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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78162-0.txt b/78162-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0efa0bd --- /dev/null +++ b/78162-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9146 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78162 *** + + + + + THE FEAST OF + BACCHUS + + A Study in Dramatic Atmosphere + + BY + ERNEST G. HENHAM + + + + + BROWN, LANGHAM & CO., LTD., + 78, New Bond Street, London, W. + 1907 + + + + + CONTENTS + + Prelude + Overture + Act I. + Scene I. Satiric + Scene II. Sketch + Scene III. Tragedy + Interlude + Act II. + Scene I. Comedy + Scene II. Mystery + Scene III. Musical Comedy + Entr’acte + Act III. + Scene I. Heroic + Scene II. Pastoral + Scene III. Extravaganza + Scene IV. Sentimental Comedy + Scene V. Pageant + Scene VI. Melodrama + Scene VII. Idyll + Incidental + Act IV. + Scene I. Puppenspiele + Scene II. Lyrical Dithyramb + Scene-Shifting + Act V. + Scene I. Morality + Scene II. Masque + Proscenium + Exode + + + + + The Feast of Bacchus + + PRELUDE + + When an unnatural idea possesses a woman bitterness flows from her + tongue.--_Euripides_. + +The silence upon the river was broken by a vivacious voice,-- + +“My lady, out of the depths of your wisdom define for me the word +asymptote.” + +“Spell it,” murmured beauty in laziness, from a heap of pink cushions. + +The vivacious voice did so, inaccurately. + +“Never heard of the thing,” said indolence. + +“Then I must search in the dictionary,” answered vivacity. + +A moment later the punt lurched violently, there was a splash of water +under the bank, a nodding of tall rushes; and beauty in pink closed +her pretty eyes and tried to forget she was Maude Juxon, wife of a +rich stockbroker, and mother of a three year old child whom she had +not seen for more than six months. + +Some evening clouds were reflected in the smooth river. Swallows +darted to and fro, and fish were splashing after ambrosial gnats. The +atmosphere was languorous. A single jarring note, necessary to make +the surroundings earthly, was supplied by an impatient owl hooting +from an elm before its time. Down to the river sloped the garden of +widowed Mrs. Neill, burning with the flowers of June. The sleepy +occupant of the punt heard far-away the snip of the gardener’s iron +scissors. This, the only, sound of human labour made her more +contented with the lot which had fallen to her in an easy ground. + +The punt lurched still more violently and Mrs. Juxon was again +awakened to the troublesome world. Flora Neill, the widow’s only +child, and bosom friend of the little lady in pink, settled herself, +at the other end of the boat, and balanced a drab volume upon her +knees. + +“Will you be pleased to refrain from sleep for a few minutes, my +lady?” she asked. “Because I have a desire to talk.” + +“Don’t call me my lady,” said Mrs. Juxon irritably. “If you do I will +go to sleep at once. Have you found out what that thing is?” + +“I am just going to,” said Flora, who was a tall fair-haired girl, +endowed with more than average good looks, but unmistakably “narrow +atween the eyen,” and possessing a chin which her bluff old uncle, the +vicar of Kingsmore, had described as a walnut-cracker. “Before I begin +you may look into this letter which has just come. And, Maude, I found +mother reading an incoherent epistle from uncle. It appears I am +expected to make my annual appearance at Kingsmore, the week after +next, to criticise pigs and bring the scent of the footlights over the +hay for the benefit of my reverend relative who is about as much at +home in London as you or I would be in Timbuctoo. Here! catch your +letter.” Flora tossed the missive across the punt, and her indolent +friend was sufficiently curious to lift her head and glance at the +handwriting. + +“Only from Herbert,” she sighed disappointedly. “What a ridiculous +thing it is to have a husband who writes to you every day! I know +exactly what he says,” she droned, pulling the envelope open. + +“When are you coming home? I find the evenings very dull without you. +Couldn’t you have Peggy at home now? I don’t like the idea of her +being farmed out. She isn’t farmed out,” cried Mrs. Juxon indignantly. +“What a nasty objectionable phrase to use! Peggy is with a very good +nurse, who will bring her up much better than I ever should. What is +the good of being a rich woman if you are to be bothered with your +baby? And as for going home--well, I’m quite happy here.” + +“You would rush into matrimony and motherhood, my child,” said the +fair-haired girl, who was not more than four years Maude’s junior. “I +warned you, and now--” + +“I’m driving my husband to drink, prophetess,” laughed the pink lady. + +“Or to some other woman.” + +Mrs. Juxon tore the letter into fragments which she snowed daintily +over the water with a tiny white hand. + +“I couldn’t have worked for my living,” she said. “And nice men are +poor. What’s that you are reading?” + +“An asymptote,” read Flora, “is a line which approaches nearer and +nearer to a given curve, but does not meet it within a finite +distance. It is an astronomical phrase. Now do you know what an +asymptote is, Maude?” + +“It is a line,” recited the pink lady, in her frivolous way, +“which--which does something or other to a curve.” + +“Don’t worry that little head,” said the maiden. “I won’t ask you to +repeat the definition. I wanted to see if you would be personal. My +dear, I have been called an asymptote, and no longer ago than +yesterday.” + +“I can’t think out things,” said Maude pettishly. “It makes my head +ache. Who ever called you that thing? I can’t pronounce it.” + +“I overheard the compliment,” Flora answered. “So I went up to the +culprit, a wicked old clergyman who dabbles in astronomy, and demanded +an explanation. He laughed, and said, ‘It is a mathematical way of +calling a lady a flirt.’” + +“Do explain,” said a voice which suggested slumber. + +“I will, if you listen,” said Flora. “Are you awake, Maude?” + +“I will be, if it is not going to be too hard,” said the pink lady. + +“It is quite easy,” said Flora. Then she began to read,-- + +“The asymptote is more than a mere scientific expression. It is a term +which may be applied to many of Eve’s daughters. The human asymptote +has her being amongst us both in country and in town. The observer is +made to feel her presence, as she may be seen approaching nearer and +nearer the man who is her given curve for the time being, he prepared +to respond to the influence, and she equally determined never to meet +him until they reach infinity together. She is no beautiful figure, +despite all her surface charms. Her blood never responds to the +natural call of sex. But admiration is to her as the breath of life, +and she will beguile as wantonly as any of the Sirens of old. Equipped +with a ready brain, which has never been dulled by the mastery of +love, her power of seduction is complete. She throws down a cold heart +and a scheming brain to challenge a true nature and real affection. +But so soon as the human curve leaps out of hyperbola to meet his +asymptote repulsion assuredly must follow. + +“Our asymptote may be graceless, but she is never a fool. She knows +indeed all that a girl can know. She has opened all the books of +dangerous knowledge and loves to indulge in unrestrained speech. She +will discuss the tenderest relations flippantly, because they are +nothing to her. She will converse upon matrimonial matters with the +carelessness of the child blowing soap bubbles. She passes through +life lonely, though to an outsider she may appear the centre of a +crowd. She is happy enough to all outward seeming, and finds a vast +deal to interest her. She is not often dangerous, because when all is +said she remains little more than a rattle, and if she marries at all +it is late in life, and then not because she has met her curve--for +that is scientifically impossible--but rather because she finds she +must have a man of her own to plague. When thus settled she may still, +if the fates be kind, happen upon some foolish youth ready to play the +curve to her asymptote. One does not pity her; but a sigh may well be +spared for her husband.” + +Flora gazed thoughtfully along the river, her mouth determined, and a +strong light in her eyes. Her companion, who was by this time wide +awake, had no imagination; but she could not help feeling that behind +that face there was a will which might carry its owner rather too far. + +“Are you really like that?” Maude demanded, nodding in the direction +of the book of knowledge. + +Flora nodded seriously. + +“Then I think you are a wicked person,” said Mrs. Juxon virtuously. + +“My dear little Maude! Do you really believe what I have just read?” +laughed the fair-haired girl. “It is rubbish. It’s a fairy-tale +written, as a warning for very young men, by some snuffy old +philosopher who never found a woman with whom he could agree. You +needn’t stare at me with those big blue baby eyes. I am a far better +girl than you will ever be. I don’t meet my curves, but you have +become hopelessly entangled in yours.” + +“I am not an--I can’t pronounce it,” protested the pink lady. “It’s +nonsense to rail against matrimony. A girl without money must either +earn her own living, which is altogether disgusting and impossible, or +she must marry.” + +“Suppose she shrinks from the idea, as you would from a cold bath on a +winter’s morning?” + +“Flora, a girl must marry if she wants comfort and liberty. Of course +it’s silly to marry for love. That doesn’t last long after marriage +anyhow. You may say what you like, but matrimony will always be a +girl’s one aim in life, besides it is nice and proper. Really,” little +Mrs. Juxon concluded, “I am quite clever this evening.” + +“Your wisdom has not supplied you with an answer to my question,” +Flora went on. “It’s true I shrink from the thought of matrimony, but +I won’t be called an incomplete woman, though I have my one little +antipathy. I cannot touch or smell a rose. But that’s a matter of +temperament. In other things I am as complete as you are. I love +admiration, but what girl does not? Perhaps my blood is a little bit +cold, but then men and women no longer meet only on the ground of sex. +Thank Heaven for that. I really think that in time I might love--in a +spiritual sense.” + +“Men don’t appreciate that kind of love,” said Mrs. Juxon decisively. + +“Because they have never been properly educated. We shall train them +to higher things in time. Why, Maude, the spiritual union is the +perfect state. We are not animals, to increase and multiply, at this +stage of the world’s history. We are nervous sympathetic beings, and +love properly developed should be a reaching out of the soul for +larger and wider sympathies. And a man will hold and squeeze a girl, +and call her idiotic names, if she will let him. Call that spiritual +love! The state of the man and woman in the garden was the sympathy I +crave for.” + +“And they fell from it at once,” cried the other joyously. + +“Because they were ignorant. The world is older now and we are wiser. +We shall advance to platonic marriage. Matrimony, as it exists to-day, +deadens the sympathies. The state of the soul which demands a perfect +union cannot under present circumstances be attained. In your case, my +dear, nature, after attaining her end, has snatched away the veil +which hid the coarse reality, and you know you don’t love your +husband. As a matter of fact you never did love him.” + +“Herbert has always been good to me,” argued the pink lady. “And he is +so well off that I should have been very silly if I had refused him. +Mother assured me love would come after marriage. It didn’t, but that +is not my fault. I am quite a model wife; I don’t quarrel with my +husband, I let him kiss me sometimes, and I never interfere with his +business. When he gives a dinner he shows me off with ridiculous +pride. And when he is unreasonable I come away and visit my friends, +while he writes every day for me to go back. You see it is not a bad +marriage.” + +“What has the soul got to do with it?” demanded Flora. + +“Nothing,” Mrs. Juxon laughed lazily. “This little body is quite +enough for me. I don’t worry about souls or sympathies.” + +“The sympathies will not be ignored,” the fair-haired girl threatened. +“If you are married without love some state of the soul will assert +itself. That is always the punishment for a marriage of convenience.” + +“I won’t sit here and be persecuted,” said Mrs. Juxon with some +spirit. But, while she rebelled, her face became sad and her eyes full +of thought; because she could not help recalling the memory of one in +particular with whom she had once experienced, as she thought, that +state of the soul, and in whose arms she had cried to say farewell. +“Why have you such a rooted objection to matrimony?” she went on +quickly. + +“Because it is abominable and tyrannic,” said Flora. “Because the +wretched girl becomes completely absorbed by her husband, if she gives +herself up to him entirely as she is supposed to do. She has not even +her identity left. She is compelled to think as the inferior half of +somebody else’s mind. She actually grows to resemble her husband in +face and manner. The man takes everything from her, not only her name +and her individuality, but her health and her beauty--” + +“Flora, I won’t listen. You are horrid and coarse. You’ll be saying it +is wicked to have children next.” + +“It is sometimes,” the out-spoken young woman retorted. “You remember +what a beauty Gertrude Norton was, and how everyone used to rave over +her?” + +“Yes,” admitted the stockbroker’s wife. + +“She has been married only three years, but who would rave over her +now? Nobody would call her even nice-looking. Only a few seasons ago +she won a tennis championship, or something equally good, and she +would think nothing of cycling fifty miles or more in one day. Now she +is the mother of twins, and a confirmed invalid. She is a model wife, +I daresay, and a perfect pattern of motherhood, but her dancing days +and her tennis playing are over. And she is not twenty-five.” + +“Her husband is very fond of her,” said Mrs. Juxon pathetically. + +“I know a man who says he is very fond of me,” replied the fair-haired +girl. “But I do not intend to spoil my life while I retain my senses.” + +“He wouldn’t be fond of you if he could hear you now. I declare,” +shivered the little lady, “I’m getting quite afraid of you. I wonder +what you really think of me. Am I falling off at all, Flora?” + +“Horribly,” said the girl, rising and swaying the punt. “It is nearly +dinner time and it is getting chilly. Let us go in.” + +“I am beginning to feel not only cold but old,” said the pink lady, as +she gathered in her skirts to step ashore. “But I cannot be ugly. +Whatever may happen I cannot be ugly. It is heavenly to feel upon +coming into a drawing-room that men cannot take their eyes off you. +What is the secret of preserving beauty, Flora?” + +“You must be spiritual,” said Miss Neill. + +“I have Peggy,” murmured Mrs. Juxon, as she stepped upon the bank with +her studied daintiness of motion. “I really have done my duty as a +wife and a mother.” + +“Do you hear the owl?” exclaimed Flora, as they walked away from the +lazy river. + +“Yes, the beast!” replied Maude spitefully. “I am always superstitious +when I hear owls!” + + + + + OVERTURE + + Inasmuch as Nature tells us there are Gods, and we know, by reason, + what they must be like, so, with the consent of all rational beings, + we believe souls to endure everlastingly; where, however, these + spirits exist, and what they are like, we must discover by + investigation.--_Cicero_. + +The reverend Doctor Berry concluded to his satisfaction the single +paragraph which was the result of a morning’s thought, wiped his pen, +fingered the sheet of manuscript tenderly, and placed it carefully in +a drawer of his desk, then rose and walked across to the open window. + +The sun was setting upon beech woods, and a deep haze flecked with +dust and white butterflies shimmered across a strip of garden, bright +with poppies and cornflowers, which divided the rectory from the +churchyard; the main portion of the garden stretched away behind the +house, down a slope which ended in an orchard where a stream ran +bounding the glebe in that direction. A crumbling wall, completely +covered with ivy, marked the line where the consecrated ground ended; +on the rectory side grew docks and nettles and red sorrels among the +altar-tombs and mossy slabs, with here and there a black yew striking +its roots deeply into the resting places of the dead. An unfrequented +road passed beside the church, to become a mere cart-track upon the +downs, where the white-thorn was being shed like snow and the shadows +of the beech wood were lengthening fast. + +“It is a glorious evening,” the rector whispered, “I will go and walk +in the garden of the Strath.” + +Taking a great key from an oak bracket he walked out of his study, +placed a straw hat upon his silvered hair, and stepped into the +glories of the failing day. + +The ecclesiastical parish of Thorlund, scarcely worthy of being +dignified by the title of hamlet, consisted of a wooded valley watered +by a stream. Far down and buried amid elms were tiny church and +parsonage; and hard by rose the inexplicable house, its garden +surrounded by a time-worn wall, known to all as the Strath. A few +cottages upon the Kingsmore road were passing into an advanced stage +of decay. A few in a more habitable state were dotted singly, or in +pairs, beside the grass by-paths or upon the lower ridges of the +downs. The entire parish was moribund. Nothing flourished except the +trees and strong-scented wayside weeds. No dignitary of the church had +entered the valley for hard upon a century. A deadening influence +prevailed over the church, pastor, and people. There were not thirty +adults in the parish all told, and the nearest school was at Kingsmore +four miles distant across the downs. A few peasant farmers clung to +the chalky slopes because they lacked the means to go. The labourers +were agricultural machines; the wives went out to work afield beside +their husbands; and by day the sun smote across an altogether deserted +prospect, where a lone cat slept on the dusty green, and a caged +blackbird listened sadly and silently to its free brethren singing in +the weird garden of the Strath. + +Thorlund had in common with the world the sun which warmed it, the +moon which ruled its night, the rain which coursed in milky rivulets +down its stony roads, and the storm which broke its beeches and its +elms--but nothing more. It was a peaceful, but not a happy valley. Its +sleep was not a healthy one. Once, no doubt, Thorlund had lived, and +in a sense flourished, then death came, but a spark of vital element +had crept back to the body, diffusing itself throughout its entire +system, and lending to it a semblance of life. It was from the long +abandoned house known as the Strath that this vital and dramatic +element proceeded. Dr. Berry served as the intermediary between the +incomprehensible spirit of the Strath and those human beings who had +their habitations near. He had remained untouched by the noise and +trouble of the world. His life had moved smoothly from the cradle, and +promised so to continue down to the grave. He had always been happier +apart from others, living