -fatiguing, but I don't see any of you sleeping—not for an hour or -two, at least." -</p> - -<p> -Hesther said then: "Mr. Crispin, I believe that I am chiefly concerned -in this. If I promise to go quietly with you abroad I hope that you will -free these two gentlemen. I give you that promise and I shall keep it." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," Dunbar cried, springing forward. "You shan't go with him -anywhere, Hesther, by heaven you shan't. Not while there's any breath in -my body——" -</p> - -<p> -"And when there isn't any breath in your body, Mr. Dunbar," said -Crispin, "what then?" -</p> - -<p> -"A very good line for an Adelphi melodrama, Mr. Crispin," said Harkness, -"but it seems to me that we've stayed here talking long enough. I warn -you that I am an American citizen, and I am not to be kept here against -my will——" -</p> - -<p> -"Aren't you indeed, Mr. Harkness?" said Crispin. "Well, that's a line of -Adelphi drama, if you like. How many times in a secret service play has -the hero declared that he's an American citizen? Which only goes to -show, I suppose, how near real life is to the theatre—or rather how -much more theatrical real life is than the theatre can ever hope to be. -But you're all right, Mr. Harkness—I won't forget that you're an -American citizen. You shall have special privileges. That I promise -you." -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar then did a foolish thing. He made a dash for the farther end of -the hall. What he had in mind no one knows—in all probability to find -a window, hurl himself through it and escape to give the alarm. But the -alarm to whom? That was, as far as things had yet gone, the foolishness -of their position. A policeman arriving at the house would find nothing -out of order, only that there two gentlemen had broken in, barbarously, -at a midnight hour to abscond with the married lady of the family. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar's effort was foolish in any case; its issue was that, in a moment -of time, without noise or a word spoken, the two Japanese servants had -him held, one hand on either arm. He looked stupid enough, there in the -middle of the hall, his eyes dim with tears of rage, his body straining -ineffectively against that apparently light and casual hold. -</p> - -<p> -But it was strange to perceive how that movement of Dunbar's had altered -all the situation. Before that the three were at least the semblance of -visitors demanding of their host that they should be allowed to go; now -they were prisoners and knew it. Although Hesther and Harkness were -still untouched they were as conscious as was Dunbar of a sudden -helplessness—and of a new fear. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness watched Crispin who had walked forward and now stood only a -pace or two from Dunbar. Harkness saw that his excitement was almost -uncontrollable. His legs, set widely apart, were quivering, his nostrils -panting, his eyes quite closed so that he seemed a blind man scenting -out his enemy. -</p> - -<p> -"You miserable fellow," he said—and his voice was scarcely more -than a whisper. "You fool—to think that you could interfere. I -told you . . . I warned you . . . and now am I not justified? Yes—a -thousand times. Within the next hour you shall know what pain is, and I -shall watch you realise it." -</p> - -<p> -Then his body trembled with a sort of passionate rhythm as though he -were swaying to the run of some murmured tune. With his eyes closed and -the shivering it was like the performance of some devotional rite. At -least Dunbar showed no fear. -</p> - -<p> -"You can do what you damn well please," he shouted. "I'm not afraid of -you, mad though you are." -</p> - -<p> -"Mad? Mad?" said Crispin, suddenly opening his eyes. "That depends. Yes, -that depends. Is a man mad who acts at last when given a perfectly just -and honourable opportunity for a pleasure from which he has restrained -himself because the opportunity hitherto was <i>not</i> honourable? And -madness? A matter of taste, my friends, decides that. I like -olives—you do not. Are you therefore mad? Surely not. Be -broad-minded, my friend. You have much to learn and but little time in -which to learn it." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness perceived that the man was savouring every moment of this -situation. His anticipations of what was to come were so ardent that the -present scene was coloured deep with them. He looked from one to -another, tasting them, and his plans for them on his tongue. His -madness—for never before had his eyes, his hands, his whole attitude -of body more highly proclaimed him mad—had in it all the -preoccupation with some secret life that leads to such a climax. For -months, for years, grains of insanity, like coins in a miser's hoard, had -been heaping up to make this grand total. And now that the moment was come -he was afraid to touch the hoard lest it should melt under his fingers. -</p> - -<p> -He approached Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Harkness," he said quite gently, "believe me I am sorry to see -this. You took me in last evening, you did indeed. I felt that you had a -real interest in the beautiful things of art, and we had that in common. -All the time you were nothing but a dirty spy—a mean and dirty spy. -What right had you to interfere in the private life of a private -gentleman who, twenty-four hours ago, was quite unknown to you, simply -on the word of a crazy braggart boy? Have you so little to do that you -must be poking your fingers into every one else's business? I liked you, -Mr. Harkness. As I told you quite honestly last evening I don't know -where I have met a stranger to whom I took more warmly. But you have -disappointed me. You have only yourself to thank for this—only -yourself to thank." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness replied firmly. "Mr. Crispin, I had every right to act as I -have done, and I only wish to God that it had been successful. It is -true that when I came down to Cornwall yesterday I had no knowledge of -you or your affairs, but, in the Treliss hotel, quite inadvertently, I -overheard a conversation that showed me quite plainly that it was some -one's place to interfere. What I have seen of you since that time, if -you will forgive the personality, has only strengthened my conviction -that interference—immediate and drastic—was most urgently -necessary. -</p> - -<p> -"Thanks to the fog we have failed. For Dunbar and myself we are for the -moment in your power. Do what you like with us, but at least have some -pity on this child here who has done you no wrong." -</p> - -<p> -"Very fine, very fine," said Crispin. "Mr. Harkness, you have a -style—an excellent style—and I congratulate you on having -lost almost completely your American accent—a relief for all of -us. But come, come, this has lasted long enough. I would point out to -you two gentlemen that, as one of you has already discovered, any sort -of resistance is quite useless. We will go upstairs. One of my servants -first—you two gentlemen next, my other servant following, then my -daughter-in-law and myself. Please, gentlemen." -</p> - -<p> -He said something in a foreign tongue. One Japanese started upstairs, -Harkness and Dunbar followed. There was nothing else at that moment to -be done. Only at the top of the stairs Dunbar turned and cried: "Buck -up, Hesther. It will be all right." And she cried back in a voice -marvellously clear and brave: "I'm not frightened, David; don't worry." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness had a momentary impulse to turn, dash down the stairs again and -run for the window as Dunbar had done; but as though he knew his thought -the Japanese behind him laid his hand on his arm; the thin fingers -pressed like steel. At the upper floor Dunbar was led one way, himself -another. One Japanese, his hand still on his arm, opened a door and -bowed. Harkness entered. The door closed. He found himself in total -obscurity. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -He did not attempt to move about the room, but simply sank down on to -the floor where he was. He was in a state of extreme physical -weariness—his body ached from head to foot—but his brain was -active and urgent. This was the first time to himself that he had -had—with the exception of his cliff climbing—since his -leaving the hotel last evening, and he was glad of the loneliness. The -darkness seemed to help him; he felt that he could think here more -clearly; he sat there, huddled up, his back against the wall, and let -his brain go. -</p> - -<p> -At first it would do little more than force him to ask over and over -again: Why? Why? Why? Why did we do this imbecile thing? Why, when we -had all the world to choose from, did we find our way back into this -horrible house? It was a temptation to call the thing magic and to have -done with it, really to suggest that the older Crispin had wizard -powers, or at least hypnotic, and had willed them back. But he forced -himself to look at the whole thing clearly as a piece of real life as -true and as actual as the ham-and-eggs and buttered toast that in -another hour or two all the world around him would be eating. Yes, as -real and actual as a toothbrush, that was what this thing was; there was -nothing wizard about Crispin; he was a dangerous lunatic, and there were -hundreds like him in any asylum in the country. As for their return he -knew well enough that in a fog people either walked round and round in a -circle or returned to the place that they had started from. -</p> - -<p> -At this point in his thoughts a tremor shook his body. He knew what -<i>that</i> was from, and the anticipation that, lying like a chained -animal, deep in the recesses of his brain, must soon be loosed and then -bravely faced. But not yet, oh no, not yet! Let his mind stay with the -past as long as it might. -</p> - -<p> -In the past was Crispin. He looked back over that first meeting with -him, the actual moment when he had asked him for a match, the dinner, -the return to the hotel when, influenced then by all that Dunbar had -told him, he had seen him standing there, the polite gestures, the -hospitable words, the drive in the motor. . . . His mind stopped -abruptly <i>there</i>. The door swung to, the lock was turned. -</p> - -<p> -In that earlier Crispin there had been something deeply pathetic—and -when he dared to look forward—he would see that in the later Crispin -there was the same. So with a sudden flash of lightning revelation that -seemed to flare through the whole dark room he saw that it was not the -real Crispin with whom they—Hesther, Dunbar and he—were dealing -at all. -</p> - -<p> -No more than the ravings of fever were the real patient, the wicked -cancerous growth the real body, the broken glass the real picture that -seemed to be shattered beneath it. -</p> - -<p> -They were dealing with a wild and dangerous animal, and in the grip of -that animal, pitiably, was the true struggling suffering soul of -Crispin. Not struggling now perhaps any more; the disease had gone too -far, growing through a thousand tiny almost unnoticed stages to this -horrible possession. -</p> - -<p> -He knew now—yes, as he had never known it, and would perhaps never -have known it had it not been for the sudden love for and tenderness -towards human nature that had come to him that night—what, in the -old world, they had meant by the possession of evil spirits. What it was -that Christ had