his own life which consisted in striving to +materialize rather than dispel that atmosphere of mysticism which +gathers around a scholar’s solitary existence. At Oxford he had worked +for classical honours, not for the sake of reputation, but for the +pure love of knowledge; and when at the age of twenty-five he had been +offered the living of Thorlund, which nobody else could be induced to +accept, he had merely asked, “What is the population of the parish?” +The answer, “Fifty at the last census,” which had frightened away +every one else, satisfied him. The stipend of forty-five pounds per +annum was not a serious consideration, as he possessed means of his +own. After passing through the divinity school with his customary +display of polished scholarship, he accepted the “benefice”; and +thirty years had passed him there, as so many uneventful weeks, while +he built up slowly the work which it was his intention to bequeath to +posterity as a justification for his existence, an analysis of the +lyrical poetry of the Aeolians. + +A drowsy rustling of foliage was blown with the chalk dust across the +unused road to the parish church, as the scholar made his way through +the churchyard towards an old oak door set into the grey wall, nearly +twenty feet in height, with a coping of tiles the majority of which +time and storm had worked awry. Pushing the key into the antique lock +he opened the door communicating with the churchyard, and immediately +found himself standing in the shadows of the old garden of the Strath. + +Neither building nor grounds had been touched by the hand of man for +more than a century. The romantic house, which bore the date 1670 +above the arms of an extinct family graven upon a stone let into the +masonry above the hall door, was of no great size; high rather than +wide, and completely enveloped in ivy and other creepers from cellars +to chimney stacks. The garden and orchard comprised six acres, bound +by that great wall which had in no place fallen completely out of +repair. The grass waved like corn along what had once been the drive, +and the iron gates leading from the Kingsmore road were red and glued +together with rust. Through these gates children often peered to catch +glimpses of the sad house through the tangled growths; to watch the +birds and insects sporting as in another and a stranger and more +restless world. No one ever entered there except the rector. That wall +could not be climbed. The old people of the hamlet would stare through +the forbidding gates, and observe to each other that the flowers were +extraordinary that season in the Strath--there were blooms in those +jungles such as they had never seen elsewhere--or that the odour of +the garden was wonderful, or that the Strath was noisy; and when the +latter statement was in their mouths they realised dimly they were +hinting at what they could not understand. + +Yet the place had no evil reputation; the reverse rather. Mothers +would quiet fractious children by promising that they should enter the +mysterious garden some day, or threaten that if they were not good +they could never hope to go to the Strath when they died. No wild +stories dealing with phantasms or spirit lights were passed upon the +village green. Not a tongue had ever been so bold as to suggest that +the spiritual world had acquired a perpetual tenancy of the wild old +place. The Strath had simply remained unentered and unused for over a +century. The flowers and weeds fought together, the trees increased, +the bushes spread, fruit formed, ripened, and dropped to rot year +after year. And yet there was something about the place which made it +unlike other deserted houses; something which did not appear to have +its origin in the weedy circlet of water--for the Strath was a moated +grange--nor in the jungle-like garden, nor in the damp and darkened +house itself; but which had its being in the air, and in the clouds +above, and in the wind around. + +“No, Sir,” said Simcox the sexton, when Dr. Berry questioned him many +years ago. “There ain’t nothing what you wight call gruesome about the +old place that I’ve heard tell on. But it seems to me, Sir, that +sometimes when the sun is bright ’tis wonderful happy in there, and +when the wind is noisy ’tis awful solemn-like. I’ve been cutting that +nettle patch along churchyard wall in summer, and had to stop and +laugh out loud, and all for nought, Sir. And I’ve been sweeping leaves +in autumn under the wall, and felt that miserable I could almost have +cut my throat, or maybe somebody else’s throat, begging your +reverence’s pardon for saying it.” + +The young rector nodded his head gravely, and because he had a strong +desire to obtain entrance into the mysterious garden, instituted a +search for its owner. He succeeded in part. A firm of land agents in +the neighbouring town supplied him with the address of a London +lawyer; and when next in the metropolis Mr. Berry, as he then was, +found his way into a stuffy office hard by Goldsmith’s memorial, where +he was received by an old fashioned attorney, who replied in the +affirmative when the rector of Thorlund asked whether he represented +the owner of the Strath. As a result of that interview the rector was +granted permission to enter the garden by the gate from the +churchyard, on the condition that he would not lend the key, which was +given him for that purpose, to others. He also received the +information that the owner was abroad, and that the house was neither +to be sold nor let. + +“I will write to the owner, informing him that I have given you +permission to use the garden,” the lawyer had said, as he accompanied +his visitor to the door, “and if he objects you shall hear from me.” + +Years went by, but the lawyer never wrote; and Dr. Berry walked in the +garden every day, until the glamour of the place made him its slave; +and after walking there, as along the unknown ways of another world, +his work on Aeolian poetry escaped from the trammels of prose and +became itself poetry, pierced through and through by the strange +lights of romance; and he became still more a recluse; and the present +world went away from him and was shrouded in the mists of unreality. + +On many a bright day, when nature was revealed at her best, the poet +would laugh and applaud, and even dance grotesquely along the paths of +the Strath, his feet in time to a music which was in his brain but not +in his ears. Was this mere animal enjoyment of life, or was it +influence? Decidedly the latter. The odour of flowers and the giddy +dance of insects were also controlled by that vital and dramatic +element, to which the scholar could only give the name of comedy, a +happiness tinged slightly with the knowledge of mortality. And when +the day was sad with wind, the opposing note of tragedy was struck +throughout the garden; and that fatality which dominated the Attic +drama, the struggle of terrible human passions in the wind and rain, +the falling of life before unpitying destiny, controlled his sensitive +mind. Dr. Berry had suffered when the elements fought above his head, +blending with the influence, which bade him seek out the man hated by +the immortals and slay him without shame. Then was the knowledge swept +upon the poet that he was an intermediary between seen and unseen, and +thus an agent for the effectual working out of the tragedy of justice. + +The influence at work within the high wall which fastened about the +Strath was therefore twofold, that of the sun, and that of the storm; +the former a comedy, elevating if bizarre, tempered by a sentiment +suggesting the presence of melancholy beneath the motley; the latter a +tragedy, wild and extravagant as the passions of a Lear, yet redeemed +from absolute despair by the thread of hope chased through the scheme. +Comedy was in the air that evening, a riotous happiness which +inebriated like wine. Singing noisily, although unconscious of it, Dr. +Berry gambolled towards the house, under the rose bowers, along the +track which his own feet had worn into the semblance of a path, beside +the acacias with their grape-like bunches of bloom bursting into pink +or white. He passed below the sun-dial, which rose altar-like above a +mass of tottering masonry coloured with flowers, through the herb +garden, and on until the jasmine and the honeysuckle wafted their +fragrance at him from the worm-eaten porch. A blackbird flew past +screaming. He looked up, annoyed at the interruption, and straightway +shivered, because he saw the figure of a man standing among the high +grass near the front of the house. Indignation possessed the dreamer’s +mind when he beheld a material presence in his garden. His life had +become so intimately connected with that of the Strath that he was +unable to think of the garden as another man’s property. So, he +reflected, the iron gates had been forced apart at last, and a master +was visiting the bewildered place after the silence of a hundred +years--for the thinker was convinced that the elderly man, standing in +the ripening grass, was the owner--and now the garden was to be his no +longer, and his dreams were to be brought to an end. The stranger +lifted his hat and bowed grotesquely. The rector returned this +compliment, after a more dignified manner, and they approached, making +old-fashioned salutes at every step. + +“The learned and distinguished Doctor Berry?” said the stranger, +holding out his hand, and laughing with what beyond the wall might +have appeared to be unreasonable mirth. + +The scholar laughed also as he replied, shaking the hand offered him +in conscious tune to the persistent music in his brain. + +“My lawyer has told me about you. I am Henry Reed, the owner and +master of the Strath. It pleases me that you should have used my +garden. I trust that the inspiration of the place has benefited you.” + +It was the first occasion on which Dr. Berry had spoken to a +fellow-being in the garden. He could not rid himself of the fantastic +idea that he and the man before him were characters of a comedy +playing the parts which had been assigned to them. + +“I assure you I have found this place a veritable wonder-world,” he +replied. “It has made another man of me--” + +“The Strath has made you a dreamer,” broke in the owner sharply. “Men +who dream perform nothing. What an overpowering atmosphere is here!” +he went on, removing his hat and laughing again. “I can scarcely +breathe. Only a few minutes ago I entered upon this property of mine, +a tired and solemn man, and now I am as merry as a clown. Do the bees +always buzz so musically? Are the flowers always sending forth this +fragrance? Ah, you laugh at me.” + +“I laughed in spite of myself,” the rector answered. “No, the music is +not always soft, as it is this evening. When the wind changes, and the +sky becomes dark, and the clouds fall low, you shall perceive a +difference.” + +“The place is haunted,” the owner shouted. + +“Not so,” said the rector happily. “There is nothing here which could +terrify a child. Like us the Strath has its moods. Sometimes it is +happy, and often it is sorrowful. It must either laugh or groan. And +now you will change it all,” he went on bitterly. “You will restore +the house, dig up the garden, prune the orchard, mow the lawns, gravel +the paths, and lay the Strath out like a dead body.” + +Again the owner laughed. “Let me set your mind at ease,” he cried, +turning himself as though he would address the house. “Even if I +desired to destroy this picture I could not, for I am a poor man, and +the expense of restoration is beyond my means. I have come to live +here, but I beg you to use my garden as you have done in the past. And +now shall we enter the house?” + +Very gladly the rector accepted the invitation. He had often pushed +aside the creepers, to stare at the windows, heavily obscured with +dirt and blinded by close-fastened shutters, longing to visit the +rooms which were in darkness beyond. He passed with the owner of the +Strath towards the bridge which spanned the black water; and as they +walked they went on laughing. + +“Will the bridge bear us?” questioned the master, testing the damp +green wood with a nervous foot. + +“Let me cross first to convince you,” said the scholar. + +Reed’s mood changed when they stood beside the door; and it was with +signs of fear he produced a key, a feather, and a small bottle of oil. +“The light is fading rapidly,” he muttered as he lubricated the lock. +“And I have brought no lamp.” + +“There may be candles inside the house,” the rector murmured, although +he had no good reason for saying so. + +The bolt crawled back with a scream, and wood dust rained upon their +heads as the door creaked open. They passed side by side into the +dampness of the hall, while the master muttered, “This house has not +been entered for a hundred years.” + +“So it is furnished, as I have seen it in my dreams,” the rector +murmured. + +Their feet sank into the dust, which in places had drifted to a depth +of several inches. Stairs, carpets, and pictures were coated and +muffled; a mildewed growth shewed in patches on the walls; a stunted +nightshade struggled around a quaint eight-legged table, its roots +sucking nutriment from the damp rottenness of the wood. A circle of +fungi occupied the centre of the hall, and some bats flickered up and +down the stairway. + +“My inheritance,” said Reed, shivering as he ploughed his fingers +through the silky dust. + +“The garden is your inheritance,” replied his companion. “That is the +soul of the Strath. This is the dry body.” + +Walking as he spoke to a door, before which a moth-eaten curtain hung +in shreds, he sought for the handle and pushed inward. The door gave +unwillingly, pressing the dust into a high ridge, and the rector +groped forward holding a lighted match above his head. Their eyes +encountered no repulsive sight; and yet they hesitated before making +an entry, because the past was brought before them, and it is the +custom of men to waver when they open a tomb. + +They looked into a dining-room and saw a long table, decked out with +plate and glass, with what had been flowers and fruit, and decanters +caked with wine; around the table chairs were grouped, or pushed +aside, as their former occupants had left them. They beheld the +concluding course of a dinner one hundred years old, as the long dead +diners had left it, interrupted and startled by the arrival of ill +news. + +“I will go in and open the shutters,” said the rector firmly. + +“You hear nothing?” muttered the owner. “Nothing?” + +“There is nothing to hear, except the chirping of the birds.” + +“I thought I heard footsteps, and a woman’s voice.” + +“No,” said the scholar. “There will be no tragedy while this weather +lasts.” He went on hurriedly, feeling Reed’s eyes upon him, “Your +imagination is playing with you. You think you hear voices of the men +and women who have dined. They are not here. Their bodies are as the +dust which lies upon their table and their chairs.” + +Lighting another match he passed in, and leaning over the table dug +out the wicks of the candles and lighted one after another, until he +had converted each of the seven-branched candlesticks into a row of +stars. Then he turned and beheld Reed at his side, staring up and +down, sweeping the cloth with his great beard. + +“You are my guest,” he laughed with a hollow note. “In the face of +your knowledge of this place I had almost forgotten that I am master +here. Will you sit down at my table and taste my old wine?” + +“Let us have air,” said the rector. + +Unfastening the shutters he drew them back, and immediately a tawny +glow mingled with the candle-light. The windows were encrusted with +dirt, and black ivy stems were matted against the glass. The iron +window catch was rotten and snapped when the rector tried to force it +back. He strained at the casement, but the hinge remained immovable. + +Reed stood beside the table, fingering one article after another. That +heap of dust had been once a flower, that was an orange shrivelled to +the size of a walnut; here was a snuff-box standing open, there a +half-smoked pipe leaning against a box which still contained bon-bons. +Near him a glass had been overturned in the days when it was the +custom of men to drink hard, and when he cleared away the dust with +the flat of his hand he could distinguish the stain of wine upon the +yellow cloth. He picked up a lady’s glove, black and full of holes, +and bringing it to his face detected the faint fragrance of her who +had dropped it. Another pile of dust resolved itself into a powder +puff, and yet another became a scrap of paper. These had presumably +been dropped together. Reed unfolded the paper, shook it, and holding +it near the candles read as much as he could decipher aloud:-- + + + “I will wait near the sun-dial until you come. Do not wear a mask. + Dear, do not tempt fate by even thinking of a mask here.… to father, + if there be a storm this night… Thomas flogging a horse, and I felt no + pity… This atmosphere is… to rejoin my ship… Nelson against the + French. I shall not be at dinner.… later on.” + + +“What does it mean?” cried the rector, as he stumbled towards the +table. + +“I cannot trace the signature,” muttered Reed. “It means, doctor,” he +went on, “that the Strath is controlled by some unholy influence which +has kept it empty all these years.” + +“No,” cried Dr. Berry fervently. “That is not true. Consider how safe, +and happy we are. Neither you nor I suffer the slightest sense of +fear. Hardly a day has passed and not found me in the garden during +these past thirty years, and I am a wiser man than when I came. It is +true I have felt at times the influence which that dead hand suggests. +But it has done me no harm.” + +“It has aged and saddened you,” said Reed curtly. “It has caused you +to forget how a man should live.” + +“The Strath has been my happiness, my pleasure, as well as my +inspiration,” said the scholar, clutching the back of a chair, and +scarcely noticing when it broke away in his hands. “You will admit as +much when you read my translations and restorations of Sappho. No +unholy influence could have prompted me to that work. Knowledge has +come to me while walking through the garden, amid the fragrance of the +flowers, the song of the insects, the music in the air--” + +The master of the Strath interrupted with a shout of discovery. +Following the guidance of his hand the rector saw a dark face grinning +at them from the opposite wall, over the glow of candles and the tawny +light from the half sealed window, through the grime that a hundred +years had placed upon it. + +Dr. Berry hurried forward, mounted a chair, and removed from the wall +what proved to be merely a grotesque ornament, a brown mask, with the +leering mouth, great nose, grinning eye-sockets, and arched brows of +comedy. The mask was made of wood, stained a deep brown, and inside +cut upon the surface appeared the words, “Copied at Nuremberg by Jos. +Falk.” + +An impulse, which could not be controlled, seized both men, and they +laughed until the old house rang. + + + + + ACT I. + + Scene I.--SATIRIC + + Bah! I do hate bainting and boetry.--_King George II_. + +The influence changed, as was usual at the approach of darkness. The +power compelling them forth became irresistible. It was a new +sensation for the scholar, but his sensitive nature suggested that the +resentful force was directed against his companion, and not against +himself. He extinguished the candles and walked lingeringly to the +hall door, following Reed who had escaped into the twilight of the +garden, having no desire to explore further that night. Nor had the +owner any intention then of sleeping in the house. He had indeed when +proposing it to himself forgotten that every room would be buried deep +in dirt. When the scholar joined him with a hospitable invitation to +the rectory he accepted gladly. They passed together towards the iron +gates. + +A few country folk had assembled upon the road, to discuss that great +event the opening of the gates of the Strath. One man stood leaning +upon an iron bar, which he had used at Reed’s request to force those +gates apart. Their voices ceased when the rector was seen wading +through the grass, and gnarled hands went up to pull gravely at the +brims of dilapidated and picturesque headgear. + +After having engaged two men for the next day, to wrench open doors +and windows, to cut away the creepers, and to clear the interior from +its accumulated dirt, Reed secured the chain, locked the padlock with +his own hands, and giving a good night to the rustics turned away. For +a hundred yards not a word was spoken, then Reed pulled himself +upright, and brushed the dust from his heavy beard. + +“It’s all nonsense,” he said roughly, and his companion shrank at the +change in the stranger’s voice and manner. “It’s sheer folly to +suppose that the Strath is different from any other old place, apart, +of course, from the fact that it has not been inhabited within the +recollection of living man. I’m just thinking I may have made a fool +of myself when we were in that garden, Professor. I don’t know what +possessed me. I’m a practical man, level-headed as the best of ’em +ordinarily, but in there I felt--well, I’m not much of a talker, and +hang me if I can explain it, but I felt as if I had taken a little +more drink than I could manage. I might have been playing a part. Ah, +that’s it! I might have been an actor, spouting words that some other +fellow had written down for me.” + +“You need not explain,” said the rector gently. “I can enter into your +feelings.” + +“Well, I’m going to change all that,” went on Reed. “I’ll clean the +place out from cellar to attic, sell off the old stuff, get in some +decent furniture, tear down the creepers, cut the garden up, sell the +hay for what it is worth, and get the place into as good shape as I +can afford. I mean to start a small poultry farm and make a bit that +way. I come from America, Professor, and I’m not afraid of work. Lucky +I’m not, for I reckon it will take all my time to get that garden into +anything like order this summer.” + +The rector shuddered. The stranger had chanced indeed now that the +influence of the Strath had loosened its hold upon him. + +“You said you would not alter the place,” he reminded him quietly. + +“Did I say so?” Reed answered with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I must have +been crazy. I’m not in a position to spend money, but I’ll soon show +you what one pair of hands can do. Before autumn you won’t recognise +the rotten old property. I shall start with the house to-morrow, and +when that is clean I’ll root up the bushes, drain the moat, and go for +in fruit and poultry.” + +“The Strath will not let you,” the rector cried. + +“What’s that?” said Reed. + +“You are not strong enough to fight the place,” replied the rector +boldly. + +Reed regarded his companion with open-mouthed astonishment, and +presently his beard began to wag with laughter. “’Scuse me, +Professor,” he said. “Hope you haven’t got the idea into your head +that it is not legal for a man to make his own house habitable? I tell +you what it is,” he went on in his blunt fashion. “You have lived out +of the world too long, and have roamed around that old wilderness of +mine until you have picked up some queer notions. Wait until I show +you how to breed turkeys.” + +Then Dr. Berry realised that he hated this little bearded man who had +come to destroy his happiness. He wished with all his heart he had met +him in the first instance outside the Strath and there discovered his +true character. Had that happened he would assuredly never have +invited him to the rectory. Gazing ahead at the wooden spire of his +little church he said quickly: + +“There is the rectory. You see I am a very near neighbour. I have +always been accustomed to enter your garden by the churchyard, through +that gate which you see yonder in the wall.” + +Reed shrugged his shoulders, and, muttering into his beard, followed +his host into the cool house. + +A very plain supper was the evening meal at Thorlund rectory; and +afterwards the poet sat in his garden to dream upon matters which were +too great for him. That evening he brought two chairs upon the lawn. +When they were seated Reed plunged at once into business and asked the +rector if he could recommend a suitable housekeeper and a man with +some knowledge of poultry. “Poultry and poetry sound a bit alike, eh, +Professor?” he said jocosely. “But there’s a heap more money in my +line than in yours.” + +The rector shrank from the jest as from a blow. He answered the +questions of his thick-skinned guest as fully as he could. Then, +prompted by curiosity, he asked Reed how long the Strath had been in +his family, and why it had remained desolate for so long. + +The other pulled at his pipe with a frown, as though resenting the +other’s natural desire for information. At last he put up his hand, +stroked his beard, expectorated--again Dr. Berry shrank from him--and +said: + +“I don’t know much about yonder place. The Strath was owned in the +first place by a family called Hooper. You can see their arms carved +upon a stone over the entrance. They held the property until the +middle of the eighteenth century. The owner was then a baronet who +lived there alone. He was a pretty bad lot, I’ve been told, and was +hanged at last for murdering his servant.” + +“There was another and more serious charge against him, according to +the opinion of a time when gentlemen were permitted to use their +servants like dogs,” the rector interposed. “Sir John was certainly +hanged, but it was for highway robbery. Local tradition declares that +the rope which was used for his execution is now used for ringing the +single bell of Thorlund church. If this statement were to be proved I +should certainly have the rope removed. But I do not consider that it +has been proved.” + +“You know more about the Strath than I do. Perhaps you can tell me how +it came by its queer-sounding name?” said Reed; and he raised his pipe +to his mouth as a hint that the rector might proceed. + +“About the name there is nothing remarkable,” came the answer. “Strath +is a gaelic word signifying a broad valley. For a time, I have no +doubt, the whole of this neighbourhood was known as the Strath; though +glen, also a gaelic word and meaning a narrow valley, would have been +more accurate nomenclature, as you may see for yourself by ascending +one of the hills and looking down. There is an ancient, although +undated, document among the parish records which alludes to the +village of Strath hard by King’s Moor. The name of Thorlund, which +means the sacred grove of Thor or the Thunder God, was at some later +date attached to the hamlet, the name of Strath being retained by the +manor house alone. But to return to the Hoopers. According to oral +tradition, which I have generally found reliable, Sir John became a +notorious highwayman after his wife’s death. It is said he had one +child, a daughter who lived with him at the Strath, but whose name is +not mentioned in the register of deaths. It is also said that he +treated her most cruelly. Indeed, if report concerning him be true, +Sir John was altogether bad, a robber and a drunkard in his country +life, and when in town a habitual frequenter of the gaming houses +which at that time were plentiful in the neighbourhood of St. James’s. +Probably his midnight escapades upon the road were instituted to +obtain money for the payment of debts thus contracted. One night Sir +John was tracked to his house after a more daring venture than usual; +his reeking mare was found in the stable; his body servant, one Thomas +Reed, was discovered in the saloon mortally wounded, the baronet +believing, it is supposed, that the man had informed upon him. The old +fox had fled, having escaped by crawling out of an attic window and +letting himself down the side of the house by means of the creepers, +but he was found that same night hiding in a hollow tree. In due +course he was hanged. What happened to the daughter I have never been +able to discover.” + +“I suppose you want to know how we came into the property. You will +have guessed I am a descendant of the murdered servant,” said Reed. +“Well, I’ll tell you. The Strath doesn’t legally belong to me. It is, +or it was, Crown property. But as by some oversight, the Crown never +seized it, the Reeds did. They were on the spot, you see, and when +they saw the place was abandoned they thought they would have +compensation for Thomas’s murder, and so they stepped in. They were +never turned out, and no questions were asked. But the Reeds were only +village folk, and couldn’t afford to occupy the place. So they let it +to a man named Biron who had spent most of his life in Germany. When +he gave it up the Strath was taken by a family called Branscombe who +for some reason left suddenly. It would be the last dinner party of +the Branscombes that is still set out in that dining-room. Since their +time not a soul--” he paused, then added with a grin, “I should say +not a body, has entered the place until this evening.” + +“But what have the Reeds been doing all these years?” asked the +rector. + +“They emigrated. My grandfather took no interest in the place. My +father sent over enough money every year to satisfy the local rates, +always hoping he would make enough to enable him to retire and come +back and play the gentleman. The old man died twelve years ago at the +age of eighty, and I went on with the business until it was ruined by +a trust. Then I realised, and shipped back with the notion of spending +the rest of my life at the Strath.” + +“Were there no attempts made to let the property?” + +“Not for the last fifty years,” Reed answered. “After the Branscombes +left, and why they did so before their time I can’t tell you, the +place had a bad reputation, and no one would go near it. But I have +come at last,” he went on in his coarse voice which sounded +unpleasantly through the garden. “I’ll soon clear away all that +unhealthy nonsense. We Americans don’t hold with the conservatism of +this old country, which makes everybody tumble into a trade error or a +crazy belief one after the other, like sheep following the bell-wether +through a hole in the fence. I’m not a gentleman in your sense, and I +don’t pretend to be. I’m a practical man, the great-grandson of a farm +labourer, and a free-thinker from my youth. I don’t believe in what +you call occult influences, and if I can’t take up my quarters at the +Strath and do what I like with the place I’ll eat my hat. And now, +Professor,” Reed concluded in his familiar manner, “what do you say to +a small glass of whisky?” + +The rector rose without a word, and went into the house to find the +bottle of spirits which he kept for use in an emergency; but while he +groped in the cupboard there was a mist upon his eyes, and his usually +gentle spirit was shaken with disgust and anger as he murmured, “He +shall not lay a hand upon that garden. I hate the man. He has +inherited my Paradise, and would take it from me and make it a +desert.” + +Early in the morning the visitor left for the Strath, entering the +grounds by the gate in the churchyard, and the rector did not see him +again until evening. He did not receive any invitation to accompany +the master in these explorations; and the key, his property for the +past thirty years, had been taken away. During the afternoon he walked +along the front, noticed that the iron gates were ajar, and breathed +more easily when he saw the long grass still waving in the wind. +Returning, he fell in with one of the men in Reed’s employ, who +touched his hat and would have walked on; but the rector stopped him +and enquired what he had done. + +“Opened the doors and windows in yonder, Sir,” said the man. “Some of +they frames were that rotten they broke like paper. I scraped the dirt +from the panes, and cut off nigh a truck-load of ivy to let in the +light. But I ain’t going in there again, Sir.” + +The rector asked for an explanation. + +“Well, Sir, it’s what they’ve always said about the Strath,” the man +went on, “It ain’t healthy in there. I don’t know whether ’tis because +such a powerful lot of strong-smelling plants grow there, or what it +is, Sir, but I do know a man can’t help making a fool of hisself when +he’s there. I was a-laughing and a-singing while I worked, and feeling +just as though I was tipsy, though, as you know, I’m a sober man, Sir, +and when I looked inside there was this Mr. Reed laughing at summat +like to hurt hisself, and I don’t know if you’ll believe me, Sir, but +I saw him join ’ands with Bill Vyner, and them two danced round the +room, kicking up the dust awful. They seemed to be fair enjoying of +themselves, Sir, but now I come to think quiet-like it was a horrid +kind of sight, though I liked it well enough at the time, and stood in +the door whistling a tune for them to dance to. You see, Sir, it ain’t +proper for a gentleman like Mr. Reed to be so familiar with such as me +and Bill. And Bill says he ain’t going there no more neither.” + +Dr. Berry resumed his walk with a dreamy smile upon his handsome face. +His sensitive mouth quivered as he repeated the famous satire of +Archilochus addressed to his own soul. “Nature does not change,” he +murmured. “The lampoons of Archilochus caused the daughters of +Lycambes to hang themselves for shame. How will the influence of the +Strath use Henry Reed?” + +It was twilight when the man came to the rectory, sullen and +discontented. He had little information to give, and when the doctor +enquired whether the work of restoration had begun he curtly replied, +“Not yet,” and went on to ask whether he might spend another night +under the parsonage roof. + +“I will try him,” said the rector to himself when they had supped; and +going to his study he extracted from a drawer his little manuscript +book of translations. “I will see if this man has a soul which can +respond to the unseen world. If so there is a chance for him; if not +the Strath must conquer.” + +He came out upon the lawn where his guest was chewing the stem of his +pipe restlessly. + +“Allow me to read you a translation of mine,” he said; then seating +himself a little behind his guest he read the description of peaceful +night written by Alcman the Lydian slave and poet, who lived and sang +a hundred years before Daniel interpreted the writing on the wall for +the lord of Babylon. + +As the poet concluded, dropping his musical voice to a whisper over +the last iambic, he drew forward, watching and excited, his own spirit +thrilled by the magic of those lines. Reed appeared to be abstracted; +with wild hope the scholar put out his hand and touched him. + +“Oh, done?” muttered the bearded man. “Queer, fellows should waste +their time writing that stuff, ain’t it? Suppose they’re good for +nothing else though. I was thinking while you were talking that what +my place wants is better air. It’s too much shut in, you see, and no +one can live without lots of fresh air. I shall cut down the elms +along the road. It will be all profit to me, as the timber is big, and +ought to sell at a good price. Have you any idea what figure elm is +fetching now?” + +The rector groaned as he pushed the book of treasures into his pocket. +He had been prepared to follow up any success he might have gained by +reciting a song of Arion, who, the legends say, was brought into +Taenarum on the backs of dolphins. But his test had failed. The man +beside him was base earth, with a mind impervious to the world’s +music. + +“Will you permit me to say something?” he asked nervously. + +Reed swung his head round, and his small eyes twinkled maliciously. + +“Whatever you like, Professor. I can guess what it is. You want me to +spare those trees. Well, I tell you right now they must go.” + +“I do not ask you to spare the trees,” said Dr. Berry earnestly. “The +genius of the place can take care of them. I am going to entreat you +to save yourself.” + +“What?” ejaculated Reed. He frowned and crumpled his beard. “What +foolery in this?” he muttered testily. + +“You will not understand me,” the scholar went on. “You laugh at my +warnings. Remember I have studied the Strath for thirty years. It has +been kind to me, and more than kind, because there is sympathy between +us. We are both dreamers. I have been the sole character of its drama +all these years. I have tried to be its friend, and it has regarded me +as such. But you--you are opposing it. You are its enemy.” + +Reed dropped his pipe and planted each hand firmly upon his knees. + +“I’m an ignorant man from your point of view,” he said in a grating +voice. “I can’t write or talk about busy bees forgetting their daily +toil and feathered tribes hanging their drooping wings, and I’ll be +hanged if I want to. I can go better than that, Professor. Put you and +me down in the world to live by wits, and I would build up a business, +while you would sink to the poor-house. Ignorance? Well, maybe. Have +you ever heard of a millionaire who could read Greek? I don’t follow +you in your talk about dreams and warnings, and if you will excuse my +saying so I don’t intend to listen to any more of it. If you have any +suggestion to make about the property I’ll be glad to listen. But when +you say that a man can’t live on his own place because it has taken a +dislike to him--well, Professor. It’s moonshine.” + +“Explain to me one thing,” Dr. Berry urged. + +“Tell me how it was when I came upon you in the garden yesterday +evening you were as different from your present self as my house is +different from the Strath?” + +Reed stirred uncomfortably. That question rankled. + +“If we were sitting in that garden now,” impressed the rector, taking +his mild revenge, “and I were to read you those lines of Alcman, which +you despise, you would listen eagerly. Explain why your mood should be +different there?” + +“Maybe it is you that change,” suggested the other unamiably. + +“Come into the garden with me now.” + +But Reed declined emphatically. + +“You and I have got to be friends, Professor,” he went on with +attempted heartiness. “You’re the parson and I’m the squire, and it +seems there is no one handy to act as peacemaker. We had better not +quarrel, and if we are not going to quarrel we must agree to differ.” + +“I have done my duty,” said the rector quietly. + +“I had to warn you that if you insist upon opposing the Strath you +will be made to suffer. If you refuse to be persuaded I cannot help +you.” + +Reed stretched out for the bottle and helped himself generously. + +“How in the name of common sense can I be made to suffer?” he +muttered; but there was in his voice for the first time a definite +note of awe. + +“There will come upon you the last punishment which can befall any +man,” Dr. Berry answered. + +“The Strath will destroy you.” + +Then he removed his hat and wiped his forehead; and walked slowly into +the house. + + + + + Scene II.