cast out in His ministry. What it was from which David -had delivered King Saul. -</p> - -<p> -Quick on this came the further question. If this were so might he not -perhaps when the crisis came—as come he knew it would—appeal -to the real Crispin and so rescue both themselves and him? He did not -know. It had all gone so far. The animal with its beastly claws deep in -the flesh had so tight a hold. He realised that it was in all -probability the personality of Hesther herself that had urged it to such -extremes. There was something in her clear-sighted simple defiance of -him that had made Crispin's fear of his powerlessness—the fear -that had always contributed to his most dangerous excesses—climb -to its utmost height. He had decided perhaps that this was to be the -real final test of his power, that this girl should submit to him -utterly. Her escape had stirred his sense of failure as nothing else -could do. And then their return, all the nervous excitement of that -night, the constant alarm of the neighbourhoods in which they had stayed -so that, as the younger Crispin had said, they had been driven "from -pillar to post," all these things had filled the bowl of insanity to -overflowing. <i>Could</i> he rescue Crispin as well as themselves? -</p> - -<p> -Once more a tremor ran through his body. Because if he could -not—— Once more he thrust the anticipation back, pulling -himself up from the floor and beginning slowly, feeling the wall with his -hand like a blind man, to walk round the room. -</p> - -<p> -His eyes now were better accustomed to the light, but he could make out -but little of where he was. He supposed that he was on the second floor -where were the rooms of Hesther and the younger Crispin. The place -seemed empty, there was no sound from the house. He might have been in -his grave. Fantastic stories came to his mind, Poe-like stories of walls -and ceilings growing closer and closer, of floors opening beneath the -foot into watery dungeons, of fiery eyes seen through the darkness. He -repeated then aloud: -</p> - -<p> -"I am Charles Percy Harkness. I am thirty-five years of age. I grew up -in Baker, Oregon, in the United States of America. I am in sound mind -and in excellent health. I came down to Cornwall yesterday afternoon for -a holiday, recommended to do so by Sir James Maradick, Bart." -</p> - -<p> -This gave him some little satisfaction; to himself he continued, still -walking and touching the wall-paper with his hand: "I am shut up in a -dark room in a strange house at four in the morning for no other reason -than that I meddled in other people's affairs. And I am glad that I -meddled. I am in love, and whatever comes out of this I do not regret -it. I would do over again exactly what I have done except that I should -hope to do it better next time." -</p> - -<p> -He felt then seized with an intense weariness. He had known that he was, -long ago, physically tired, but excitement had kept that at bay. Now -quite instantly as though a spring in the middle of his back had broken, -he collapsed. He sank down there on the floor where he was, and all -huddled up, his head hanging forward into his knees, he slept. He had a -moment of conscious subjective rebellion when something cried to him: -"Don't surrender. Keep awake. It is part of his plan that you should -sleep here. You are surrendering to <i>him</i>." -</p> - -<p> -And from long misty distances he seemed to hear himself reply: -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care what happens any more. They can do what they like. . . . -They can do what they like. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -And almost at once he was conscious that they were summoning him. A tall -thin figure, like an old German drawing, with wild hair, set mouth, -menacing eye like Baldung's "Saturnus," stood before him and pointed the -way into vague misty space. Other figures were moving about him, and he -could see as his eyes grew stronger, that a vast multitude of naked -persons were sliding forward like pale lava from a volcano down a steep -precipitous slope. -</p> - -<p> -As they moved there came from them a shuddering cry like the tremor of -the ground beneath his feet. -</p> - -<p> -"Not there! Not there!" Harkness cried, and Saturnus answered, "Not yet! -You have not been judged." -</p> - -<p> -Almost instantly judgment followed—judgment in a narrow dark passage -that rocked backward and forward like the motion of a boat at sea. The -passage was dark, but on either side of its shaking walls were cries and -shouts and groans and piteous wails, and clouds of smoke poured through, -as into a tunnel, blinding the eyes and filling the nostrils with a -horrible stench. -</p> - -<p> -No figure could be seen, but a voice, strong and menacing, could be -heard, and Harkness knew that it was himself the voice was addressing. -His naked body, slippery with sweat, the acrid smoke blinding him, the -voices deafening him, the rocking of the floor bewildering him, he felt -desperately that he must clear his mind to answer the charges brought -against him. -</p> - -<p> -The voice was clear and calm: "On February 2, 1905, your friend Richard -Hentley was accused in the company of many people during his absence, of -having ill-treated his wife while in Florence. You knew that this was -totally untrue and could have given evidence to that effect, but from -cowardice you let the moment pass and your friend's position was -seriously damaged. What have you to say in your defence?" -</p> - -<p> -The thick smoke rolled on. The walls tottered. The cries gathered in -anguish. -</p> - -<p> -"On March 13, 1911, you wired to your sisters in America that you were -ill in bed when you were in perfect health, because you wished to stay -for a week longer in London in order to attend some races. What have you -to say in your defence?" -</p> - -<p> -"On October 3, 1906, you grievously added to the unhappiness of Mrs. -Harrington-Adams by asserting in mixed company that no one in New York -would receive her and that all Americans were astonished that she should -be received at all in London." -</p> - -<p> -Here at any rate was an opportunity. Through the smoke he cried: -</p> - -<p> -"There at least I am innocent. I have never known Mrs. Harrington-Adams. -I have never even seen her." -</p> - -<p> -"No," the voice replied. "But you spoke to Mrs. Phillops who spoke to -Miss Cator who then cut Mrs. Adams. Other people followed Miss Cator's -example, and you were quoted as an authority. Mrs. Adams's London life -was ruined. She had never done you any harm." -</p> - -<p> -"On December 14, 1912, you told your sisters that you hated the sight of -them and their stuffy ways, that their attempts at culture were -ridiculous, and that, like all American women, they were absurdly -spoilt." -</p> - -<p> -Through the smoke Harkness shouted: "I am sure I never said——" -</p> - -<p> -The voice replied: "I am quoting your exact words." -</p> - -<p> -"In a moment of pique I lost my temper. Of course I didn't -mean——" -</p> - -<p> -"On June 3, 1913, you went secretly into the library of a friend and -stole his book of Rembrandt drawings. You knew in your heart that you -had no intention of returning it to him, and when, some months later, he -spoke of it, wishing to lend it to you and wondered why he could not -find it you said nothing to him about your own possession of it." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness blushed through the rolling smoke. "Yes, that was shameful," he -cried. "But I knew that he didn't care about the book and I——" -</p> - -<p> -"What have you to say against these charges?" -</p> - -<p> -"They are all little things," Harkness cried, "small things. Every one -does them. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"Judgment! Judgment! Judgment!" cried the voice, and suddenly he felt -himself moving in the vast waters of human nudity that were slipping -down the incline. He tried to stay himself, he flung out his hands and -touched nothing but cold slimy flesh. -</p> - -<p> -Faster and faster and faster. Colder and colder and colder. Darker and -darker and darker. Despair seized him. He called on his friends. Others -were calling on every side of him. Thousands and thousands of names -mingled in the air. The smoke came up to meet them—vast billowing -clouds of it. He knew with a horrible consciousness that below him a sea -of upturned swords, were waiting to receive them. Soon they would be -impaled. . . . With a shriek of agony he awoke. -</p> - -<p> -He had not been asleep for more, perhaps, than ten minutes, but the -dream had unnerved him. When he rose from the ground he tottered and -stood trembling. He knew now why it was that his enemy had designed that -he should sleep; he knew <i>now</i> that he could no longer ward off the -animal that on padded feet had been approaching him—the pain! The -pain! The pain! -</p> - -<p> -The sweat beaded his forehead, his knees gave way and he sank yet again -upon the floor. He was murmuring: "Anything but that. Anything but that. -I can't stand pain. I can't <i>stand</i> pain, I tell you. Don't you know -that I have always funked it all my life long? That I've always prayed -that whatever else I got it wouldn't be <i>that</i>. That I've never been -able to bear to see the tiniest thing hurt, and that in all my thought -about going to the war, although I didn't try to escape it, it was even -more the pain that I would see than the pain that I would feel. -</p> - -<p> -"And now to wait for it like this, to know that it may be torture of the -worst kind, that I am in the power of a man who can reason no longer, -who is himself in the power of something stronger and more evil than any -of us." -</p> - -<p> -Then dimly it came through to him that he had been given three tests -to-night, and as it always is in life the three tests especially suited -to his character, his strength and weakness, his past history. The dance -had stripped him of his aloofness and drawn him into life, his love for -Hesther that he had surrendered had taken from him his -selfishness—and now he must lose his fear of pain. -</p> - -<p> -But that? How could he lose it? It was part of the very fibre of his -body, his nerves throbbed with it, his heart beat with it. He could not -remember a time when it had not been part of him. When he had been five -or six his father had decided that he must be beaten for some little -crime. His father was the gentlest of human beings, and the beating -would be very little, but at the sight of the whip something had cracked -inside his brain. -</p> - -<p> -He was not a coward; he had stood up to the beating without a tear, but -the sense of the coming pain had been more awful than anything that he -could have imagined. It was the same afterwards at school. He was no -coward there either, shared in the roughest games, stood up to bullies, -ventured into the most dangerous places. -</p> - -<p> -But one night earache had attacked him. It was a new pain for him and he -thought that he had never known anything so terrible. Worse than all -else were the intermissions between the attacks and the warnings that a -new attack was soon to begin. That approach was what he feared, that -terrible and fearful approach. He had said very little, had only lain -there white and trembling, but the memory of all those awful hours -stayed with him always. -</p> - -<p> -Any thought of suffering in others—of poor women in childbirth, of -rabbits caught in traps, of dogs poisoned, of children run over or -accidentally wounded—these things, if he knew of them, produced an -odd sort of sympathetic pain in himself. The strangest thing had been that -the war, with all its horrors, had not driven him crazy as he might have -expected from his earlier history. On so terrible a scale was it that -his senses soon became numbed? He did the work that he was given to do, -and heard of the rest like cries beyond the wall. Again and again he had -tried to mingle, himself, in it; he had always been prevented. -</p> - -<p> -A dog run over by a motor car struck him more terribly than all the -agonies of Ypres. -</p> - -<p> -But these things, what had they to do with his present case? He could -not think at all. His brain literally reeled, as though it shook, tried -to steady itself, could not, and then turned right over. His body was -alive, standing up with all its nerves on tiptoe. How was he to endure -these hours that were coming to him? -</p> - -<p> -"I must get out of this!" some one, not himself, cried. It seemed to him -that he could hear the strange voice in the room. "I must get out of -this. How dare they keep me if I demand to be let out? I am an American -citizen. Let me out of this. Can't you hear? Bring me a light and let me -out. I have had enough of this dark room. What do you mean by keeping me -here? You think that you are stronger than I. Try it and see. Let me -out, I say! Let me out!" -</p> - -<p> -He tottered to his feet and ran across the room, although he could not -see his way, blundering against the opposite wall. He beat upon it with -his hands. -</p> - -<p> -"Let me out, do you hear! Let me out!" -</p> - -<p> -He was not himself, Harkness. He could no longer repeat those earlier -words. He was nobody, nothing, nothing at all. They could not hurt him -then. Try as they might they could not hurt him, Harkness, when he was -not Harkness. He laughed, stroking the wall gently with his hand as -though it were his friend. -</p> - -<p> -"It's all right, do you see? You can't hurt me because you can't find -me. I'm hiding, <i>I</i> don't know where to find myself, so that it isn't -likely you will find me. You can't hurt nothing, you know. You can't -indeed." -</p> - -<p> -He laughed and laughed and laughed—gently enjoying his own joke. -There was a sudden knocking at the door. -</p> - -<p> -"Come in!" he said in a whisper. "Come in!" -</p> - -<p> -His heart stood still with fear. -</p> - -<p> -The door opened, splashing into the darkness a shower of light like -water flung from a bucket. In the centre of this the two Japanese were -standing. -</p> - -<p> -"Master says please come. If you ready he ready." -</p> - -<p> -At sight of the Japanese a marvellous thing had happened. All his fear -had on the instant left him, his beastly physical fear. It fell from him -like an old suit of clothes, discarded. He was himself, clear-headed, -cool, collected, and in some strange new way, happy. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness followed them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Harkness followed, conscious only of one thing, his sudden marvellous -and happy deliverance from fear. He could not analyse it—he did not -wish to. He did not consider the probable length of its duration. Enough -that for the present Crispin might cut him into small pieces, skin him -alive, boil him in a large pot like a lobster, and he would not care. He -followed the sleek servants like a schoolboy. -</p> - -<p> -The Tower? Then at last he was to see the interior of this mysterious -place. It had exercised, all through this adventure, a strange influence -over him, standing up in his imagination white and pure and apart, -washed by the sea, guarded by the woods behind it, having a spirit -altogether of its own and quite separate from the man who for the moment -occupied it. This would be perhaps the last building on this world that -would see his bones move and have their being, he had a sense that it -knew and sympathised with him and wished him luck. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile he walked quietly. His chance would still come and with Dunbar -beside him. Or was he never to see Dunbar again? Some of his newfound -courage trembled. The worst of this present moment was his loneliness. -Was the final crisis to be fought out by himself with no friends at -hand? Was he never to see Hesther again? He had an impulse to throw -himself forward, attack the servants, and let come what will. The -silence of the house was terrible—only their footsteps soft on the -thick carpet—and if he could wring a cry or two from his enemies that -would be something. No, he must wait. The happiness of others was -involved with his own. -</p> - -<p> -The men stopped before a dark-wooded door. -</p> - -<p> -They went through and were met by a white circular staircase. Up this -they passed, paused before another door, and crossed the threshold into -a high circular brilliantly-lit room. For the moment Harkness, his eyes -dimmed a little by the shadows of the staircase, could see nothing but -the gayness, brightness of the place papered with a wonderful Chinese -pattern of green and purple birds, cherry-coloured pagodas and crimson -temples. The carpet was a soft heavy purple, and there was a number of -little gilt chairs, and, in front of the narrow barred window, a gilt -cage with a green and crimson macaw. -</p> - -<p> -All this, standing by the door shading his eyes from the dazzling -crystal candelabra, he took in. Then suddenly saw something that swept -away the rest—Hesther and Dunbar standing together, hand in hand, by -the window. He gave a cry of joy, hurrying towards them. It was as -though he had not seen them for years; they caught his hand in theirs; -Crispin was there watching them like a benevolent father with his -beloved children. -</p> - -<p> -"That's right," he said. "Make the most of your time together. I want -you to have a last talk." -</p> - -<p> -He sat down on one of the gilt chairs. -</p> - -<p> -"Won't you sit down? In a moment I shall leave you alone together for a -little while. In case you have any last words. . . ." Then he leaned -forward in that fashion so familiar now to Harkness, huddled together, -his red hair and little eyes and pale white soft hands alone alive. "Well, -and so—in my power, are you not? The three of you. You can laugh -at my ugliness and my stupidity and my bad character, but now you are in -my hands completely. I can do whatever I like with you. Whatever . . . -the last shame, the last indignity, the uttermost pain. I, ludicrous -creature that I am, have absolute power over three fine young things -like you, so strong, so beautiful. And then more power and then more and -then more. And over many finer, grander, more beautiful than you. I can -say crawl and you will crawl, dance and you will dance. . . . I who am -so ugly that every one has always laughed at me. I am a little God, and -perhaps not so little, and soon God Himself. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He broke off, making the movement of music in the air with his hands. -</p> - -<p> -"You a little overestimate the situation," said Harkness, quietly. "For -the moment you can do what you like with our bodies because you happen -to have two servants who, with their Jiu-Jitsu and the rest of their -tricks, are stronger than we are. It is not you who are stronger, but -your servants whom your money is able to buy. I guess if I had you tied -to a pillar and myself with a gun in my hand I could make you look -pretty small. And in any case it is only our bodies that you can do -anything with. Ourselves—our real selves—you can't touch." -</p> - -<p> -"Is that so?" said Crispin. "But I have not begun. The fun is all to -come. We will see whether I can touch you or no. And for my -daughter-in-law"—he looked at Hesther—"there is plenty of -time—many years perhaps." -</p> - -<p> -Nothing in all his life would ever appeal more to Harkness than Hesther -then. From the first moment of his sight of her what had attracted him -had been the exquisite mingling of the child and of the woman. She had -been for him at first some sort of deserted waif who had experienced all -the cruelty and harshness of life so desperately early that she had -known life upside down, and this had given her a woman's endurance and -fortitude. She was like a child who has dressed up in her mother's -clothes for a party and then finds that she must take her mother's -place. -</p> - -<p> -And now when she must, after this terrible night, be physically beyond -all her resources she seemed, in her shabby ill-made dress, her hair -disordered, her face pale, her eyes ringed with grey, to have a new -courage that must be similar to that which he had himself been given. -She kept her hand in Dunbar's, and with a strange dim unexpected pain -Harkness realised that new relation between the two of which he had made -the foundation had grown through danger and anxiety the one for another -already to a fine height. Then he was conscious that Hesther was -speaking. She had come forward quite close to Crispin and stood in front -of him looking him calmly and clearly in the eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Please let me say something. After all I am the principal person in -this. If it hadn't been for me there would not have been any of this -trouble. I married your son. I married him, not because I loved him, but -because I wanted things that I thought that you could give me. I see now -how wrong that was and that I must pay for doing such a thing. I am -ready to do right by your son. I never would have tried to run away if -it had not been for you—the other night. After that I was right to -do everything I could to get away. I begged your son first—and he -refused. You have had me watched during the last three weeks—every -step that I have taken. What could I do but try to escape? -</p> - -<p> -"We've failed, and because we've failed and because it has been all my -fault I want you to punish me in any way you like but to let my two -friends go. I was not wrong to try to escape." She threw up her head -proudly, "I was right after the way you had behaved to me, but now it is -different. I have brought them into this. They have done nothing wrong. -You must let them go." -</p> - -<p> -"You must let all of us go." Dunbar broke in hotly, starting forward to -Hesther's side. "Do you think we're afraid of you, you old play-acting -red-haired monkey? You just let us free or it will be the worse for you. -Do you know where you'll be this time to-morrow? Beating your fancy -coloured hair against a padded cell, and that's where you should have -been years ago." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," Hesther broke in. "No, no, David. That's not the way. You -don't understand. Don't listen to him. I'm the only one in this, I tell -you—can't you hear me?—that I will stay. I won't try to run -away, you can do anything to me you like. I'll obey you—I will -indeed. Please, please— Don't listen to him. He doesn't -understand. But I do. Let them go. They've done no harm. They only -wanted to help me. They didn't mean anything against you. They didn't -truly. Oh! let them go! Let them go!" -</p> - -<p> -In spite of her struggle for self-control her terror was rising, her -terror never for herself but now only for them. She knew, more than -they, of what he was. She saw perhaps in his face more than they would -ever see. -</p> - -<p> -But Harkness saw enough. He saw rising into Crispin's eyes the soul of -that strange hairy fetid-smelling animal between whose paws Crispin's -own soul was now lying. That animal looked out of Crispin's eyes. And -behind that gaze was Crispin's own terror. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin said: -</p> - -<p> -"This is very comforting for me. I have waited for this moment." Then -Harkness came over to him and stood very close to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Crispin, listen to me. It isn't the three of us who matter in this, it -is yourself. Whatever you do to us we are safe. Whatever you think or -hope you can't touch the real part of us, but for yourself to-night this -is a matter of life or death. -</p> - -<p> -"I may know nothing about medicine and yet know enough to tell you that -you're a sick man—badly sick—and if you let this animal that -has his grip on you get the better of you in the next two hours you're -finished, you're dead. You know that as well as I. You know that you're -possessed of an evil spirit as surely as the man with the spirits that -cleared the Gadarene swine into the sea. It isn't for our sakes that I -ask you to let us go to-night. Let us go. You'll never hear from any of -us again. In the morning, in the decent daylight, you'll know that -you've won a victory more important than any you've ever won in your -life. -</p> - -<p> -"You talk about mastering us, man. Master your own evil spirit. You know -that you loathe it, that you've loathed it for years, that you are -miserable and wretched under it. It is life or death for you to-night, I -tell you. You know that as well as I." -</p> - -<p> -For one moment, a brief flashing moment, Harkness met for the first and -for the last time the real Crispin. No one else saw that meeting. -Straight into the eyes, gazing out of them exactly as a prisoner gazes -from behind iron bars, jumped the real Crispin, something sad, starved -and dying. One instant of recognition and he was gone. -</p> - -<p> -"That is very kind of you, Mr. Harkness," Crispin said. "I knew that I -should enjoy this quarter of an hour's chat with you all and truly I am -enjoying it. My friend Dunbar shows himself to be quite frankly the -young ruffian he is. It will be interesting to see whether in—say an -hour's time from now—he is still in the same mind. I doubt it; quite -frankly I doubt it very much. It is these robust natures that break the -easiest. But you other two—really how charming. All altruism and -unselfishness. This lady has no thought for anything but her friends, -and Mr. Harkness, like all Americans, is full of fine idealism. And you -are all standing round me as though you were my children listening to a -fairy story. Such a pretty picture! -</p> - -<p> -"And when you come to think of it here I am quite alone, all -defenceless, one to three. Why don't you attack me? Such an admirable -opportunity! Can it be fear? Fear of an old fat ugly man like me, a man -at whom every one laughs!" -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar made a movement. Harkness cried: "Don't move, Dunbar. Don't touch -him. That's what he wants." -</p> - -<p> -Crispin got up. They were now all standing in a little group close -together. Crispin gathered his dressing-gown around him. -</p> - -<p> -"The time is nearly up," he said. "I am going to leave you alone -together for a little last talk. You'll never see one another again -after this, so you had best make the most of it. You see that I am not -really unkind." -</p> - -<p> -"It is hopeless." Harkness turned round to the window. "God help us -all." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, it is hopeless," Crispin said gently. "At last my time has come. -Do you know how long I have waited for it? Do you know what you -represent to me? You have done me wrong, the two of you, broken my -hospitality, betrayed my bread and salt, invaded my home. I have justice -if I punish you for that. But you stand also for all the others, for all -who have insulted me and laughed at me and mocked at me. I have power at -last. I shall prick you and you shall bleed. I shall spit on you and you -shall bow your heads, and then when you are at my feet stung with a -thousand wounds I will raise you and care for you and love you, and you -shall share my power——" -</p> - -<p> -He jumped suddenly from his gilt chair and stuttered, waving his hands -as though he were commanding an army, towards the macaw who was asleep -with his head under his crimson wing. "I shall be king in my own right, -king of men, emperor of mankind, then one with the gods, and at the last -I will shower my gifts. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He broke off, looking up at a red lacquer clock that stood on a little -round gilt table. "Time—time—time nearly up!" He swung round -upon the three of them. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar burst out: -</p> - -<p> -"Don't flatter yourself that you'll get away to-morrow. When we're -missed——" -</p> - -<p> -"You won't be missed," Crispin answered with a sigh, as though he deeply -regretted the fact. "The hotel will receive a note in the morning saying -that Mr. Harkness has gone for a coast walk, will return in a week, and -will the hotel kindly keep his things until his return? Of course the -hotel most kindly will. For Mr. Dunbar—well, I believe there is only -an aunt in Gloucester, is there not? It will be, I imagine, a month at -least before she makes any inquiry. Possibly a year. Possibly never. Who -knows? Aunts are often extraordinarily careless about their nephew's -safety. And in a week. Where can one not be in a week in these modern -days? Very far indeed. Then there is the sea. Anything dropped from the -garden over the cliff so completely vanishes, and their faces are so -often—well, spoilt beyond recognition. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -"If you do this," Hesther cried, "I will——" -</p> - -<p> -"I regret to say," interrupted Crispin, "that after eight this morning -you will not see your father-in-law of whom you are so fond for six -months at least. Ah, that is good news for you, I am sure. That is not -to say you will never see him again. Dear me, no. But not immediately. -Not immediately!" -</p> - -<p> -Harkness caught Hesther's hand. He saw that she was about to make some -desperate movement. "Wait," he said; "wait. We can do nothing now." -</p> - -<p> -For answer she drew him to her and flung out her hand to Dunbar. "We -three. We love one another," she cried. "Do your worst." -</p> - -<p> -Crispin looked once more at the clock. "Melodrama," he said. "I, too, -will be melodramatic. I give you twenty minutes by that clock—a -situation familiar to every theatre-goer. When that clock strikes six I -shall, I'm afraid, want the company of both of you gentlemen. Make your -adieus then to the lady. Your eternal adieus." -</p> - -<p> -He smiled and gently tip-toed from the room. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -"And so the curtain falls on Act Three of this pleasant little drama," -said Dunbar, huskily, turning towards the window. "There will be a -twenty minutes' interval. But the last act will be played <i>in camera.</i> -If only one wasn't so beastly tired—and if only it wasn't all my -fault. . . ." His voice broke. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness went up to him, put his arm around him and drew him to him. -"Look here. I'm older than both of you. I might almost be your father, -so you've got to obey my orders. I'll be best man at your wedding yet, -David, yours and Hesther's. There's nobody to blame. Nothing but the -fog. But don't let's cheat ourselves either. We're shut up here at -half-past five in the morning miles from any help, no way out, no -telephone, and two damn Japs who are stronger than we are, in the power -of a man who's as mad as a hatter and as bloodthirsty as a tiger. -</p> - -<p> -"It's going to be all right, I tell you. I know it. I feel it in my -bones. But we've got to behave for these twenty minutes—only -seventeen of them now—as though it won't be. It's of no use for us -to make any plan. We'll have to do something on the spur of the moment -when we see what the old devil has up his sleeve for us——" -</p> - -<p> -"Meanwhile, as I say, make the best of these minutes." -</p> - -<p> -He put out his arm and drew Hesther in. -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you that I love you both. I've only known you a day, but I love -you as I've never loved any one in my life before. I love you as father -and brother and comrade. It's the best thing that has happened to me in -all my life." -</p> - -<p> -The three, body to body, stood looking out through the gilded bars at -the sky, silver grey, and washed with shifting shadows. -</p> - -<p> -"After all," he went on, "if our luck doesn't hold, and we are going to -die in the next hour or so, what is it? It's only what millions of -fellows passed through in the war and under much more terrible -conditions. Imagination is the worst part of that I fancy, and I suggest -that we don't think of what is going to happen when this time is -over—whether it goes well or ill—we'll fill these twenty -minutes with every decent thought we've got, we'll think of every fine -thing that we know of, and every beautiful thing, and everything that is -of good report." -</p> - -<p> -"All I pray," said Dunbar, "is that I may have one last dash at that -lunatic before good-bye. He can have a hundred Japs around him but I'll -get at him somehow. Harkness, you're a brick. I brought you into this. I -had no right to, but I'm not going to apologise. We're here. The thing's -done, and if it hadn't been for that rotten fog——But you're -right, Harkness. We'll think of all the ripping things we know. With me -it's simple enough. Because the beginning and the middle and the end of -it is Hesther. Hesther first and Hesther second and Hesther all the -time." -</p> - -<p> -He didn't look at her, but stared out of the window. -</p> - -<p> -"By Jove, the sun's coming. It's been up round the corner ever so long. -It will just about hit the window in another ten minutes. It seems kind -of stupid to stand here doing nothing." -</p> - -<p> -He stepped forward and felt the bars. "Take hours to get through that, -and then there's a drop of hundreds of feet. No, you're about right, -Harkness. There's nothing to be done here but to say good-bye as -decently as possible." -</p> - -<p> -He sighed. "I didn't want to kick the bucket just yet, but there it is, -it can happen to anybody. A fellow can be as strong as a horse, forget -to change his socks and next day be finished. This is better than -pneumonia anyway! All the same I can't help feeling we missed our chance -just now when we had him alone in here——" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, "I was watching him. That's what he wanted, for us -to go for him. I am sure that he had the Japs handy somewhere, and I -think he wanted to hurt us in front of Hesther. But his brain works -queerly. He's formulated a kind of book of rules for himself. If we take -such and such a step then he will take such and such another. A sort of -insane sense of justice. He's worked it all out to the minute. Half the -fun for him has been the planning of it, and then the deliberate -slowness of it, watching us, calculating what we'll do. Really a cat -with mice. There's nothing for deliberate consecutive thinking like a -madman's brain." -</p> - -<p> -Hesther broke in: -</p> - -<p> -"We're wasting time. I know—I feel as you do—that it's going -to be all right, but however he fails with you he <i>can</i> carry me -off somewhere, and so it <i>is</i> very likely that I don't see either -of you again for some time. And if that's so—<i>if</i> that's so, -I just want to say that you've been the finest men in the world to me. -</p> - -<p> -"And I want you to know that whatever turns up for me now—yes, -whatever it is—it <i>can't</i> be as bad as it was before -yesterday. I can't ever again be as unhappy as I was now that I've known -both of you as I've known you this night. -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't realise, David, how I felt about you until Mr. Harkness showed -me. I've been so selfish all these years, and I suppose I shall go on -being selfish, because one doesn't change all in a minute, but at least -I've got the two best friends a woman ever had." -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther," Dunbar said, turning towards her, "if we get free of this and -you can get rid of that man—I ask you as I've asked you every week -for the last ten years—will you marry me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said. But for the moment she turned to Harkness. He was -looking through the bars out to the sky where the mist was now very -faintly rose like the coloured smoke of far distant fire. She put her -hand on his shoulder, keeping her other hand in Dunbar's. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know why you said you were so much older than we are. You're -not. Do you promise to be the friend of both of us always?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said. Something mockingly repeated in his brain, "It is a far -better thing that I do——" -</p> - -<p> -He burst out laughing. The macaw awoke, put up his head and screamed. -</p> - -<p> -"You are both younger by centuries than I," he said. "I was born old. I -was born with the Old Man of Europe singing in my ears. I was born to -the inheritance of borrowed culture. The gifts that the fairies gave me -at my cradle were Michael Angelo's 'David,' Rembrandt's 'Goldweigher's -Field,' the 'Temples at Pæstum,' the Da Vinci 'Last Supper,' the -Breughels at Vienna, the view of the Jungfrau from Mürren, the -Grand Canal at dawn, Hogarth's prints, and the Quintet of the -<i>Meistersinger</i>. Yes, the gifts were piled up all right. But just as -they were all showered upon me in stepped the Wicked Fairy and said that -I should have them all—on condition that I didn't touch! Never -touch—never. At least I've known that they were there, at least -I've bent the knee, but—until last night—until last -night. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He suddenly took Hesther's face between his two hands, kissed her on the -forehead, on the eyes, on the mouth: -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know what's coming in a quarter of an hour. I don't like to -think. To tell you the truth I'm in the devil of a funk. But I love you, -I love you, I love you. Like an uncle you know or at least like a -brother. You've taken a match and set fire to this old tinder-box that's -been dry and dusty so long, and now it's alight—such a pretty blaze!" -</p> - -<p> -He broke away from them both with a smile that suddenly made him look -young as they'd never seen him: -</p> - -<p> -"I've danced the town, I've climbed rocks. I've dared the devil. I've -fallen in love, and I know at last that there's such a hunger for beauty -in my soul that it must go on and on and on. Why should it be there? My -parents hadn't it, my sisters haven't it, no one tried to give it to me. -I've done nothing with it until last night, but now when I've needed it, -it's come to my help. I've touched life at last. I'm alive. I never can -die any more!" -</p> - -<p> -The macaw screamed again and again, beating at the cage with its wings. -</p> - -<p> -"Hesther, never lose courage. Remember that he can't touch you, that no -one can touch you. You're your own immortal mistress." -</p> - -<p> -The red-lacquered clock struck the quarter, and at the same moment the -sun hit the window. Strange to see how instantly that room with the -coloured pagodas, the fantastic temple, the gilt chairs and the purple -carpet shivered into tinsel. The dust floated on the ladder of the sun: -the blue of the early morning sky was coloured faintly like a bird's -wing. -</p> - -<p> -The sun flooded the room, wrapping them all in its mantle. -</p> - -<p> -"Let's sit down," said Dunbar, pulling three of the gilt chairs into the -centre of the room where the sun shone brightest. "I've a kind of idea -that we'll need all the strength we've got in a few minutes. That's fine -what you said, Harkness, about being alive, although I didn't follow you -altogether. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not very artistic. A man who's been on the sea since he was a small -kid doesn't go to many picture galleries and he doesn't read books much -either. To tell you the truth there's always such a lot to do, and when -I've finished the <i>Daily Mail</i> there doesn't seem time for much more, -except a shocker sometimes. The sort of mess we're in now wouldn't make -a bad shocker, would it? Only you'd never be able to make Crispin -convincing. All I know is, if I wrote a book about him I'd have him -tortured at the end with little red devils and plenty of pincers. -However, I get what you mean, Harkness, about being alive. -</p> - -<p> -"I felt something of the same thing in the war sometimes. At Jutland, -although I was in the devil of a funk all the time, I was sort of -pleased with myself too. Life's always seemed a bit unreal since the -armistice, until last night. And it's a funny thing, but when I was -helping Hesther climb out of that window and expecting Crispin Junior to -poke his head up any minute I had just that same pleased-all-over -feeling that I had at Jutland. So that's about the same as you feel, -Harkness, only different, of course, because of your education. . . . -Hesther, if we win out of this and you marry me I'll be so good to -you—so good to you—that——" -</p> - -<p> -He beat his hands desperately on his knees. "Here's the time slipping -and we don't seem to be doing anything with it. It's always been my -trouble that I've never been able to say what I mean—couldn't find -words, you know. I can't now, but it's simple enough what I -mean——" -</p> - -<p> -Hesther said: "If we only have ten minutes like this it's so hard to -choose what you would say, but I'd like you to know, David, that I -remember everything we've ever done together—the time I missed the -train at Truro and was so frightened about father, and you said you'd -come in with me, and father hadn't even noticed I'd been away; and the -time you brought me the pink fan from Madrid; and the time I had that -fever and you sat up all night outside my room, those two days father -was away; and the day Billy fell over the Bring Rock and you climbed -down after him; and the time you brought me that Sealyham and father -wouldn't let me have him; and the time just before you went off to South -Africa and I wouldn't say good-bye. I've hurt you so many times and you've -never been angry with me once—or only that once. Do you remember -the day I struck you in the face because you said I was more like a boy -than a girl? I thought you were laughing at me because I was so untidy -and dirty and so I hit you. And do you remember you sprang on me like a -tiger, and for a moment I thought you were going to kill me? You said no -one had ever struck you without getting it back. Then suddenly you -pulled yourself in—just like going inside and shutting your door. -</p> - -<p> -"I've never seen you until to-night, David. I've been blind to you. -You've been too close to me for me to see you. It will be all right. -We'll come out of this and then we'll have such times—such wonderful -times——" -</p> - -<p> -She came up to him, drew his head to her breast. He knelt on the floor -at her feet, his arms round her, his head on her bosom. She stroked his -hair, looking out beyond him to the blue of the sky. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness felt a mad wildness of impatience. He went to the window and -tugged at the bars. In despair his hands fell to his side. -</p> - -<p> -"The only chance, Dunbar, is to go straight for him the moment we're out -of this room, even if those damned Japs are with him. We can't do much, -but we may smash him up a bit first. Then there's Jabez. We've forgotten -Jabez. Where's he been all this time?" -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar looked up. "I expect he went home after we went off." -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Harkness, "he was to be there till six. He told me. What's -happened to him? At any rate he'll give the alarm if we don't turn up." -</p> - -<p> -"No, he'll think we got safely off." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I suppose he will. My God, it's five to six. Look here, stand up a -moment." -</p> - -<p> -They stood up. -</p> - -<p> -"Let's take hands. Let's swear this. Whatever happens to us now, whether -some of us survive or none, whether we die now or live happily ever -afterwards, we'll be friends forever, nothing shall ever separate us, -for better or worse we're together for always." -</p> - -<p> -They swore it. -</p> - -<p> -"And see here. If I don't come out of this don't have any regrets either -of you. Don't think you brought me into this against my will. Don't -think that whichever way it goes I regret a moment of it. You've given -me the finest time." -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar laughed. "I sort of feel we're going to have a chance yet. After -all, he's been probably playing with us, trying to frighten us. There'll -be nothing in it, you see. Anyway I'll get a crack at his skull, and now -that I've got you, Hesther, I wouldn't give up this night for all the -wealth of the Indies. I don't know about life or death. I've never -thought much about it, to tell you the honest truth, but I bet that any -one who's as fond of any one as I am of you can't be very far away -whatever happens to their body." -</p> - -<p> -"There goes six." -</p> - -<p> -The red lacquer clock struck. Hesther flung her arms around Harkness and -kissed him, then Dunbar. -</p> - -<p> -They all stood listening. Just as the clock ceased there was a knock at -the door. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -Harkness went to the door and opened it; not Crispin, as he had -expected, but one of the Japanese. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time he spoke: -</p> - -<p> -"Beg your pardon, sir. The master would be glad you see him upstairs." -Harkness did not look back. He knew that Dunbar and Hesther were clasped -tightly in one another's arms. He walked out closing the door behind -him. He stood with the Japanese in the small space waiting. It was a dim -subdued light out here. You could only see the thick stone steps of the -circular staircase winding upwards out of sight. Harkness's brain was -working now with feverish activity. Whatever Crispin's devilish plan -might be he would be there to watch the climax of it. If Harkness and -Dunbar were quick enough they could surely have Crispin throttled before -the Japanese were in time; without Crispin it was likely enough that the -Japanese would be passive. This was no affair of theirs. They simply -obeyed their master's orders. -</p> - -<p> -He wondered why he had not attempted something in that room just now, -why, indeed, he had prevented Dunbar; but some instinct had told him -then that Crispin was longing to shame them in some way before Hesther. -He had then an almost overpowering impulse to turn back, run into that -room, fling his arms about Hesther and hold her until those devils -pulled them apart. It was an impulse that rose blinding his eyes, -deafening his ears, stunning his brain. He half turned. The door opened -and Dunbar came out. Harkness sighed with relief. At the sight of Dunbar -the temptation left him. -</p> - -<p> -They mounted the stairs, one Japanese in front of them, the other -behind. At the next break in the flight the Japanese turned and opened a -door on the left. -</p> - -<p> -"In here, gentlemen, if you please," he said, bowing. -</p> - -<p> -They entered a small room with no windows, quite dark save for one dim -electric light in the ceiling, and without furniture save for two wicker -chairs. -</p> - -<p> -They stood there waiting. "The master," said the Japanese, "he much -obliged if you gentlemen will kindly take your clothes off." -</p> - -<p> -For a moment there was silence. They had not realised the words. Then -Dunbar broke out: "No, by God, no! Strip for that swine! Harkness come -on! You go for that fellow, I'll take this one!" and instantly he had -hurled himself on the Japanese nearest the door. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness flung at the one who had spoken. He was conscious of his -fingers clutching at the thin cotton stuff of the clothes, and, beneath -the clothes, the cold hard steel of the limbs. His arms gripped upwards, -caught the cloth of the shirt, tore it, slipped on the smooth hairless -chest. Then in his left forearm there was a pain, sharp as though some -ravenous animal had bitten him there, then an agony in the middle of his -back, then in his left thigh. -</p> - -<p> -Against his will he cried out; the pain was terrible—awful. Every -nerve in his body was rebelling so that he had neither strength nor force. -He slipped to the floor, writhing involuntarily with the agony of the -twisted muscle and, even as he slipped, he saw sliding down over him, -impervious, motionless, fixed like a shining mask, the face of the -Japanese. -</p> - -<p> -He lay on the floor; panic flooded him. His helplessness, the terror of -what was coming next, the fright of the dark—it was all he could do -at that moment not to burst into tears and cry like a child. -</p> - -<p> -He was lying on the floor, and the Japanese, kneeling beside him, had -one arm under him as though to make his position more comfortable. -</p> - -<p> -"Very sorry," the Japanese murmured in his ear; "the master's orders." -</p> - -<p> -As the pain withdrew he felt only an intense relief and thankfulness. He -did not care about what had gone before nor mind what followed. All he -wished was to be left like that until the wild beating of his heart -softened and his pulse was again tranquil. -</p> - -<p> -Then he thought of Dunbar. He turned his head and saw that Dunbar also -was lying on the floor, on his side. Not a sound came from him. The -other Japanese was bending over him. -</p> - -<p> -"Dunbar!" Harkness cried in a voice that to his own surprise was only a -whisper, "wait. It's no good with these fellows. We'll have our chance -later." -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar replied, the words gritted from between his teeth: "No—it's no -good—with these devils. It's all right though. I'm cheery." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness saw then that the Japanese had been stripping Dunbar, and he -noticed with a curious little wonder that his clothes had been arranged -in a neat tidy pile—his socks, his collar, his braces, on his shirt -and trousers. He saw the Japanese move forward as though to help Dunbar to -his feet; there was a movement as though Dunbar were pushing him away. -He rose to his feet, naked, strong, his head up, swung out his arms, -pushed out his chest. -</p> - -<p> -"No bones broken with their monkey tricks. Hurry up, Harkness. We may as -well go into the sea together. I bet the water's cold." -</p> - -<p> -But no. The Japanese said something. Dunbar broke out: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm damned if I will." Then, turning to Harkness: "He says I've got to -go on by myself. It seems they're going to separate us. Rotten luck, but -there's no fighting these two fellows here. Well, cheerio, Harkness. -You've been a mighty fine pal, if we don't meet again. Only that rotten -fog did us in." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness struggled to his knees. "No, no, Dunbar. They shan't separate -us. They shan't——" but there was a touch of a hand on his arm -and instantly, as though to save at all costs another pressure of that -nerve, he sank back. -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar went out, one of the Japanese following him. The door closed. -</p> - -<p> -Now indeed Harkness needed all his fortitude. He had never felt such -loneliness as this. From the beginning of the adventure there had been -an element so fantastic, so improbable, that except at certain moments -he had never believed in the final reality of it. There was something -laughable, ludicrous about Crispin himself; he had been like a child -playing with his toys. Now absolutely Harkness was face to face with -reality. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin did mean all that he had threatened. And what that might -be——! -</p> - -<p> -The Japanese was beginning to take off his clothes, very lightly and -gently pulling his coat from under him. Harkness sat up and assisted -him. This did not matter. Of what significance was it whether he had -clothes or no? What mattered was that he should be out of this horrible -room where there was neither space nor light nor company. Anything -anywhere was better. The Japanese' cool hard fingers slipped about his -body. He himself undid his collar and mechanically dropped his -collar-stud into the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, where he always -put it when he was undressing. He bent forward and took off his shoes. -</p> - -<p> -The Japanese gravely thanked him. There was a small hole in his right -sock and he slipped it off quickly, covering it with his other hand. He -was ashamed for the Japanese to see it. -</p> - -<p> -His clothes were piled as neatly as Dunbar's. He stood up feeling -freshened and cool. -</p> - -<p> -Then the Japanese, bowing, moved to the door. Harkness followed him. -</p> - -<p> -They climbed the stairs once more, the stone striking cold under -Harkness's bare feet. They must now be reaching the very top of the -Tower. There was a sense of space and height about them and a stronger -light. -</p> - -<p> -The Japanese paused, pushed back a door and sharply jerked Harkness -forward. Harkness nearly fell, but was caught by some one else, closed -his eyes involuntarily against a flood of light into which he seemed, -with a curious sensation as though he had dived from a great height, to -be sinking ever deeper and deeper, then to be struggling up through -bursting bubbles of colour. His eyes were still closed against the sun -that pressed like a warm palm upon the lids. -</p> - -<p> -He felt hands moving about him. Then that he was held back against -something cold, then that he was being bound, gently, smoothly; the -bands did not hurt his flesh. There was a pause. He still kept his eyes -closed. Was this death then? The sun beat upon his body warm and strong. -The cool of the pillar to which he was bound was pleasant against his -back. There were boards beneath his feet, and on their dry, friendly -surface his toes curled. A delicious soft lethargy wrapped him round. -Was this death? One sharp pang like the pressure of an aching tooth and -then nothing. Sinking into dark silence through this shaft of deep and -burning sunlight. . . . -</p> - -<p> -He opened his eyes. He cried aloud with astonishment. He was in what was -plainly the top room of the Tower, a high white place with a round -ceiling softly primrose. One high window went the length from floor to -ceiling, and this window, which was without bars, blazed with sun and -shone with the colours of the early morning blue. The room was -white—pure virgin white—round, and bare of furniture. -Only—and this was what had caught the cry from -Harkness—three pillars supported the ceiling, and to these three -pillars were bound by white cord, first himself, then Dunbar, then, -naked as they, Jabez. -</p> - -<p> -The fisherman stood there facing Harkness—a gigantic figure. -Yesterday afternoon on the hill, last night in the garden Harkness had not -recognised the man's huge proportions under his clothes. Now, bound -there, with his black hair and beard, his great chest, the muscle of his -arms and thighs, the sunlight bathing him, he was mighty to see. -</p> - -<p> -His eyes were mild and puzzled like the eyes of a dog who has been -chained against reason. He was making a strange restless motion from -side to side as though he were testing the white cords that held him. -His face above his beard, his neck, the upper part of his chest, his -hands, his legs beneath the knees, were a deep russet brown, the rest of -him a fair white, striking strangely with the jet blackness of his hair. -</p> - -<p> -He smiled as he saw Harkness's astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -"Aye, sir," he said. "It wasn't me you was expectin' to see here, and it -wasn't myself that was expectin' to be here neither." -</p> - -<p> -They were alone—no Japanese, no Crispin. -</p> - -<p> -"I've been in here half an hour before you come," he went on. "And I can -tell you, sir, I was mighty sorry to see them bringin' both you -gentlemen in. Whatever happens to me, I said, they've got clear away. It -never kind of struck me that the fog was going to worry you." -</p> - -<p> -"Why didn't you get away yourself, Jabez?" Harkness asked him. -</p> - -<p> -"They was down on me about an hour after. The fog had come on pretty -thick and I was walkin' up and down out there thinkin'. I hadn't no more -than another hour of it and pleasin' myself to think how mad that old -devil would be when he'd found out what had happened and me safe in my -own house with the mother, when all of a sudden I hear the car snortin'. -'Somethin' up,' I says, and three seconds later, as you might say, they -was on me. If it hadn't been for that fog I might of got clear, but they -was on me before I knew it. I had a bit of a struggle with they dirty -stinkin' foreigners, but they got a lot of dirty tricks an Englishman -would be ashamed of using. Anyway they had me down on the ground pretty -quick and hurt me too. -</p> - -<p> -"They trussed me up like a fowl, carried me into the hall, and didn't -the old red-headed devil spit and curse? You've never seen nothing like -it, sir. Sure raving mad he was that time all right. And he came and -kicked me on the face and pulled my beard and spat in my eyes. I don't -know what's coming to us right now, but I pray the Almighty Father to -give me just one turn with my fist. I'll land him. -</p> - -<p> -"Then, sir, they carried me upstairs and tumbled me into a dark room. -There I was for I wouldn't like to say how long. Then they came in and -took my things off me, the dirty foreigners. It's only a foreigner would -think of a thing like that. I struggled a bit, but what's the use? They -put their thumb in your back and they've got you. Then they tied me up -here. I had to laugh, I did really. Did you ever see such a comic -picture as all three of us without a stitch between us tied up here at -six in the morning? -</p> - -<p> -"When I tell mother about it she'll laugh all right. Like the show down -to St. Ives when they have the boxing. I suppose we'll be getting out of -this all serene, sir, won't we?