--SKETCH + + He sette not his benefice to hire, + And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, + And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, + To seken him a chanterie for soules, + Or with a brotherhede to be withold; + But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold.--_Chaucer_. + +Dr. Berry never learnt whether any phenomena occurred within or around +the Manor of Thorlund immediately subsequent to that evening when he +had been constrained to issue his warnings, because Reed came no more +to the rectory. The scholar reasoned that it was not any feeling of +indignation which kept the so called master of the Strath away; nor +was it fear lest he might be compelled to listen to more ominous +forebodings; it was, more probably, shame at defeat. + +The gate which admitted from the churchyard was open to the rector no +longer; but every day he passed along the front, both at morning and +evening, anxious to see if the work of demolition had been commenced, +and from each of these walks he returned with the same triumphant +smile. Not a tuft of grass had been mown, nor had the axe been laid at +the root of any of the elms; not a bush had been removed, not a flower +or weed uprooted. The garden remained unaltered in all outward +essentials, except that a pathway had become beaten out from the iron +gates to the bridge across the moat. + +When the rector questioned sexton or shepherd he learnt what he might +have guessed, namely that the owner hardly ever left the place; that +he had given up searching for men to work there; that he lived alone, +attending to his own requirements in colonial fashion; that his +baggage had been brought from the distant station across the hills and +taken by the carrier into the house; and the tradesmen of the small +market town seven miles away had been instructed to call for orders +not more than once a week. + +“Will he also become a dreamer?” the scholar wondered, as he gazed +longingly upon the old grey wall. “Can it be possible for the Strath +to give him a soul and take him to itself as it received me? Will his +poultry farming become poetry making after all?” + +He laughed sleepily at the quaint idea and approaching the oak door +turned the handle and pushed timidly. He had done so every evening +since Reed had left him, hoping rather than expecting to feel the +barrier yield. It was the same then as upon other nights; the door was +locked. + +During the tension of that long week, when the garden was closed to +him, Dr. Berry for the first time realised the loneliness of the +Thorlund valley. + +His single churchwarden, a peasant farmer who signed his name with +difficulty and without legibility, had his dwelling place almost a +mile from the church. The nearest gentlefolk lived four miles away at +Kingsmore across the white road of the downs. The only houses in the +valley were the rectory and the Strath. Half ruined barns, standing in +a disused yard which sloped towards a pond where sheep were sometimes +scoured, hedges, grass-roads, and a triangular green where a +whipping-post was preserved, comprised the remainder of the hamlet. In +such a place the talented Greek scholar had been content to pass his +time upon earth. + +The rector found himself using that past tense unconsciously while he +mourned for his lost Eden. After thirty years of a strange sleep he +felt stirring within him a desire for more breadth and motion and some +human sympathy. The small voice of the world was calling him; the +natural human passions, long latent and drugged by the influence which +had dominated his life, struggled to reach the surface. The sluggish +calm had been disturbed by expulsion from the garden. He had entered +there to dream; and now that the gate was closed he became conscious +of the thorns and thistles of the world. + +This restless mood grew upon the scholar as the days passed, the long +dry days of midsummer when the spirit of comedy prevailed around him. +His belief in the ultimate triumph of destiny was as deeply-rooted as +that of any ancient Greek. The Strath had long ago suggested to him +the theatre with its rites and mysteries and the open stage where +characters came and went, speaking their messages through either the +comic or the tragic mask. He himself represented the chorus, and had +merely played his part of exarchus in warning Reed. He did not require +to turn to his Aeschylus, or to his Sophocles, to learn the fate of +that man who thinks himself strong enough to fight destiny. Reed’s +fate was fixed, as assuredly as Agamemnon was doomed to death when he +returned to his palace in Argos. But destiny must strike with mortal +weapons; and it was impossible to believe that any human instrument in +the neighbourhood of sleepy Thorlund could be so wrought upon as to +strike the fatal blow. + +Although the scholar had never been a sociable being, he felt it a +relief when Mr. Price, vicar and squire of Kingsmore, rode over on the +Saturday and invited himself to lunch. This reverend neighbour was a +simple-minded man of seventy, bow-legged with much riding, hearty in +manner, an excellent judge of beasts, and somewhat of a connoisseur in +wine. He would shout a jest at every rustic, and touch his +disreputable hat to every dame in his village, address his labourers +as equals, and throw coppers to the children who passed him as he +rode. He had long ago forgotten what little learning he had acquired; +and it was to be feared that, good man though he was, his farming +interests were not infrequently placed in front of his spiritual +duties. He could indicate all the good points in a horse at a glance; +but it might be doubted whether he could have quoted verbatim any one +of the thirty-nine articles. + +“Good-day to you, Berry,” he shouted in his hearty manner, as he +crossed the rectory lawn while his dogs hunted the scholar’s cat into +the shrubberies. “I was saying to myself this morning that it was a +long time since I had eaten roast beef at your table, and as I know +you have a sirloin on Saturdays I thought I would ride over and help +with the under-cut. So the owner of the manor has turned up at last. +My village is full of families with his name. The place was a swamp +originally, I’m told, and they say the name came into existence on +account of the number of reeds which grew there. Any truth in that, do +you think? I believe in tradition. It’s the only thing I do believe in +nowadays. If your squire turns out to be connected with our Reeds, as +they say he is, I’m afraid he won’t be much of an acquisition.” + +“He is connected,” said Dr. Berry. “However you may be able to agree +with him better than I can ever hope to do,” he went on with +unintentional maladroitness. “He has actually proposed to me a plan +for altering the Strath and breeding poultry there.” + +“God bless my soul,” exclaimed his brother cleric, pushing an end of +his soiled white tie beneath his collar. “There’s no money to be made +out of poultry in this part of the world. I can’t dispose of mine so +as to cover expenses. He should go in for pigs. I’ll call on him after +luncheon, and tell him there’s money to be made in pigs. I have some +good sows for sale.” + +“Pigs!” murmured Dr. Berry in anguish. “Pigs at the Strath!” + +“They ought to do well,” said the farmer-vicar of Kingsmore. “There’s +plenty of grass at the manor, and pigs do well on grass. Ah, you’re +afraid of the smell. But pigs don’t smell, if they are properly kept. +We will call on Mr. Reed this afternoon. I am very anxious to see the +inside of the place.” + +“I cannot accompany you,” said the rector of Thorlund a trifle coldly. +“Mr. Reed and I have not made any considerable advance towards +friendship.” + +“That won’t do,” said the other, shaking his head seriously. “You must +pull it off with your squire, even if you do have to lower yourself a +bit. You and he are alone here, and when two men are cast upon a +desert island they can’t afford to quarrel. Now I’m quite prepared to +call on Mr. Reed, and be friendly, though he is distantly connected, I +suspect, with my head-carter. Every man is a vote, as my dear uncle, +who was member for this division under Lord Derby’s administration, +used to say; by which he meant, I fancy, that every man can do you +either good or harm, and you may as well earn the good at the +sacrifice of a little pride. But look here, Berry. For the hundredth +time I want to know whether things are as they should be at the +manor?” + +The scholar smiled somewhat feebly as he replied, “Is it possible that +everything should be in order with a house that has stood deserted for +a century?” + +“You know what I mean,” said Mr. Price. “I have asked you many a time +if the place is haunted, and I have never been satisfied with your +answers. I believe in haunted houses, because I once owned a farm +which was troubled by a tiresome old woman in a plaid shawl and a poke +bonnet, and I had to pull the house down to get rid of her. You have +always declared that the manor is free from anything of that sort; but +I think there must be something you have kept from me.” + +“Come indoors,” said the doctor. “It is hot out here, and dinner will +soon be ready. I will tell you what I know about the Strath.” + +The old gentleman followed his reverend brother into the study, and +seating himself beside the window listened to what he had to say, his +white head on one side, and his eyes blinking incredulously. + +“Berry,” he said gravely, when his mind had been sufficiently +perplexed. “If this is what our progress has brought us to I am glad I +am nearly seventy-one. I have always said that the world is going +ahead too fast. When I was a boy we lived very much the same as they +did a couple of thousand years before, and then in just fifty years +the whole world changed. First came steam, and after it the telegraph +and electricity, and now we have reached a stage when we can send a +message from one end of the earth to the other in about the time it +takes to write it, and hear the voices of dead men speaking out of +phonographs, and we are talking of travelling a hundred miles in the +hour, and there is no hell and very little fear of death nowadays, +and--God bless my soul! we can’t even have a respectable ghost, but +our old houses are to be haunted for the future by this electricity +and magnetism; and they say messages are coming from people who are +dead and ought to be decently at rest, and we are learning something +about the next stage of existence, and a future state can be proved, +we are told, not through the Bible, which was good enough for everyone +in my young days, but by certain phases of human consciousness which +I refuse to believe in and don’t profess to understand, and--I’m very +glad I shan’t live much longer.” + +“There is surely nothing much older than the idea of a house permeated +with some essence of mystery,” the scholar continued quietly. “Read +again your Greek drama, and refresh your memory by the references of +Aeschylus to the palace of Argos, whence odours issued like the breath +of graves. There you have a house, haunted, to use your word, like the +Strath by an inexplicable and invisible presence working its influence +upon the affairs of men.” + +“You go beyond me,” said Mr. Price perplexedly. “I never could +translate Aeschylus, and the only way I got through at Oxford was by +learning the crib by heart and getting the selection right by luck. I +always thought it a waste of time to learn Greek, and I think so +still. Give a boy a good commercial education. Teach him French and +German, and elementary science, and American methods. Give him a +chance to make his way in the world.” + +“And deprive him of the finest literature of all time, and the +knowledge of human nature as it is revealed to us through the +classics,” added the scholar quietly. “Is that fair?” + +“Bah,” said Mr. Price. “There are always translations if they are +wanted, and there are Shakspere and our grand old Bible.” + +“Shakspere could only model his tragedies upon the Greek drama,” the +scholar protested. “All that he could do was to clothe the old +thoughts with his own unrivalled speech and introduce additional +characters and scenic effects. The dark thread of influence runs +through all his tragedies. We know from the outset that Lear must die, +that Hamlet must fail, that Othello must fall through his frightful +error. As for the Bible permit me, with all reverence, to say that +much of its early lore is apocryphal, and much more of later date +derived from the thinkers and writers of ancient Greece. You talk of +sustaining your student with stagnant water taken far from the +fountain head.” + +“I never could argue with you,” said Mr. Price sadly. “You swim right +away, while I sink like a stone. Though I am an old-fashioned +Englishman I do my best to be modern. I have recently bought a +mechanical foster-mother to rear my poultry, I have stocked my farm +with American implements, and now I’m seriously thinking of employing +gramaphones to frighten the pigeons from my peas. It’s no use trying +to fight progress, as the savage who charged a locomotive discovered, +and destiny, or whatever you call the thing that is haunting the +manor, will find that out. This Reed comes from America. If I were a +betting man, I would lay you what you like that he will improve the +place according to his plans, and clear away that atmosphere which you +say has settled over it. The Strath wants a thunderstorm to freshen +its air, and I wouldn’t mind wagering that the American will play the +part of thunderstorm to perfection.” + +“If I were a betting man, to borrow your expression, I would take +you,” rejoined Dr. Berry with a strained smile. “But now let us go and +eat our beef.” + +“Talking of thunder-storms,” said the squarson of Kingsmore, as he +followed his host into the dining-room. “I am reminded that the glass +was falling very rapidly when I left home, so I shall pay my call upon +friend Reed and get away as quickly as possible.” + + + + + Scene III.--TRAGEDY + + Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal + right-lined circle must conclude and shut up all.--_Sir. T. Browne_. + +While the two clergymen were in the dining-room the expected change in +the weather occurred. When Mr. Price rode away, having decided to +postpone his visit to the Strath, the sun was wrapped up in dense +clouds, there was no sky, and the light was fading rapidly. + +For some time Dr. Berry sat with a book in his study. Then he ventured +upon the lawn to observe the heaving clouds, which each moment +threatened to burst into lightning. There was not a breath of wind. +The trees in the garden beyond were entirely without motion; the walls +appeared to have no substance, and the very house seemed to float away +into unreality. Afar the watcher sighted the chalk-pits on the downs, +their white sides glowing fiercely against a sombre background. + +“It is the hour of tragedy,” he murmured. + +Here, as in the ancient drama, the actors played their parts in the +open air, in order that their passions might blend with the fury of +the elements. The proscenium, as in old time, was made by nature. The +wall of the Strath formed the back-scene; the theatre was the garden; +the orchestra that mound on which the sun-dial stood. Already the +storm-cocks were chattering there, and their notes came into the +doctor’s ears like the piping of flute-players. + +“I must go,” said the dreamer with a slight shiver. + +Passing back to the house he quickly reappeared carrying a small +wooden box. He crossed the churchyard, where the sexton was digging a +grave, singing hoarsely as he shovelled up the dirt. The man touched +his hat and said, “Looks like a storm coming up yonder, sir. But the +sun shines above Kingsmore.” + +The rector hesitated, and asked absently, “Whose grave is that?” + +“’Tis for old Jim Reeve, sir. Him as died a Tuesday, and is to be +buried to-morrow.” + +“Ah yes,” the doctor murmured, adding to himself as he passed on, “I +thought it might be the grave of Henry Reed.” + +The door in the wall was unlocked. Dr. Berry had felt assured that it +would be so. He entered and stood within the influence of the garden. + +The air no longer thrilled with the note of mirth, the intoxicating +happiness and the exuberant laughter were gone. Instead of the +sunshine sorrow brooded, and the flowers were shut, and a moaning came +from the rotten gables of the house. The tragic note was dominant, and +all the grotesque sounds of mirth were stilled. + +Fully possessed by the influence, the priest ascended the mound and +extended his white hands over the dial, which represented to him no +longer a recorder of the flight of time, but an altar sacred to +Bacchus. He opened his box, scattered its contents upon the metal +slab, and applied a light. Then, as a filmy cloud of incense rose in a +long thread into the gloom, he tramped slowly round the knoll reciting +an Argive song. + +No sane voice spoke from his inner consciousness to remind him that +this was worse than folly; that he was offering sacrifice to a +mythical deity. He was merely playing the part which had been allotted +him, and reciting those words which were suitable to the occasion as +they presented themselves to his memory. The impending storm was, he +believed, about to break upon the house; and it was not to be +dispelled until the last words had been spoken, the tragedy +accomplished, and the stage abandoned. + +The rain came, and the lightning, and then strong wind which sent +leaves whirling across the knoll. But there came no sound from the +house. Through the rain and the thunder and the wind moved the old +atmosphere of fate and despair and the conquest of unbending human +will. The Thymele streamed and smoked no more; but the elements fought +on as the accompaniment of the drama, and the piping of the invisible +storm-cocks became shriller and more stern. + +Again the mood changed, and Dr. Berry was driven forth like a villain +to the hisses of the wind. Instead of returning home he took the field +path which led beside the beech wood; and ascended until he reached +the summit of a grass hill where larches were odorous in the hot +sunshine. Pausing there he looked out, and saw the growth of sable +cloud above Thorlund and the lightning crossing it and the white steam +of the rain ascending. + +A rabbit bounded among the larches into the open, and after it came a +female figure, young and lithe, her face tanned by exposure to the +weather, her great eyes unashamed. At first sight she was beautiful; +at the second pathetic, because the light in her eyes lacked reason. +She bounded up to the rector, flung herself at his knees, and burst +into a noisy incoherent prayer. + +“Get up, girl,” cried the scholar, dragging her almost roughly from +the grass. “How often must I tell you this is wrong?” + +“Here are flowers for you,” cried the girl, pressing a quantity of +pale-blue and white harebells, warm and withering, into his hand. +“They are always ringing, and I am tired of their noise. Take them and +curse them. They will stop that wild nodding of their heads for you. +Why will you not let me touch you? There is force coming out of your +fingers, and when I hold your hand I see no longer the strange things +in the wind. I have been among the larches, and in the white +chalk-pits, and down by the stream, and in the cold churchyard, but I +still see the strange things coming down the wind. And you too walk +alone. Do you see figures? Have you seen the masked man running, and +the white woman crying into the lilies? Do you see them in the garden +in the valley?” + +This girl, a well-known character of the neighbourhood, lived at +Kingsmore with her grandparents, but was seldom to be found within the +cottage of her relatives. Her real home was upon the grass hills, or +in the dry beech wood, or down in the valley. Nancy Reed, Lone Nance +as the villagers called her, passed about the country like a will o’ +the wisp, talking to the birds and the creatures of her imagination, +revelling in wind and shouting through storm. Yet for all her wild +speech she was as gentle as a child, although perfect reason had been +witheld from her all the twenty-four years of her life. She was sane +enough to know that she was not as others, and her one desire was to +become perfect and womanly; but relentless nature continued to bear +her from place to place against her will, flinging her body about the +hills like drift wood tossed upon the sea. + +“You go into that garden with a book in your hand,” she cried, +pointing into the vapours. “I watched you come out, your lips moving, +and your face as white as that chalk. You saw and heard a great deal +in that garden, and you were wondering what you had missed. If I had +been nearer I would have told you.” + +“You have never been in that garden,” said Dr. Berry sternly. “And you +must never go.” + +The girl laughed noisily into his face. + +“That house is filled with sounds which you cannot understand. But if +you go there much more, and sit under its shadow a few more years, you +will begin to understand. And then you will come out and call for me, +and we shall chase the sunbeams into the valley.” + +The rector drew away from her. The note of inspiration was there and +he had recognised it. It was true he had felt a slow unloosening of +mind from body, an exaltation of the brain, and a tingling of each +sense, while he had tarried in that garden. He had called this the +birth of higher knowledge and the stirring of genius; but when the +girl spoke he remembered that the bridge which separates the inspired +from the diseased mind is perilously narrow and frail. + +“I cannot keep away from the place,” he muttered, forgetful that Lone +Nance was his listener. “I cannot stop my ears. I must go there, to +sink into sleep and dream. It is good for me. The Aeolian poets walk +at my side. I can describe their land, their speech, and their +manners, as though I had lived in that far off time. Their language is +as familiar to me as my own. I can enter into their moods. I can see +where history has erred. I can make the crooked places straight. I can +see the outlines of their figures and describe the very texture of +their raiment. I can even detect the odour of Sappho’s anointed hair +as she passes along the road to Mytilene.” + +He stopped, remembering the status of the wild girl. She was looking +beyond him into vacancy, her hands locked behind her back. The dark +clouds were lifting from Thorlund, but the vapour still ascended like +the mist of the genie from the fisherman’s vessel. + +Twilight was trailing over the land as Dr. Berry descended, and the +beech wood became a black sea, tossing and moaning with the voices of +life. A labourer cutting hay stopped from his work and leaning upon +his two-handled knife pulled at the brim of his hat as he peered down +from the strong-smelling rick. + +The rector looked closely at the man, until his sluggish memory awoke +and suggested a name. + +“Was it not your father who was taken ill? How is he now?” he asked, +with a dim feeling that he had neglected his very inconsiderable +parochial duties of late. + +“Broke,” said the hay-cutter, abruptly and hoarsely. “Broke a week ago +and been took. Sixty-one he wur, a good age for the likes of we.” + +“I do not remember burying him. When was it?” Dr. Berry asked. + +“’E didn’t not ’xactly die,” the man explained. “’E was took to the +’ouse, and so ’e be done to we. Us all get broke, some sooner, some +later. Us can’t last for always. Father broke quick when ’e started, +but ’is brother, my Uncle Tom as was, ’e took a terrible time. Us all +said every fall, ‘’e’ll get broke this time for sure,’ but ’e’d pull +through and laugh at us. ’E went sudden at the last. ’E’d been +threshing all day, and ’bout evening ’e couldn’t carry. Tried time and +time ’e did, but couldn’t carry. ’E walked ’ome, and sat down ’e did +aside the fire, and ’e said, ‘I be broke.’ ’E was took that month.” + +“Is he still alive?” the rector asked. + +“Ay, sir. I saw ’im one day walkin’ the yard, when I druve the waggon +by, but I didn’t want ’im to see I. When they gets broke they don’t +come back no more. Some on ’em lasts a powerful time yonder too. But +they ain’t of no account, and us don’t talk on ’em. Us ain’t got +nothing to do wi’ they. I’ll get broke in my time. Us don’t think on’t +till it comes.” + +“Would it not have been possible for you to have kept your father out +of the workhouse?” protested Dr. Berry. “You are in regular work with +good wages, and an old man does not cost much to keep.” + +The hay-cutter looked perplexed, and a trifle puzzled, at the +scholar’s lack of very ordinary knowledge. + +“Father wur broke, sir. ’E couldn’t earn no wages,” he explained. + +“So I understand,” said Dr. Berry. “But did it never occur to you that +you might maintain him? It should surely be the son’s duty to support +the father in his old age.” + +The labourer smiled more and more at the rector’s ignorance. + +“They that be broke be took, sir,” he said heavily. “When I be broke +I’ll be took, and my son will say, ‘Good-bye, father,’ and wait for +’is turn. Wife and me ’ave six children, and another comin’ ’fore +harvest. I gets twelve shillun, and pays ’alf-a-crown rent and +sixpence club money, and my wife and me live clear of charity. There +ain’t no room for old folk along wi’ a big fambly. ’Sides, sir, it +ain’t proper. Them that be broke, be took. And them that works get +wages.” + +“Good-night,” said Dr. Berry abruptly. + +“Good-e’en, sir,” replied the hay-cutter gruffly. + +“Broken in pieces like a potter’s vessel,” the scholar muttered as he +walked away. “As we cast the sherds of shattered utensils from our +houses, so are these men cast forth from their homes when their +strength breaks and their utility as machines passes. There is matter +for the thinker here, but it is colourless and cold. It lacks the +warmth and glamour of the past.” + +One last sunbeam passed over the hills and slanted across the Strath. +From a point, where the grass road swung round, a side of the old +house became visible, and a single window blinking in the middle of +the light. Dr. Berry watched with shaded eyes, and suddenly came to a +stop. There was a white figure bending across the window, and as he +saw it the question of the wild girl flashed back: “Have you seen the +white woman crying into the lilies?” + +The same minute he was smiling, because a breath of wind had passed, +shaking the foliage, and the white figure rocked in unison and +vanished, as the sunlight died away. The shape had been caused by the +ivy and a certain arrangement of the boughs of an elm acted upon by +the white ray. The rector breathed more easily when the window became +blank. + +Yet he knew that the people of the hamlet would be saying that +evening, “It is noisy in the Strath.” They who behold a tragedy see +only the outward passions of the actors; of the influence which is +behind they can see nothing. So one may watch the tree tormented by +the wind, but not see the wind. + +Supper was awaiting the poet, and he ate and drank mechanically. Then +entering his study he spread his translations before him, and +straightway became an Athenian, floating delicately through most +pellucid air. + +The poetic mountains breathed their influence into him over the deeps +of time. Fragrant odours were in his nostrils, and in his ears the +murmur of bees upon Hymettus. He passed restlessly to Olympus where +the Gods were in council, and saw the Father aiming his thunderbolt, +and like Menippus sat at the door whence issued the supplications of +the world, and heard the petitions for wealth, honour, and long life +repeated in shameless monotony. He heard also the prayer of Reed +entreating that the terrible atmosphere might be dispelled, and he +felt no sorrow when the frown on the thunderer’s brow remained +unrelaxed. Through all the shifting figures he dimly perceived the +table before him and the passionate iambics of Archilochus spread upon +paper by his hand, and aloud he read, “My soul, my soul care-worn, +bereft of rest.” And at that his head sank forward upon his breast. + +The study window remained open, and moths and beetles blundered +through to bombard the globe of the scholar’s lamp. + +It was ten o’clock when the housekeeper knocked as usual at the door, +and receiving no answer entered softly with her master’s bedroom +candle and a cup of cocoa. Dr. Berry was leaning forward over the +table, his face hidden upon his folded arms, a disabled ghost-moth +floundering across his left hand. The woman noticed that the muscles +of her master’s hands were standing out like cords. + +“Your reverence,” she said. + +The rector did not stir, and after repeating her call she muttered +gently, “He’s been and tired himself again.” Then she turned down the +flame of the lamp, drew it further from the sleeper, and retired +softly, leaving the door ajar. + +The tragedy was over; and the tired exarchus slept. + +The next morning it became known about Thorlund and its neighbourhood +that the owner of the Strath was dead. The woman who supplied him with +milk had discovered the body lying across the threshold, its head +towards the garden. Henry Reed had pitted his strength against the +Strath; and the influence of the house had triumphed. + + + + + INTERLUDE + + He was nothing better than a consumer of the fruits of the earth. + “Dost thou then,” quoth I, “imply that we should name such a creature + as this--as we do the drone in the bee-hive--a blot upon the + community, a mere drone at home, and abroad a disgrace to the state?” + “Even so, Socrates,” said he.--_Plato_. + +The houses, which compose a street at no great distance from the trees +of Gray’s Inn, are for the most part occupied by authors, artists, +actors, and architects engaged, like Icarus, in making wings. + +The first letter of our alphabet originated it is said from the +hieroglyphic picture of an eagle. Followers of the four professions +beginning with that letter are, strictly speaking, not wanted. +Everybody must need letter B as represented by baker and butcher. But +letter A suggests luxuries. The picture of the eagle is therefore +appropriate. Authors, artists, actors, and architects must learn first +to fly, and then to soar well above smaller birds, before they can win +success. + +The side posts of each door are studded with an amazing number of +brass knobs, intended originally to be in communication with bells +upon every floor, but at present restricted seemingly to the duty of +exposing lilliputian milk-cans to the public view. These great houses, +which in the time of the Georges were occupied by people of title, +have become brick-and-mortar masks, hiding the sunken eye and hollow +cheek of poverty, in addition to the shame of rake and harlot, from +the view of the town. On the ground floor of Number 15 a middle-aged +man was brushing a long-haired terrier beside the open window of a +wide room panelled with oak. It was close upon ten o’clock, but +breakfast was still waiting. The interior was moderately well +furnished, although with the typical middle-class disregard for art. +The pictures were for the most part prints depicting scenes of sport. +There were also a few German photographs in doubtful taste, and one or +two engravings of river scenery in blurred and fly-spotted frames. +There was not a book to be seen, except one which was open upon the +sofa, and that to judge by its broken back was in continual use. Its +title was Ruff’s Guide to the Turf. + +A well-built man of not more than thirty years, unbecomingly attired +in a yellow dressing-gown and scarlet slippers entered the room. His +haggard face, listless attitude, and general appearance of disgust +with himself and his surroundings, suggested that he had been in the +habit of guiding his life according to the traditions of the house. As +the middle-aged man turned to welcome him, the profligate yawned +profoundly and lowering himself into a chair pushed the hair off his +forehead with an irritated gesture. + +“So you’re here again,” he muttered. “Drayton, you’re a regular +vampire, always after money or food. I suppose you would suck my blood +literally, if you weren’t afraid of poisoning yourself. What is it +this morning? Breakfast I suppose?” + +The other--he was a poor scribbler, who made a precarious livelihood +by contributing paragraphs to popular penny weeklies--stroked his +stubbly chin, laughed, and removed the dog from the chair as carefully +as through the animal had been made of precious porcelain. + +“As a simple statement of fact I have slept upon your premises,” he +said, indicating the sofa. “Have you forgotten who guided your weary +footsteps homeward during the early hours of the morning?” + +The profligate bent over the table and picked up a letter which was +addressed to “Charles Conway, Esquire,” in copper-plate handwriting. +He tore open the envelope, yawned again, and inquired of his companion +whether at the time specified he, the questioner, had been very +grossly drunk. + +“A gentleman of private means never gets drunk,” said the parasite. +“We apply that term to costermongers and coal-heavers. But you were, I +fancy, rapidly approximating towards that Bacchic state which in +classical language is described as _vino gravatus_. Even the policeman +at the corner of the street, whom for some reason best known to +yourself you insisted upon greeting most fraternally, would never, I +am sure, admit that you were more than foot-sore; but then you +presented him with a shilling, thereby obtaining your commission as +captain. You wasted that shilling. I would have installed you as a +Field Marshal for half the amount.” + +“Eat the breakfast,” said Conway, as he transferred himself wearily to +the sofa and unfolded his letter. “And don’t talk so much. My head is +tender.” + +Drayton hurried to the table and surrounded himself with victuals; but +before beginning he looked across and suggested, “Better have +something. Try a kidney and a piece of toast?” + +“You can get me a bottle of beer and an apple,” said Conway in his +jaded manner. + +Drayton bustled to a cupboard, bent his rheumatic knees, and after an +interval approached the sofa in the capacity of waiter, bearing the +desired refreshment. + +“A glass of milk would be more appropriate, considering the time of +day, only you might insist upon having whiskey in it,” he said. “You +will soon resemble Lord John Hervey, who, in this neighbourhood, and +perhaps in this very room, breakfasted on an emetic, dined on a +biscuit, and regaled himself once a week with an apple. Here is your +ale--all white and yellow! You can imagine it is a poached egg.” + +The younger man gave no heed to the parasite’s chatter. He was +studying his letter with a frown. When it was finished he leaned back, +drank his refreshment, looked at his watch, then read the letter +again. + +“Bring me the newspaper,” he commanded. + +The scribbler was making famine in the land. He believed in eating +well, entirely mistrusting the French proverb, which associates a good +stomach with a bad heart, and pinning his faith rather upon the creed +which teaches that virtuous folk have hearty appetites. His own poor +line of business rarely afforded him the means for more than one +substantial meal in the course of the day, and too often not that; so +when opportunity was given to kill a hearty appetite without +lightening his pocket he was never wont to be backward. + +Rising obediently Drayton opened the newspaper, folded it with the +sporting intelligence outward, and so handed it to his patron with the +remark, “There is no change in the betting.” + +Conway did not even glance at the sheet, which had been presented as a +matter of course; but turning to the general news searched each column +carefully. For several minutes there was silence, while the scribbler +made ruin of the breakfast. Then Conway threw the paper down and +resumed his former attitude. + +“Give me a cigarette,” he ordered. + +The other briskly left the table, complied with the demand, and as +briskly returned. A coal cart rumbled by, and the Stentor in charge +announced his business by a long ear-shattering yell. + +The noise seemed to stir Conway into life. He paced across the room +and set his back against the door. “Drayton,” he said, “I have heard +some extraordinary news this morning. My uncle has been murdered.” + +“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the writer, his jaws ceasing from their +labours. + +“Don’t worry your brain to find condolences,” said the other coolly. +“I have never to my knowledge seen this particular relative, so I am +in no need of sympathy, especially since I benefit by his death. But I +want to know whether you have read anything of the murder of a Henry +Reed? I see there is no mention in to-day’s paper.” + +“Sympathy apart, it’s an awful business,” said Drayton, pouring +himself out another cup of tea. “No, I don’t remember to have heard +anything. How did it happen?” + +“It seems, from the bare narrative here, to have been a remarkable +affair altogether,” Conway answered. “My uncle returned from America +only a few weeks ago, to take up his residence in an old house +belonging to him which had not been occupied for ages. Last Sunday +morning he was discovered by the milk-woman, lying dead across the +threshold of the hall-door. It appears that the house has a queer sort +of reputation, and it was at first supposed he had died of fright. But +at the inquest it was shown that he had been strangled. And the +curious part of it is that no stranger had been seen in the place, and +it is impossible to suspect any of the inhabitants of the village.” + +“The mystery of the haunted house,” muttered Drayton professionally. +“Perhaps there will be a chance for me to do something here. Where is +the place, Mr. Conway?” + +The younger man came away from the door without answering and walked +up and down, swinging the tassels of his dressing-gown. Suddenly he +sat down at the table and poured himself out some tea. + +“That’s right,” said the scribbler approvingly. “Nothing half so +stimulating as tea. I hope I have left enough.” + +Conway filled a cup and drank off the contents. While doing so he kept +his eyes fixed upon two grotesque objects above the chimney-piece, one +on either side of a picture which depicted Isinglass winning the +Derby; and when he set the cup down he remained in the same posture, +staring at a pair of brown masks representing Comedy and Tragedy. + +“My head is full of wheels,” he muttered. “Come and hit me, Drayton, +that I may be sure I am alive. I must have played the fool badly last +night. I remember coming back from Sandown, and driving to some +restaurant in the Strand. The next thing I can recall is groping round +my room for a drink of water. My body aches and pricks, and my head +feels as heavy as lead, and my eyes--Great Heavens! are those faces +laughing at me?” + +The elder man had finished eating at last. He came round the table and +placed his hand soothingly upon the profligate’s arm. + +“Come over to the window and get some air,” he said quietly. “You have +been making a hot pace these last few months. You’ll be breaking if +you don’t hold up.” + +“Look!” muttered Conway, pointing at the masks. + +“Turn your back on them,” said the scribbler. “What are you going to +do about your uncle’s death?” + +Again Conway disregarded the question. Turning from the wall to the +furrowed features of his poverty-stricken companion, he exclaimed +thickly, “Sit down, Drayton, and don’t bother me. Do you know why I +have those masks hanging there? They are family heirlooms, copies I +have been told of a pair made in Nuremburg, during the eighteenth +century, by a crazy toy-seller. These belonged to my mother before her +marriage, and her father had a pair like them.” + +“Where are the originals?” inquired the listener. + +“They have been destroyed. There was something uncanny about them, but +beyond that I know nothing. This is the crest of the Reeds.” + +Conway drew a ring from his little finger and held it out with an +unsteady hand. The other took it and saw a white cameo, showing two +masks, leaning together, a cap and bells over the forehead of the one, +a dagger over the other. He returned the ring, with the grave remark, +“But you are not a Reed.” + +“My mother was. The family emigrated to America, and there my mother +married into the Conway family, and returned with her husband to +England. My uncle leaves his property to me, not because he could have +loved me, but I suppose there was no one else to whom he could leave +it.” + +“Go down and see the place. The change will pick you up,” suggested +the elder man. “It isn’t probable you will live there?” + +“What, give up London to rot away in a lonely country house?” said +Conway contemptuously. “Is it likely? If I cannot let the place I +shall try to sell it. What are you doing with yourself to-day?” + +“The usual thing,” replied the man who lived by his poor wits. “The +British Museum reading-room, in chase of a guinea. I have earned +nothing this week.” + +“You shall have a guinea, if you will pack my bag and take it to +Paddington. I am going to see my late uncle’s lawyer, and will meet +you at the station about noon. You can occupy these rooms until I come +back.” + +The literary adventurer closed with this offer promptly; and a few +minutes after mid-day a train drew out of London, carrying the +profligate Conway towards the influence of the Strath. + + + + + ACT II. + + Scene I.