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course we will," said Dunbar. "Don't you worry, Jabez. He's been -doing all this to frighten us. He daren't touch us really. Why, he'll -have the county about his ears as it is. Don't you worry." -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you, sir," said Jabez, still moving from side to side within the -bands, "because you see, sir, I wouldn't like anything to happen to me -just now. Mother's expectin' an addition to the family in a month or so -and there's six on 'em already, an' it needs a bit of doing looking -after them all. I wouldn't have been working for this dirty blackguard -here if it hadn't been for there being so many of us—not that I'd -have one of them away if you understand me, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't be afraid, Jabez," Dunbar said. "When we get out of this -Mr. Harkness and I will see that you never have any anxiety again. -You've been a wonderful friend to us to-night and we're not likely to -forget it." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, don't you mistake me, sir," said Jabez. "It wasn't no help I was -asking for. I'm doing very well with the boat and the potatoes. It was -only I was thinking I wouldn't like nothing exactly to happen to me -along of this crazy lunatic here if you understand me, sir. . . . I'm -not so sure if they give me time I couldn't get through these bits of -rope here. I'm pretty strong in the arm, or used to be—not so dusty -even now. If I could work at them a bit——" -</p> - -<p> -The door opened and Crispin came in. -</p> - -<p> -He appeared to Harkness as he stepped in, quietly closing the door -behind him, like some strange creature of a dream. He seemed himself, in -the way that he moved with his eyes nearly closed, somnambulistic. He -was wearing now only his white silk pyjamas, and of these the sleeves -were rolled up showing his fat white arms. His red hair stood on end -like an ill-fitting wig. In one hand he carried a curved knife with a -handle of worked gold. -</p> - -<p> -In the room, blazing with sunlight, he was like a creature straight from -the boards of some neighbouring theatre, even to the white powder that -lay in dry flakes upon his face. -</p> - -<p> -He opened his eyes, staring at the sunlight, and in their depths -Harkness saw the strangest mingling of terror, pathos, eager lust, and a -bewildered amazement, as though he were tranced. The gaze with which he -turned to Harkness had in it a sudden appeal; then that appeal sank like -light quenched by water. -</p> - -<p> -He was wrung up on the instant to intensest excitement. His whole body -trembled. His mouth opened as though he would speak, then closed again. -</p> - -<p> -He came close to Harkness. He put out his hand and touched his neck. -</p> - -<p> -"We are alone," he said, in his soft beautiful voice. He stroked -Harkness's neck. The soft boneless fingers. Harkness looked at him, and, -strangely, at that moment their eyes were very close to one another. -They looked at one another gently. In Harkness's eyes was no malice; in -Crispin's that strange mingling of lust and unhappiness. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness only said: "Crispin, whatever you do to us leave that girl -alone. I beg you leave her. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -He closed his eyes then. God helping him he would not speak another -word. But a triumphant exultation surged through him because he knew -that he was not afraid. -</p> - -<p> -There was no fear in him. It was as though the warm sun beating on his -body gave him courage. -</p> - -<p> -Standing behind the safeguard of his closed eyes his real soul seemed to -slip away, to run down the circular staircase into the hall and pass -happily into the garden, down the road to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -His soul was free and Crispin's was imprisoned. -</p> - -<p> -He heard Crispin's voice: "Will you admit now that I have you in my hand? -If I touch you here how you will bleed—bleed to death if I do not -prevent it. Do you remember Shylock and his pound of flesh? 'Oh! upright -Judge!' But there is no judge here to stay me!" -</p> - -<p> -The knife touched him. He felt it as though it had been a wasp's -sting—a small cut it must be—and suddenly there was the cool -trickle of blood down his skin. Then his right shoulder—a prick! -Now a cut again on his arm. Stings—nothing more. But the end had -really come then at last? His hands beneath the bonds moved suddenly of -their own impulse. It was not natural not to strive to be free, to fight -for his life. -</p> - -<p> -He opened his eyes. He was bleeding from five or six little cuts. -Crispin was standing away from him. He saw that Dunbar, crimson in the -face, was struggling frantically with his cords and was shouting. Jabez, -too, was calling out. The room, hitherto so quiet, was alive with -movement. Crispin now stood back from him watching him. The sight of -blood had completed what these weeks had been preparing. -</p> - -<p> -With that first touch of the knife on Harkness's body Crispin's soul had -died. The battle was over. There was an animal here clothed -fantastically in human clothes like a monkey or a dog at a music-hall -show. The animal capered, stood on its hind legs, mowed in the air with -its hands. It crept up to Harkness and, whining like a dog, pricked him -with the knife point now here, now there, in a hundred places. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness looked out once more at the great window with its splash of -glorious sky, then ceased to struggle with his cords. His lips moved in -some prayer perhaps, and once more, surely now for the last time, he -closed his eyes. He had a strange vision of all the moving world beyond -that window. At that moment at the hotel the maids would be sweeping the -corridors, people would be stirring and rubbing their eyes and looking -at their watches; in the town family breakfasts would be preparing, men -would be sauntering down the narrow streets to their work; the -connection with the London train would be running in with the London -papers, already the men and women would be in the fields, the women -would be waiting perhaps for the fishing-fleet to come in, Mrs. Jabez -would be at the cottage door looking up the road for her husband. . . . -</p> - -<p> -His heart pounded into his mouth, with a mighty impulse he drove it -back. Crispin was laughing. The knife was raised. His face was wrinkled. -He was running round the room, round and round, making with the knife -strange movements in the air. He was whispering to himself. Round and -round and round he ran, words pouring from his mouth in a thick unending -stream. They were not words, they were sounds, and once and again a -strange sigh like a catch of the breath, like a choke in the throat. He -ran, bending, not looking at the three men, bending low as though as he -ran he were looking for something on the floor. -</p> - -<p> -Then quite suddenly he straightened himself, and with a growl and a -snarl, the knife raised in one hand, hurled himself at Jabez. -</p> - -<p> -All followed then quickly. The knife flashed in the sunlight. It seemed -that the hands caught at Jabez's eyes, first one and then another, but -there had been more than the hands because suddenly blood poured from -those eyes, spouting over, covering the face, mingling with the beard. -</p> - -<p> -With a great cry Jabez put forth his strength. Stung by agony to a power -that he had never known until then his body seemed to rise from the -ground, to become something superhuman, immortal. The great head -towered, the limbs spread out, it seemed for a moment as though the -pillar itself would fall. -</p> - -<p> -The cord that tied him to the pillar snapped and his hands were free. He -tottered, the blood pouring from his face. He moved, blindly, -staggering. Not a sound had come from him since that first cry. -</p> - -<p> -His hands flung out, and in another moment Crispin was caught into his -arms. He raised him. The little fat hands fluttered. The knife flashed -loosely and fell to the ground. The giant swung into the middle of the -room blinded, but holding to himself ever tighter and ever tighter the -short fat body. -</p> - -<p> -Crispin, his head tossed back, his legs flung out in an agony now of -terror, screamed with a strange shrill cry like a rabbit entrapped. -</p> - -<p> -Jabez turned, and now he had Crispin's soft chest against his bleeding -face, the arms fluttering above his head. As he turned his shoulder -touched the glass of the window. He pushed backward with his arm and the -window swung open, some of the broken glass tinkling to the ground. -There was a great rush of air. -</p> - -<p> -That strange thing, like no human body, the white silk, the brown -slippers, the red hair, swung. For one second of time, suspended as it -were on the thread of that long animal scream, so shrill and yet so thin -and distant, the white face, its little eyes staring, the painted mouth -open, hung towards Harkness. Then into the air like a coloured bundle of -worthless junk, for a moment a dark shadow across the steeple of -sunlight, and then down, down, into fathomless depths of air, leaving -the space of sky stainless, the morning blue without taint. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Jabez stood for a moment facing them, his chest heaving in convulsive -pants. Then crying, "My eyes! My eyes!" crumpled to the floor. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -First Harkness was conscious of a wonderful silence. Then into the -silence, borne in on the back of the sea breeze, he heard the wild -chattering of a multitude of birds. The room was filled with their -chatter, up from the trees, crowding the room with their life. -</p> - -<p> -Straight past the window, like an arrow shot from a bow, flashed a -sea-gull. Then another more slowly wheeled down, curving against the -blue like a wave released into air. -</p> - -<p> -He recognized all these things, and then once again that wonderful -blessed stillness. All was peace, all repose. He might rest for ever. -</p> - -<p> -After, it seemed, an infinity of time, and from a vast distance, he -caught Dunbar's voice: -</p> - -<p> -". . . Jabez! Jabez! Jabez, old fellow! The man's fainted. Harkness, are -you all right? Did he hurt you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," Harkness quietly answered. "He didn't hurt me. He meant to, -though. . . ." Then a green curtain of dark thick cloth swept through -the heavens and caught him into its folds. He knew nothing more. The -last thing he heard was the glorious happy chattering of the birds. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -He slowly climbed an infinity of stairs, up and up and up. The stairs -were hard to climb, but he knew that at their summit there would be a -glorious view, and, for that view, he would undergo any hardship. But -oh! he was tired, desperately tired. He could hardly raise one foot -above another. -</p> - -<p> -He had been walking with his eyes closed because it was cooler that way. -Then a bee stung him. Then another. On the chest. Now on the arm. Now a -whole flight. He cried out. He opened his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He was lying on a bed. People were about him. He had been climbing those -stairs naked. It would never do that those strangers should see him. He -must speak of it. His hand touched cloth. He was wearing trousers. His -chest was bare, and some one was bending over him touching places here -and there on his body with something that stung. Not bees after all. He -looked up with mildly wondering eyes and saw a face bending over -him—a kindly bearded face, a face that he could trust. Not -like—not like—that strange mask face of the Japanese. . . . -That other. . . . -</p> - -<p> -He struggled on to his elbow crying: "No, no. I can't any more. I've had -enough. He's mad, I tell you——" -</p> - -<p> -A kind rough voice said to him: "That's all right, my friend. That's all -over. No harm done——" -</p> - -<p> -My friend! That sounded good. He looked round him and in the distance -saw Dunbar. He broke into smiles holding out his hand. -</p> - -<p> -"Dunbar, old man! That's fine. So you're all right?" -</p> - -<p> -Dunbar came over, sat on his bed, putting his arm around him. -</p> - -<p> -"All right? I should think so. So are we all. Even Jabez isn't much the -worse. That devil missed his eyes, thank heaven. He'll have two scars to -the end of his time to remind him, though." -</p> - -<p> -Harkness sat up. He knew now where he was, on a sofa in the hall—in -the hall with the tattered banners and the clock that coughed like a dog. -He looked at the clock—just a quarter to seven! Only three-quarters -of an hour since that awful knock on the door. -</p> - -<p> -Then he saw Hesther. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, thank God!" he whispered to himself. "<i>Nunc dimittis</i>. . . ." -</p> - -<p> -She came to him. The three sat together on the sofa, the bearded man -(the doctor from the village under the cliff, Harkness afterwards found) -standing back, looking at them, smiling. -</p> - -<p> -"Now tell me," Harkness said, looking at Dunbar, "the rest that I don't -know." -</p> - -<p> -"There isn't much to tell. We were only there another ten minutes. When -you fainted off I felt a bit queer myself, but I just kept together, and -then heard some one running up the stairs. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought it was one of the Japs returning, but there was a great -banging on the door and then shouting in a good old Cornish accent. I -called back that I was tied up in there and that they must break in the -door. That they did and burst in—two fishermen and old Possiter the -policeman from Duntrent. He's somewhere about the house now with two of -the Treliss policemen. Well, it seems that a fellow, Jack Curtis, was -going up the hill to his morning work in the Creppit fields above the -wood here when he heard a strange cry, and, turning the corner of the road, -finds on the path above the rocks, Crispin—pretty smashed up you -know. He ran—only a yard or two—to the Possiters' cottage. -Possiter was having his breakfast and was up here in no time. They got into -the house through a window and saw the two Japanese clearing off up the -back garden. Curtis chased them but they beat him and vanished into the -wood. They stopped two other men who were passing and then came on Hesther -tied up in the library. She sent them to the Tower." -</p> - -<p> -"Well—and then?" said Harkness. -</p> - -<p> -"There isn't much more. Except this. They got up the doctor, had poor -old Jabez's face looked to and cleared him off down to his cottage, were -examining your cuts—all this down here. Suddenly a car comes up to -the door and in there bursts—young Crispin! The two Treliss -policemen had turned up three minutes earlier in <i>their</i> car and -were here alone except for Possiter examining Crispin Senior—who -was pretty well smashed to pieces I can tell you. -</p> - -<p> -"Crispin Junior breaks through, gives one look at his father, shouts out -some words that no one can understand, puts a revolver to his temple and -blows the top of his head off before any one can stop him. Topples right -over his father's body. The end of the house of Crispin! -</p> - -<p> -"I saw all this from the staircase. I was just coming down after looking -at you. I heard the shot, saw old Possiter jump back and got down in -time to help them clear it all up. -</p> - -<p> -"No one knows where he'd been. To Truro, I imagine, looking for -all of us. He must have cared for that madman, cared for him or been -hypnotised by him—<i>I</i> don't know. At least he didn't -hesitate——" -</p> - -<p> -"And now, sir, would you mind telling me . . .?" said the stout -red-faced Treliss policeman, advancing towards them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -He was free; it was from the moment that the red-faced policeman, -smiling upon him benevolently, had informed him that, for the moment, he -had had from him all that he needed, his one burning and determined -impulse—to get away from that hall, that garden, that house with the -utmost possible urgency. -</p> - -<p> -He had not wished even to stay with Hesther and Dunbar. He would see -them later in the day, would see them, please God, many many times in -the years to come. -</p> - -<p> -What he wanted was to be alone—absolutely alone. -</p> - -<p> -The cuts on the upper part of his body were nothing—a little iodine -would heal them soon; it seemed that there had come to him no physical -harm—only an amazing all-invading weariness. It was not like any -weariness that he had ever before known. He imagined—he had had no -positive experience—that it resembled the conditions of some happy -doped trance, some dream-state in which the world was a vision and -oneself a disembodied spirit. It was as though his body, stricken with -an agony of weariness, was waiting for his descent, but his soul -remained high in air in a bell of crystal glass beyond whose surface the -colours of the world floated about him. -</p> - -<p> -He left them all—the doctor, the policeman, Dunbar and Hesther. He -did not even stop at Jabez's cottage to inquire. That was for later. As -half-past seven struck from the church tower below the hill he flung the -gate behind him, crossed the road, and struck off on to the Downs above -the sea. -</p> - -<p> -By a kind of second sight he knew exactly where he would go. There was a -path that crossed the Downs that ran slipping into a little cove, across -whose breast a stream trickled, then up on to the Downs again, pushing -up over fields of corn, past the cottage gardens up to the very gate of -the hotel. -</p> - -<p> -It was all mapped in his mind in bright clear-painted colours. -</p> - -<p> -The world was indeed as though it had only that morning been painted in -green and blue and gold. While the fog hung, under its canopy the -master-artist had been at work. Now from the shoulder of the Downs a -shimmer of mist tempered the splendour of the day. Harkness could see it -all. The long line of sea on whose blue surface three white sails -hovered, the bend of the Downs where it turned to deeper green, the dip -of the hill out of whose hollow the church spire like a spear -steel-tipped gesticulated, the rising hill with the wood and the tall -white tower, the green Downs far to the right where tiny sheep like -flowers quivered in the early morning haze. -</p> - -<p> -All was peace. The rustling whisper of the sea, the breeze moving -through the taller grasses, the hum of tiny insects, a lark singing, two -dogs barking in rivalry, a scent of herb and salt and fashioned soil, -all these things were peace. -</p> - -<p> -Harkness moved a free man as he had never been in all his life as yet. -He was his own master and God's servant too. Life might be a dream—it -seemed to him that it was—but it was a dream with a meaning, and the -events of that night had given him the key. -</p> - -<p> -His egotism was gone. He wanted nothing for himself any more. He was, -and would always be, himself, but also he had lost himself in the common -life of man. He was himself because his contact with beauty was his own. -Beauty belonged to all men in common, and it was through beauty that -they came to God, but each man found beauty in his own way, and, having -found it, joined his portion of it to the common stock. -</p> - -<p> -He had been shy of man and was shy no longer; he had been in love, was -in love now, but had surrendered it; he had been afraid of physical pain -and was afraid no longer; he had looked his enemy in the eyes and borne -him no ill-will. -</p> - -<p> -But he was conscious of none of these things—only of the freshness of -the morning, of the scents that came to him from every side, and of this -strange disembodied state so that he seemed to float, like gossamer, on -air. -</p> - -<p> -He went down the path to the little cove. He watched the ripple of water -advance and retreat. The stream of fresh water that ran through it was -crystal clear and he bent down, made a cup with his hands and drank. He -could see the pebbles, brown and red and green like jewels, and thin -spires of green weed swaying to and fro. -</p> - -<p> -He buried his face in the water, letting it wash his eyes, his forehead, -his nostrils, his mouth. -</p> - -<p> -He stood up and drank in the silence. The ripple of the sea was like the -touch on his arm of a friend. He kneeled down and let the fine sand run, -hot, through his fingers. Then he moved on. -</p> - -<p> -He climbed the hill: a flock of sheep passed him, huddling together, -crying, nosing the hedge. The sun touched the outline of their fleece to -shining light. He cried out to the shepherd: -</p> - -<p> -"A fine morning!" -</p> - -<p> -"Aye, a beautiful morning!" -</p> - -<p> -"A nasty fog last night." -</p> - -<p> -"Aye, aye—all cleared off now though. It'll be a warm day." -</p> - -<p> -The dog, his tongue out, his eyes shining, ran barking hither, thither. -They passed over the hill, the sheep like a cloud against the green. -</p> - -<p> -He pushed up, the breeze blowing more strongly now on his forehead. -</p> - -<p> -He reached the cottage gardens, and the smell of roses was once more -thick in his nostrils. The chimneys were sending silver skeins of smoke -into the blue air. Bacon smells and scent of fresh bread came to him. -</p> - -<p> -He was at the hotel gates. Oh, but he was weary now! Weary and happy. He -stumbled up the path smelling the roses again. Into the hall. The gong -was ringing for breakfast. Children, crying out and laughing, raced down -the stairs, passed him. He reached his room. He opened the door. How -quiet it was! Just as he had left it. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! there was the tree of the "St. Gilles," and there the grave friendly -eyes of Strang leaning over the etching-table to greet him. -</p> - -<p> -Just as they were—but he!—not as he had been! He caught his -face in the glass smiling idiotically. -</p> - -<p> -He staggered to his bed, flung himself down still smiling. His eyes closed. -There floated up to him a face—a little white face crowned with -red hair, but not evil now, not animal—friendly, lonely, asking for -something. . . . -</p> - -<p> -He smiled, promising something. Lifted his hand. Then his hand fell, and -he sank deep, deep, deep into happy, blissful slumber. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END.</h4> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT OF A MAN WITH RED HAIR ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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