--COMEDY + + Drink, be merry! Life is mortal, short is the time on earth.--_Amphis_. + +It so happened that the exit of Henry Reed made no stir beyond being +the wonder of a week in the neighbourhood of Kingsmore. An inquest was +held at the Load of Mischief, a wayside beer-house standing before an +unworked chalk-pit at the entrance to Thorlund parish; the customary +verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown had +been returned; and there the matter appeared to end, so far as the +inhabitants were concerned. Officials whose duty it became to detect +the criminal made a thorough investigation. They searched the house +and grounds--the Strath being in its sunniest mood--and the entire +district for material upon which to work, but not a particle of +success crowned their efforts. The medical evidence clearly showed +that the unfortunate man had been strangled by a strong pair of hands; +the locals testified that no stranger had entered the valley; the +principal witness, Dr. Berry, declared that he was the only resident +who had been in the habit of using the garden. He admitted, in answer +to a question by the foreman, that he had spent very much of his time +beside the lonely house; and so soon as he had spoken the coroner +inquired whether he had been upon good terms with the deceased. + +“When in his garden we had no difficulty in agreeing,” the scholar +replied. “When in mine we differed, but without quarrelling.” + +“How do you account for that?” + +“I attribute it to the influence of the Strath.” + +“The influence of your garden is then less elevating?” + +“My garden is in the commonplace world,” said Dr. Berry, speaking what +was in his mind, and shrinking when he perceived the half-pitying +smile with which his answer was received. + +It was not until his housekeeper had given evidence that her master +had not left the rectory during the evening that Dr. Berry realised, +with a thrill of horror, that distrust had certainly rested, if only +for a few moments, upon himself. And yet he was the only man upon whom +suspicion could fall. The sensitive scholar was exceedingly pained +that he should have been questioned at all. He could not remember ever +having purposely deprived a living thing of life; he had refrained +from digging in his garden after having inadvertently severed a worm +with his spade; and he had passed a troubled week deciding how he +might act without cruelty when a lazy cuckoo had deposited her egg in +a favourite hedge-sparrow’s nest. + +Days passed, and already grass was flourishing upon a fresh mound +beside the churchyard wall where rested the shell of the stubborn +little man who had fought against the Strath and had died in the +attempt. The master of the manor had quitted the scene unmourned. The +sun went on shining in the valley, the old house settled back into a +triumphant silence, the church bell jangled its summons on Sunday, and +the incumbent soared in rhetorical flights above the souls of his tiny +congregation. There was no change. Yet it seemed to the rector that +his step was not so firm as formerly; and when he glanced into his +bedroom glass he detected a whiteness above his brow which had not +been obvious before the coming of Henry Reed. + +One evening a young man, with dissipation signed upon an otherwise +good-looking face, called and introduced himself as the dead man’s +heir. He went on to ask for the keys, which his agent had instructed +him were deposited for convenience at the rectory. Dr. Berry +surrendered his charge with a nervous glance at the new-comer, and +after begging to be excused from accompanying him went on to ask +permission to retain, as he had always done, the key of the gate in +the churchyard wall. The young man’s hearty consent thrilled him +gratefully; and though, after his late experience, he dared not invite +any relative of Reed to take up his quarters at the rectory, he +remarked in his courteous manner that he would be pleased to make the +further acquaintance of his new squire. Conway in boisterous slang +replied that he would be delighted to have someone to speak to during +his visit, and after promising to look in later that evening retired +to glance over his property and to engage a room at the Load of +Mischief. + +That day was made notable by other arrivals. Flora Neill came from her +riverside home to pay her annual visit upon her reverend uncle the +squire of Kingsmore; and as dusk was settling upon the hills a line of +dingy caravans proceeded at a walking pace along the bending road, +accompanied by swarthy gipsies and the paraphernalia of the pleasure +fair. These nomads invaded Kingsmore that night, and the following day +all the village folk were making holiday; it being Mr. Price’s kindly +custom to follow a precedent established by his ancestors, and to free +his farm hands from their usual duties upon that particular day. + +Shooting-booths, swings, and trial of strength machines occupied waste +spaces by the roadside, while a merry-go-round discoursed blatant +music upon a triangular patch of turf where the parish stocks were +still religiously preserved. The Kingsmore fair was as degenerate as +it was harmless. There was neither dancing-horse, elephants playing at +ball, Italian marionette, nor booth of classical play. But +posturising, grinning through horse-collars, eating of hot puddings +were to be witnessed, besides such natural monstrosities as a calf +with five legs and a lady of prodigious adiposity. + +During the afternoon the squarson himself drove into the midst of the +animated scene, accompanied by his niece, with a view to discovering +whether the pleasures of his people were as innocent as stated, or +whether this was to be positively the last occasion on which he could +allow the fair to take place. The rustics, who were compelled to give +him their allegiance, were not in the least afraid of the old man, +whose nature was very nearly as simple as their own. Mr. Price was one +of the last of the plain country squires. He permitted his servants to +address him with familiarity. From his position in the chancel he +would scan his congregation and record the number of heads before +commencing service. Should a grey beard nod in the course of his +sermon, the vicar would break off his discourse and order that the +sinner should be awakened. The tramp on the road he would greet as a +worthless rascal and soften the charge with a shilling; and at +Christmas he took care that no cottage should be without its beef and +beer. As he then glanced at the swarthy faces of the proprietors of +booths and stalls he felt certainly “in some doubt whether he should +not exert the justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless +vagabonds.” But when it came to the test his heart was too kind to +deprive anyone of his livelihood, or his own people of their pleasure. +He was no new man, anxious to assert himself. Mr. Price knew his +power, and therefore had little temptation to use it. + +“Uncle!” Flora exclaimed. “Who is that man throwing at the cocoa-nuts? +He was my travelling companion yesterday from the junction.” + +Mr. Price fumbled in the deep pockets of his disreputable driving coat +for his spectacles; and when they were produced, together with a +sample of wool and a bunch of twine, he pushed them on his nose. +“Where?” he asked. “Do you mean that elderly man in the brown gaiters? +He is a sheep-farmer from the other side of Queensmore.” + +“No--the young man to his left. There! He’s just going to throw.” + +“Why, that is Mr. Conway, the new owner of the Strath, I do declare,” +exclaimed Mr. Price, who having been called out on duty the previous +evening had looked in at Thorlund rectory on his way home, to condole +with his reverend brother upon his recent ordeal at the inquest, and +there had made the acquaintance of the young man from town. “I am +surprised to find him here, so soon after that terrible affair too. +The squire of Thorlund throwing for cocoa-nuts! And not a stitch of +mourning for his uncle--and smoking--and shouting! God bless my soul, +Flora, the man’s no gentleman!” + +“He is young,” said Flora indulgently. + +“All the more reason why I should show him his duty,” said the old +squire. + +He summoned a passing labourer to hold the horse’s head; but as he was +about to step down Conway sighted the dog-cart, and hurried across the +dusty grass in the happy mood of a schoolboy enjoying a half holiday. +Mr. Price sank back to his seat with an exceedingly guilty expression, +and caught up the reins. + +“So you are taking in the variety show,” the young man cried, with an +appalling bonhomie that set the immediate neighbourhood grinning. “I +had no idea one could find such sport in a village,” he went on. “I’ve +been throwing for an old chap, who came to me with a penny, and said +he wanted to take a nut back to his grandson, and couldn’t throw +himself, so would I? He kept his penny while I spent a shilling before +I knocked down a nut. You seem to breed good business men down here.” + +“I am here to satisfy myself that no objectionable features have been +introduced to corrupt my people,” said Mr. Price severely. “I hope you +will not mind an outspoken remark from an old man, Mr. Conway, but I +feel that when one comes to take up a position in the country it is +very necessary to keep up appearances. These simple people readily +form a wrong estimate of character. Ah, yes! This is my niece, Miss +Neill.” + +“Do you enjoy this sort of thing?” asked Flora directly she had been +introduced. + +“It’s something fresh to a Londoner,” the young man replied. “I have +been round all the shows, I have smashed bottles, tried my strength +and my luck, and found I haven’t much of either, seen the fat woman, +pinched her leg--” + +“Did you sleep at the Strath last night?” broke in Mr. Price. + +“No, I went to the pub. It’s an awful hole,” said Conway. “I started +out to call upon you, as you were good enough to ask me to come, but +when I got here I yielded to the temptation of the fair. If you are on +your way back, I may as well walk on to the house,” he added coolly. + +“Mr. Conway might drive back with us,” Flora suggested. “There is +plenty of room behind.” + +Courtesy hindered the squire from objecting. The young man neither +acted nor spoke according to his old-fashioned ideas of a gentleman. +He appeared to be neither temperate nor well-bred. And here was Flora +making herself agreeable, solely because there did not happen to be +another man handy. The smoke from Conway’s cigar passed across his +face, and the old gentleman, whose constitution prevented him from +appreciating tobacco in any form, coughed disgustedly. + +It was a long mile from the centre of the village to the vicarage. As +the cart jolted along the road Mr. Price shouted his customary little +jokes to the people who passed on pleasure intent; while his niece +sustained a running conversation with the new owner of the Strath. + +“Uncle has told me all kinds of stories about your house,” Flora was +saying. “I have often wanted to see the inside of it. But I should be +sorry to have to spend a night there.” + +“The parson at Thorlund swears it isn’t haunted,” said Conway eagerly. +“I just looked in last night for a few minutes. It did make me feel a +bit queer to see all the eighteenth century fixings which haven’t been +touched for the Lord knows how long. The old garden by itself is +enough to make a fellow imagine all sorts of things.” + +“Your poor uncle was not strangled,” said Mr. Price, breaking into the +conversation with a note of strong conviction. “That was only doctor’s +evidence to give the jury a chance. I shall always maintain that Mr. +Reed was killed by fright.” + +“I do not believe that fright has ever killed a man,” objected Flora. + +“Nonsense, child. What do you know about fear?” said the vicar +sharply. “At your time of life you ought to be asking questions, +instead of arguing with your betters. If the Strath were mine down it +would come,” he went on, turning to Conway. “Of course it is haunted. +You remember, Flora, my farmhouse and its spook of an old dame in a +poke bonnet? Well, I had the place down, and out went the lady. You +can’t strike a bargain with unrepentant souls. You must employ drastic +measures, and the only way of getting rid of a spiritual nuisance is +by using fresh bricks and mortar.” + +Now that Mr. Price was mounted upon his hobby he talked freely, and +the young people were compelled to remain tongue-tied until the +vicarage was reached. There tea awaited them, a meal which Mr. Price +took seriously, and when he was satisfied Flora asked Conway if he +would care to see the garden. The townsman rose at once and +accompanied the tall girl along the grass paths, above the valley and +the stream winding in the distance, while the vicar uprooted plantains +from his lawn, with an old table-knife. It was all delightfully +old-world and simple. The profligate felt the charm of the soft +evening and began to understand the pleasures of country life, as +Flora, bare-headed and handsome, talked freely upon his limited +subjects and laughed at his somewhat vulgar jokes. It was the sound of +this laughter which caused Mr. Price to straighten himself and +remember that he was the guardian of his fatherless niece, and that +his guest might be able to claim some distant sort of relationship +with his head-carter. + +“Uncle,” said Flora, who always insisted upon managing the affairs of +the house during her stay, as the old gentleman approached them. “Mr. +Conway will stop and have supper with us.” + +“I really think I ought to go back,” the young man said, conscious +that it would not be wise to outstay his welcome. + +“What, back to your Load of Mischief? No, you must follow the custom +of the country. We will feed you and send you off to Thorlund by a +poetic moonlight. Uncle, do go and wash your hands. They look as if +you had been making dirt pies.” + +“A man has no need to be ashamed of soiled hands,” said Mr. Price +somewhat sharply, because he resented any allusion to his +peculiarities. “I shall be pleased if you will share our evening meal, +Mr. Conway,” he added, turning to the young man. Directly he had +spoken he went to his threadbare knees and expelled a huge dandelion +from a bed of larkspurs. + +“Mr. Conway wants us to go over to Thorlund to-morrow,” Flora went on. +“You will take me, won’t you, uncle? I am longing to see the Strath, +and he has promised to give us tea.” + +“I am not at all sure whether I shall be able to come,” said Mr. +Price, approaching Conway, with the dinner-knife in one hand, and the +bushy dandelion in the other. “I don’t like leaving Kingsmore while +these fair people are about. They are an ungenerous lot, and sometimes +repay my kindness by appropriating my chickens. But we will come if I +can get away,” he added, because he too was burning with curiosity to +see the interior of the house concerning which he had heard so many +strange tales. + +So Conway stopped to supper, and Flora played hostess; while Mr. +Price, his simple face shining from a generous use of soap and hot +water, thawed out under the benign influence of a glass of port, and +told all his anecdotes for his guest’s benefit, studiously avoiding +any reference to the Strath or to the Reed family, until his niece +rose and left them. Then he pushed the decanter across the table, and +from a dissertation upon the iniquitous corn-laws passed at a bound to +the subject of oral tradition, and furtively inquired of his guest +whether there were to his knowledge any letters or memoirs +appertaining to Sir John Hooper in existence at the Strath. Seeing +blank astonishment on Conway’s face he went on to explain his +question, by dealing with the known history of the defunct baronet. + +“Never heard of the chap,” declared Conway, assisting himself to wine. + +“You may possibly find in your house some of those materials which +help us to a knowledge of history,” went on the old squire, who was by +this time in his most genial mood. “Sir John had a daughter, an only +child, who, it is reputed, was very beautiful, and he treated her, +’tis said, with great cruelty. A tradition exists in my family that on +a certain winter’s night the girl was discovered crying among the elms +in this garden. My ancestor had remarked upon the noise made, as he +supposed, by the owls, until a friend declared that the sound was made +by human voice. They went out and searching in the snow found the +girl. She was huddled against a great dog, and her eyes were fixed +with fear. They carried her to the fire, but directly she found her +strength she was gone. They say she had a lover, and that her father +killed him on the highway.” + +“When did this happen?” Conway asked, reaching again for the decanter. + +“About the time that Wolfe was chasing Montcalm out of Quebec. Hooper +was hanged upon what is still known as Deadman’s Hill. Any villager +will point out the spot to you. But I want to know what happened to +that poor girl. Tradition in this village suggests that she was often +to be seen, walking at night with the dog, always crying, and always +dressed in white like a bride. It was considered bad luck to meet, or +even to see her, just as it is thought unlucky nowadays to break a +mirror or spill the salt.” + +“Is she supposed to haunt the Strath?” inquired the owner with more +interest. + +Mr. Price shook his head in a puzzled fashion, and bent low over the +table. + +“Your rector, who knows the place better than any man living, declares +there is neither figure to be seen, nor sound to be heard, either in +house or garden,” he said, fingering the ends of his white tie +excitedly. “And I must own that village opinion bears him out to the +letter. Now as regards my farm-house, which was undoubtedly +possessed--I saw the queer old Georgian woman myself, standing by a +hay-rick, one raw winter afternoon--not a labourer would go near the +place, and the stories I heard of red and green lights flashing across +the windows, groans, and gnashing of teeth, though the poor old dame, +I would swear, hadn’t a stump left in her head, made me sympathise +with the psalmist who declared, ‘all men are liars.’ Try the Strath +for a few days, Mr. Conway. Don’t mistake me. I wouldn’t live there +myself. I’m a churchman, but I have a horror of the unseen world. Is +that decanter empty? There is another upon the sideboard. Yes, give +the Strath a fair test. It has always been a place of mystery, but +latterly seems to have broken out, if I may so use the expression. +Enter into the mood of the influence and it will treat you well, Berry +would say. Only don’t let him get too strong a hold upon you, or he +will whisk you back into an atmosphere of prehistoric days.” + +Nearly an hour later Flora, weary of her own society and nettled at +being isolated, came glimmering round the house in her white dress, +and played spy at the dining-room window. She saw the two squires, the +old aristocrat and the young plebeian, leaning across the table, +slopping wine amicably into each other’s glass, the one talking +perpetually, the other laughing in approbation. She heard her uncle +announce that his father had died of gout, the blame being on the +speaker’s great-grandfather; and she also heard his companion’s +assertion that Mr. Price might therefore consider himself insured +against the malady. Then she shivered a little at the grotesqueness of +the scene, entered the house through the conservatory, and passing +into the dining-room broke up the conversation by taking Conway out +into the garden. + +“If you decide to live in the country,” she told him severely, “you +will have to abandon your London habits. Uncle is an old man,” she +added reprovingly. “And it is wrong of you to excite him into +forgetting himself.” + +Conway became penitent and apologetic. “A fellow living alone in +diggings hasn’t much chance of doing himself any good, Miss Neill,” he +said in deep humility. “It’s too lonely of an evening to stay in, and +the means of enjoying yourself are made so jolly convenient. I’m +ashamed of myself--I am really, but your old uncle is such a jolly +good sort. And, you see, I’m not a clever chap, Miss Neill,” he +rambled on. “I haven’t got much learning, and I can’t stand books. I +don’t know Shakspere from Robinson Crusoe. Don’t laugh at me, Miss +Neill. I can’t help being a silly jackass. Perhaps I had better be +going now. But you will come over to-morrow? Do come and see my +house.” + +Flora was about to deliver one of her plain-spoken remarks, when she +was interrupted by a loud summons from the dining-room. Leaving the +guest she slipped back into the house, and discovered her uncle, +sitting erect and preternaturally stern, beside his hospitable table, +which had been influenced that night by some subtle nerve of +consciousness deflected from the Strath. + +“Flora,” he cried indignantly. “The man’s no gentleman. I forbid you +to contaminate yourself by speaking to him. He has drunk more than is +good for him. And so have I.” + +“I fancy you once told me your great-grandfather never went to bed +sober,” said the girl. + +“Customs were different then,” snapped the squire. “Send Mr. Reed +away, and remember please, he is related to my head-carter.” + +“If you mean Mr. Conway he is just going. Had you not better come into +the drawing-room? The housemaid will be here presently.” + +“I shall remain here until to-morrow morning, if necessary,” said the +squire solemnly. “Supper has not agreed with me to-night. The soup was +a failure.” + +“If my mother could see you, she would take hold of your poor old +shoulders and shake you,” cried Flora; and with that she ran out and +rejoined the squire of Thorlund, who was standing near the gate, +gazing penitently at the solemn stars. + +“Miss Neill,” he said tremulously. “There’s nothing like the country. +I was ill when I came here, but already, thanks to the beautiful fresh +air, I feel a different man. I am going to walk back to Thorlund in +this wonderful moonlight, and I shall admire nature all the way.” + +After an earnest appeal to Flora “not to forget to-morrow,” the guest +started off along the shining road. From a distance came up the +mellowed noises of the fair, and the glow of naptha lamps became +reflected against the rolling clouds. + +Flora stood, smiling a little, in the shadow, flicking away the gnats +from her forehead. + +“That is one of the weakest men I have ever met,” she said to a moth +which hovered for a moment before her. “It would be amusing, and quite +easy, to treat him in this fashion.” + +She wound her handkerchief tightly round her little finger, and turned +with the action towards the house. + + + + + Scene II.--MYSTERY + + Is it possible then that the soul--which is invisible and proceeding + to another place… when it is separated from the body--is at once + dissipated and utterly annihilated, as many men say? It is impossible + to think so.--_Plato_. + +When Conway reached the exposed road, leaving Kingsmore behind, a cool +wind sprang up redolent of pines. To feel it the better he took off +his hat and leaned against a moss-clad milestone. The unwonted +exercise of walking along country roads tired him quickly. He watched +the moonbeams playing across the ridges of short grass, and flinging +shadows into the ghastly chalk-pits, until the solitude awed him. He +found himself in a vastly different world from the noisy town which +had surrounded him throughout his life. And yet he found himself +longing for the grapes and pomegranites of his Egypt. He was incapable +of feeling any true admiration for the splendid silence of the hills. +The novelty of the experiment was still upon him; but the artistic +temperament was not, and never had been, his. + +Across the brow of the chalk a thin thread of road cut the highway at +right angles, and here a spectral sign-post pointed with three arms; +the fourth had been removed by storm, and its remainder was a sharp +finger-like splinter. Reaching this point Conway crossed the patch of +grass to make a short cut; but in passing the post his foot struck an +obstacle, which proved to be the amputated arm. In idle curiosity he +lifted the rotten board, and holding it in the moonlight made out the +barely legible inscription, “Queensmore. 1 Mile.” + +There was nothing to be seen in the direction pointed at by the +splinter, except ragged bushes and white stones, beside a weedy road +which descended in graceful curves from the summit and disappeared far +down in a clump of larches. There was no indication of a village down +beyond; not a voice proceeded from the valley, nor tinkle of +sheep-bell, nor snort of cow or horse at pasture. A barn owl slid +across the firs and shrieked at the enemy; and silence settled down +again. + +Presently there sounded a rattle of wheels, a stamp of iron shoes; a +stream of lamplight followed; and then a box-shaped cart topped the +ridge, and came noisily to the rectangular section of the roads, the +horse backing as he felt the decline. + +“Like a lift, sir?” inquired a hoarse voice, proceeding from a muffled +figure perched high between two goggle lamps. + +Conway recognised the mail-cart making its journey towards the distant +railway. Glad of the invitation he reached the flat roof, with the +driver’s assistance, settled himself upon a bag of newspapers, and, +clinging to the iron rail, closed his eyes when the horse was given +his head, because it appeared that any moment he might be hurled +forward into space. The driver began to chat, and when his head had +ceased revolving Conway found himself able to listen. + +“I ain’t allowed to take anyone up,” the man explained. “And I ain’t +supposed to smoke neither, which is what I call a bit of stupid +tyranny. But ’tis lonesome driving along these roads night after +night. Would you mind leaning over a bit, and holding the reins, while +I strike a light? Are you a stranger in these parts, sir?” + +Conway replied, without revealing his identity, and as the cart jolted +on he asked the driver to point out the site of Queensmore and the +position of Deadman’s Hill. The man immediately swung round, and +extended his whip in the direction of the rapidly receding clump of +larches. + +“Deep down in yonder valley,” he replied. “You ain’t got property +there, I hope, sir?” + +“I have not,” Conway answered. + +“Queensmore is deserted and broke up. A very old village, they tell +me, sir, built by these Saxons, and full of their remains, leastways +the ground is. Go over and have a look at the place, if so be you can +spare the time. It lies just at the foot of Deadman’s Hill. That there +is the hill, sir. A bit further back you can see the post which marks +where the gallows stood. They do say it ain’t healthy to be along +these ways by night; but I’ve crossed this here country for years in +all weathers, at Midsummer, Hallow’s E’en, and Christmas, and I’ve +seen naught, but only owls and bats and glowworms. Folks let a fancy +get into their heads, and keep it there, and let it grow, until they +come to believe it’s true.” + +“How many people live at Queensmore now?” Conway asked. + +“Not one. The last inhabitant--an old man, name of Jabez Tooke--died +there five years ago. He wouldn’t leave the place, and having a bit of +money of his own he lived there by himself till he was ninety, and +then he had to go whether he wanted to or not. They buried him in the +old churchyard, and there’s a stone over his grave, saying something +this way, ‘Here lies Jabez Tooke, the last resident in Queensmore, who +wouldn’t be taken from his native village till death took him.’ Kind +of joke on his name, you see, sir. Parson Price was angry when that +stone was put up, they tell me. But it don’t matter now. Queensmore +has had its day, and now the owls have it to themselves. The wind is +pulling it down bit by bit.” + +“What made the people leave it?” the townsman asked. + +“Well ’tis a bad country for agriculture hereabouts, and when year +after year the sheep did no good the farmers began to get out of it. +Then, of course, the labourers had to move on, and after that the +parish was joined on to Kingsmore, and that was the end of it. It +wasn’t ever what you would call healthy down yonder. Too much stagnant +water, and they couldn’t afford to drain. Flowers did well, but +there’s no money in them. All the village must be just blowing with +roses now, sir, and any one as wants can help themselves. But ’tis a +sad kind of place, with its tumbling cottages, and ruined church, and +nobody seems to care to go near it.” + +The driver chatted on, glad of the opportunity to use his tongue, +until the mail-cart approached Thorlund, and the great elms which +surrounded the Strath could be seen against the sky. + +“I don’t carry no weapons,” he said, in response to Conway’s question +regarding the dangers of the road. “I wouldn’t know how to handle a +pistol--shoot the old horse as likely as not. There ain’t any real +danger on the road nowadays. I was held up once, when ’twas thought I +was carrying valuables, and I gave my gentleman strong medicine with +this here whip. I’m tidy useful with a whip, and when a man gets a +clean cut across the eyes he’s had enough. Never got a word of thanks +for saving the mail, but if I was seen carrying a gentleman I would be +sure of the sack. I mustn’t do less than my duty, sir, but as much +over as I like. It’s a hard life, because there’s more foul weather +than fair, and never a word of encouragement if I bring in the cart up +to time all the year round. Yonder is Thorlund, and the Strath. Now +that’s an awful mysterious sort of place, if you like, sir, and it’s a +very queer affair about this Mr. Henry Reed.” + +“If you don’t mind stopping here, I will get down,” said Conway, when +he discovered that the cart was turning away from the valley. “I am +going to Thorlund.” + +“Are you though?” exclaimed the driver, with a sudden direct interest +in his passenger. “Mind that step, sir. It’s dangerous when you don’t +know it. Well there, I’ve been real glad to have your company, and I +didn’t ought to take anything, but thank you very much all the same, +and good-night to you, sir.” + +It was not until the ancient yews of the churchyard appeared before +him that Conway perceived he had somewhere made a wrong turn. He saw +ahead a grey wall partly covered with ivy, and in his pocket he felt a +key which would open the hidden door in that wall. A light streamed +across the graves; a window beyond was open, and coming near he saw +Dr. Berry seated at his table, and when he stopped there came upon the +night the scholar’s rich voice chanting a Greek lyric. It was an +unknown tongue to the listener, but he was nevertheless fascinated; +and as he stood, listening, a strange power fell upon him, his mind +succumbed at once, and his feet passed the dark mound which marked the +resting-place of his uncle’s body, and entered the shadow. He fitted +the key into the lock, turned it, and the door opened at a touch. + +For an instant he held back. The wonderful garden spread away before +him bathed in moonlight. Then he laughed with a sense of new-found +happiness, and moved forward, drawn on by invisible bonds; and the +door closed into the wall with a gentle vibration; and a hundred +unknown energies made music in his brain. The house called to its new +servant, and he went to it; and the guest’s bedroom in the Load of +Mischief remained unoccupied that night. + +As the Aeolian harp is thrilled by every passing breath of wind, so +the consciousness of Dr. Berry responded to every change in the +influence of the Strath. He had not perceived the figure of Conway +passing before the window, neither had he heard the opening nor the +closing of that door in the crumbling wall; and yet he knew a material +being had entered the garden, and he felt more strongly than he had +ever done a power controlling his human organism, prompting him to +take pencil and paper, and write--he knew not what. + +The influence of the Strath was again strongly aroused. Since Reed’s +tragical fate the old house had remained quiescent. It appeared to +have exhausted its power for the time. And now in one moment the +scholar’s tongue was silenced as he recited the complaint of Euphron, +“God, as thou hast given us only a short life, why dost thou not allow +us to pass it without sorrow?” and a cold breath went through the +room, and his body began to pass into ecstacy; and he knew by all this +that the power had returned, and that it was kindly and wished him +well. + +The impulse to write became overwhelming. Scarcely knowing what he +did, the scholar took a pencil, and immediately the hand supporting it +was guided towards a sheet of paper and there reposed with violent +twitchings. The upper part of his body turned shudderingly away from +the right arm, and settled, a mass of semi-conscious matter, across +the high support afforded by the side of his chair; but the arm, and +especially the hand which clutched the pencil, were impatient, active, +and mobile. + +“What is this?” he moaned; for he could feel that his body was in +pain, and there was in his mouth a taste exceeding bitter, as though +he had swallowed hemlock. + +And immediately his unconscious hand moved fiercely and rapidly across +the paper, tracing out in ancient Greek the explanation:-- + + + “We cannot command the elements, or would have come near before. Now + you shall recognise our power. Give praise to the Supreme, for the + permission afforded of proving to you the truth of the endlessness of + life. + + “We will answer the questions you have written down, though we work + with difficulty, being compelled by the immutable law of Nature to + communicate through your brain and your mind, feeling again, as we + return to earth-state, the pains of our dissolution. The conditions + are exceptional to-night. We have awaited such an opportunity for + long. But being yourself in the body you will desire some proof of the + presence of an objective mind. When you awaken go forth into your + garden. Seven white lilies stand in a line beside the gate. The blooms + upon the fourth we will remove as we pass from hence, leaving the + green stalk bare. We will also read from a book and impress you of a + word. Walk, when you are able, across the room, and your hand shall + seek out a book, which, as you hold it, shall open at the one hundred + and ninetieth page. The last word upon that page is ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. It is + enough. Thus you shall learn our power over matter. + + “What is the meaning, you have asked, of this influence at the Strath? + You have doubted whether this power could arise from the actions of + certain earth-bound spirits. Also you have desired to know how it is + that after years of quiescence the spirit of the house, as you have + called it, should have become in so short a time thus mightily + aroused. We answer you concerning these things. Those spirits, who, + because of their grossness, are imprisoned near the earth, are ever + struggling to make their presence felt. As the sea-bird flutters + towards the light of some lofty tower, so do these discarnate beings + struggle towards that incarnate mind, or towards those material + objects, through whom, or by which, they may exert their will and + proclaim their identity. Some of these spirits are harmless, but many + are dangerous and all are undeveloped. There are in the Strath certain + material objects by means of which these spirits are allowed great + power upon the affairs of mortals who approach the place. You cannot + understand, nor may we explain to you further, how this should be. + Only beware, for there is peril in seeking out this knowledge, and the + body endures not easily nor for long. You know not how the spirit may + work, even through a ring, or a lock of hair, or may seek to impress + its nearness through the bird or the flower. We say again, beware, for + the spirits of the earth-bound, they who in the flesh have done + murder, or violence to themselves, or have succumbed to the bodily + appetite, are jealous of the happiness of those who have led the + spiritual life in your condition. They shall retard your upward + progress if they may. + + “And now we answer concerning the present great activity of those who + control the ancient house. It is your desire to seek into hidden + causes which has made it possible for such energies to arise. That + power will not be maintained, but while it continues we have fear for + you, knowing the frailty of the incarnate mind. These undeveloped + spirits have at length become skilled in managing the elements. It is + necessary that a certain combination of circumstances should be + formed, before such manifestations of spiritual power be possible, and + because such a combination is rare you do not often find upon your + sphere that influence, as you call it, which is now filling your mind + with perplexing doubts. It is possible that the combination, which now + exists, may not be made again. We would speak upon other matters, but + your brain is unable to express those greater truths, and your mind is + incapable of receiving them. Be satisfied now, and rest. You have very + much to learn.” + + +The inert body of the scholar stirred slightly and he groaned deeply +in his trance. But, before he could awaken, his vitalised right arm, +acting so strongly at variance with the remainder of his system, swept +again across the paper, and his hand settled, and his fingers went on +to write: + + + “A spirit lately arrived desires to communicate, and we are commanded + to permit him. He will use our power to write in his own language, and + will then depart from you, having given the evidence that is + required.” + + +There the sprawling Greek letters ceased, and the pencil went on to +write in English, forming in illiterate unshaped handwriting the brief +and blasphemous message: + + + “Damn you, Professor. You were right.” + + +Some minutes passed before Dr. Berry came to himself and was able to +comprehend what the intelligence had wrought through his undiscerning +brain. It was close upon midnight before the message was deciphered; +for despite his scholarship and skill in reading manuscripts, there +were words and symbols in that script which were new to him. The +communication was written in Attic Greek by an intelligence which +exhibited a perfect command over the finer tones of that perfect +language. No living scholar could have penned those lines, and +possibly few modern Greeks could have translated them into their own +decadent tongue. + +Slowly and painfully, for his body was racked and weary, Dr. Berry +approached his bookcase, and immediately his arm was raised and his +hand guided towards a work near the end of the top shelf, a book bound +in drab boards, entitled, “Theatre of the Greeks.” That work was one +of a parcel which had come to him during the previous year and so far +had not been opened. The boards fell apart, but not the pages which he +required, and on bending to discover the cause he found that the +leaves had not been cut. Opening the page quickly with a paper-knife, +his eye sought the concluding word upon page 190. It was ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. + +Lighting a candle, the scholar walked out into the garden and the +still dark night, until he came to a flower-bed, beside the gate which +opened upon the graveyard. Six tall Madonna lilies lifted their heads +of white bloom before the fence where at sunset seven had stood. +Approaching, the scholar raised the candle above his head, and before +a moth blundered against the wick and extinguished the flame, he +perceived that the central lily, the fourth from whichever side the +plants were counted, stood a bare green stalk, denuded of its blooms. + + + + + Scene III.--MUSICAL COMEDY + + Light quirks of music, broken and uneven.--_Pope_. + +When Flora awoke she discovered a pink envelope addressed in Maude’s +careless caligraphy, lying beside her morning cup of tea. She hurried +over her toilet, made her way into the garden; and seating herself +luxuriously in an easy chair beneath an arch of honeysuckle, read and +laughed over the selfish sentences inscribed upon two sheets of +perfumed paper. + +The little lady was very miserable. London was dusty and desolate. She +had read the new books, seen the new pictures, and heard the new +plays; she had done everything and enjoyed nothing, because she was +losing all her prettiness. Lately no one had admired her, at least no +one had told her so, and it was because she was growing old. She felt +perfectly convinced she would never attract anybody again. What would +happen to her if she became a widow she dared not contemplate. As for +Herbert, he was always in the city, which was of course the proper +place for him, but he was bad-tempered when he did come home, and +always declaring money was dreadfully scarce, which she didn’t +believe, but he had always been fearfully stingy. And he declared he +would not take her into the country, so she had made up her mind to go +away by herself, before her health was completely wrecked. And if +Flora was staying for any time at Kingsmore, would she look out for a +furnished cottage, upon rather high ground, but not in an exposed +spot, well away from standing water, with a nice garden, which could +be guaranteed free from toads and owls, with plenty of lavender +bushes, and green blinds to all the windows, but not Venetians, which +always broke directly they were touched… + +Then a bell jangled in the house, and Flora rose at once, because she +desired to find her uncle in a good humour; and she knew nothing upset +the old gentleman more than being kept waiting for his breakfast. + +Because it had been the custom of his ancestors, and Mr. Price was an +ardent conservative, a service was held for the labourers early every +morning in one of the barns. The squire had not only accomplished this +duty, but had ridden round the farm and signed the death-warrant of +several pigs, before entering the dining-room where his niece +immediately joined him. The old gentleman kissed the girl on both +cheeks, according to custom, and plunged into discursive talk which +had nothing to do with the guest of the previous night, or the empty +decanters upon the sideboard; while Flora, so soon as she was allowed +the opportunity, told him of Mrs. Juxon’s requirements, and read such +extracts from the letter as were fit for publication. + +“Bless my soul,” exclaimed the squire, as he dropped a drumstick of +cold chicken noisily into his plate. “What more will the woman ask +for? Why does she not say at once that she intends to have the entire +scheme of nature altered to suit her convenience, and engage angels +for landscape gardeners. Lavender bushes and green blinds! I hope she +may get them.” + +After sundry remarks on Flora’s part Mr. Price stumbled into his +niece’s snare, and suggested that she should take the light cart and +drive round the neighbourhood, with a view to finding a cottage +sufficiently idyllic to suit the spoilt beauty. When this matter had +been settled, Flora placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin +upon her hands, and introduced a fresh topic with the statement, “I +have been thinking, uncle.” + +“Have you, my dear?” the squire replied, adding with a chuckle, “You +look none the worse for it.” + +“I think mother would be willing to let our house this year,” Flora +went on. “We have heaps of applications, on account of the river. And +then she could come here, and keep house for you all the summer.” + +“Before agreeing, I shall require an undertaking that my liberty is +not to be interfered with,” answered the squire, who was in very good +spirits that morning, despite the excesses of the previous night. As a +matter of fact Flora’s suggestion was entirely after his heart, and +had been made by himself without success in former years. “You know, +child, I will never consent to have my study tidied,” he went on, “and +the privilege of the latchkey I must retain. Your dear mother has a +weakness for what she calls order, therefore, before admitting her +into this house, I shall require a signed agreement granting me full +licence to continue in my untidy ways.” + +“Oh, you shall have all your old privileges,” said Flora. “I will +write to mother at once, and then go cottage-hunting for Maude. +Remember,” she added carelessly, as she rose to go, “we are due at +Thorlund this afternoon.” + +Flora had her way. At half-past-four the Kingsmore carriage entered +the valley of Thorlund, bringing the vicar and his niece to visit the +Strath. The old gentleman wore his best coat, which had left the +tailor’s hands not more than five years back. He had also put on a +fresh white tie, which was already showing finger-marks, and had +brought out his dusty silk hat, the wearing of which when visiting a +neighbouring squire being a point of etiquette upon which he was +particular. During the journey across the four miles of chalk hills he +talked sheep and turnips, and was continually putting his head out of +the window, to examine the state of the road, or to shout a simple +joke for the appreciation of some passing son of toil. + +As the coachman was unwilling to venture with the carriage through the +high grass, which completely obliterated what had been the drive, the +visitors alighted at the iron gates, and made their way along a +faintly defined path to the house. The front door stood open, but +there was no sign of any occupant, and their attempts to ring were +frustrated by the corroded bell-knob, which remained immovable. Mr. +Price shouted and stamped, and, when no one put in an appearance, +stepped into the hall. He was the first squire of Kingsmore to enter +the Strath since the beginning of the period styled by historians +modern England. At the opposite side of the hall a huge fireplace +yawned blackly, its iron dogs red with rust. Some old tables, +stiff-back chairs, and sofas of tapestry, with a couple of tarnished +sconces holding blackened candles, and a curious clock its dial made +of white flowered glass, were the principal articles of furniture. The +hall was paved with stone. Above, a rectangular wooden balustrade, +sadly in need of repair, went round the building, and a few sombre +pictures could be seen against the damp stained walls of the first +floor. The frames were as black as dead walnut-leaves. + +“It will cost the young man a great deal to restore the place,” Mr. +Price whispered. + +“But where is he?” returned Flora. “I wonder if he is in here.” + +She led the way boldly into the drawing-room or saloon, the walls of +which were hung with tattered crimson velvet. This room had been +cleaned by the late owner with a good deal of care, until traces of +what must formerly have been a richly gilded cornice had become here +and there apparent. The extinct Hoopers had furnished their home well. +There were tables and chairs made of mahogany, a new and expensive +wood in the eighteenth century. Cabinets filled with old china +occupied the corners, and grotesque footstools with sprawling legs of +acanthus pattern were placed before each chair. Mirrors were greatly +in evidence, all handsomely framed, the majority bearing sconces which +still contained black sticks of wax. Upon a walnut sideboard a massive +candelabrum threw out seven silver arms. Above the fireplace were +arranged several bizarre ornaments of Indian make, intermingled with +porcelain vases painted with gross designs after Giulio Romano. The +pictures, which had evidently been lately rehung after having fallen +from their original positions, were numerous, but of little artistic +worth. The subjects were generally unpleasant, or suggestive; such as +Actaeon watching Diana, the loves of Jupiter and Leda, of Venus and +Adonis, of Aaron and Tamora, with coloured copies of Hogarth’s +Marriage _à la mode_. Upon a Louis Quinze table a fan was sprawling, +the scenes of The Harlot’s Progress painted upon its mounts, and +beside it a box containing patches. The escutcheon of the Hoopers, set +into the central window, cast a bar of colour across the rotten +carpet. The squire gazed upon his surroundings without any sense of +amazement, but with a distinct fascination, until he discovered +himself putting up a hand to adjust the periwig which was not there. +Both uncle and niece had altogether forgotten their absent host. + +“It seems to be getting rather dark,” the girl said tremulously. + +“The sun has gone behind the trees, and the creepers are thick against +the window,” replied the squire with extraordinary light-heartedness. +“Look here, Flora! A French horn, such as is used upon our coaches. +And here a bent sword, twisted I doubt not by our host when in town +while defending himself against the Mohawks, and here one of the +furred caps which we old men wear while our wigs are with the barber. +And now let me hear you draw some music out of this beautiful +harpsichord.” + +The girl laughed, waking echoes in that strange place, and saying +lightly, “I will endeavour, my respected relative, to give you the +gratification which you desire,” drew up a chair, and sat down before +the impossible instrument. + +“By God! what a place for a dance,” cried the reverend squire, cutting +a fantastic caper, then bounding after his hat as it rolled across the +room. “Look at these boards, where they show through the carpet. All +of oak, a foot and more in width, somewhat worm-eaten, but none the +worse for that.” Holding out his coattails, the old gentleman bowed +gravely to his niece, and commenced to dance round her. + +There came a sound of heels clicking upon the stones of the hall, +followed by a rich voice: + +“Bravo! bravissimo! That step was worthy of a dancing-master. If I had +but a fiddle I would play you a measure which should set you +skipping.” + +A handsome man strolled into the saloon, an open snuff-box between his +finger and thumb, attired in laced coat and embroidered waistcoat, +silk knee-breeches and stockings, silver-buckled highlows, and a big +white wig. A quantity of lace surrounded his throat, and his smiling +face was highly powdered and his chin patched. + +“Why, Sir John! my dear Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Price, ceasing from +his gambols, and bowing to the new-comer with his toes turned out in +most approved style. “This is a very extraordinary and unexpected +pleasure, I do assure you, good Sir John.” + +“Nay, but you are mistaken,” came the answer, as the speaker bowed low +to the lady at the harpsichord. “The humble personage before you is +merely the poor parson of Thorlund parish.” + +At that the squire of Kingsmore went very red and awkward; and finally +blurted out the remarkable statement: + +“I am totally at a loss to explain why we are here in these +preposterous garments. Flora, my dear, what could your tiring-woman +have been thinking of, to send you out with not an atom of powder to +your head, nor a patch to your face. And I believe we are expected to +drink a dish of tea. Where is our host that I may apologize in a +suitable manner?” + +“He has been for some hours in a state of drowsiness,” Dr. Berry +explained, with a careless wave of the snuff-box. “I am unable to +understand what has come over him. He is dressed ready to receive you, +but I cannot keep him awake. I will, however, inform him that you have +arrived. As for your clothes that is a matter which can be easily +attended to. There are, in the rooms upstairs, presses filled with +apparel for both sexes, secure against dust and moth.” + +“Pray show me the way,” said the squire with old-fashioned urbanity. +“My charming niece, shall we accompany the learned doctor and make +ourselves presentable?” + +The strange characters passed out, making for the stairway and the +unexplored regions above. For them the clock of time had been set +back, or rather the hands were continuing to move at the point where +their progress had been arrested more than a century back. The drama +had been suddenly broken into during the eighteenth century; and now +that figures had come again upon the scene the drama went on, as +though there had been no interval, and those who were present had to +take their cue, and assume the parts of those men and women, Hoopers +or Branscombes, long since driven off that stage. + +After a short interval of silence a sound of singing filled the long +saloon. The vocalist was Dr. Berry, who was drawing an accompaniment +of broken music from the harpsichord, while Conway lolled sleepily +upon a sofa, costumed as a _beau_ of a past age. To them entered a +lady and an old man, the latter exceedingly quaint and undignified, +the former tall and handsome; both attired after the best manner of +the time in which they dimly believed they were drawing breath and +inspiration. + +“It is certainly growing very dark,” said the squire of Kingsmore, as +he advanced with mincing step into the saloon. “And it is still early +in the evening.” + +“The clouds are coming up thickly,” replied the musician. “The windows +are also obscured by ivy, and trees surround this peaceful retreat +upon every side. Our host continues to be drowsy,” he went on, +pointing to the sofa and its silk-clad occupant; and having spoken he +crossed over, shook the sleeper gently by the shoulder, and called, +“Wake, my friend, here are your guests.” + +Conway opened his eyes. His face was perfectly pallid, but there were +lines of laughter drawn about his mouth which gave him a curious +resemblance to the mask of comedy, hanging in the room across the +hall. He rose slowly, and with perfect breeding, altogether unlike his +usual manner, bowed silently to his guests. Then he seated himself +again, and became aesthetically engrossed upon a painted vase. + +Flora came forward, and asked, “Are you tired, Mr. Conway?” + +“I have still a sleepy humour upon me,” the owner of the Strath +replied, passing as he spoke a hand across his forehead. + +Dr. Berry was posing before one of the mirrors. + +“Shall we play?” Conway suggested, stretching out his arms and smiling +vacantly. + +“By all means let us play,” assented the old squire, admitting into +his nostrils a pinch of dust which had no doubt been choice _rappee_ a +hundred years before. + +A small sane voice whispered to these mummers that they were playing +at folly, just as the drunkard may be conscious that he is making a +deplorable exhibition of human frailty, although the knowledge in no +way aids him to act like a sober being. They set out a table, +old-fashioned cards and markers were produced; and they commenced to +play. The silence of the house was only disturbed by a faint moaning +of wind in the chimneys. + +“Gott in Himmel! as our gracious king would say. I am scarce able to +read my cards,” cried Mr. Price, after they had played the first hand. + +“It is growing damnably dark,” muttered Conway, not ashamed to swear +before the lady because such was the custom of the time. “Set a light +to the candles, doctor. There is a tinder-box upon the mantel. The +king,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Price, the sane intellect +struggling to assert itself. “Who is our king?” + +There was a perplexed interval, occupied by a mental conflict between +enlightenment and possession, before Mr. Price replied somewhat +testily, “Why, George the Second. Though ’tis said he has not long to +live. God save our Augustus!” + +“Truly the spirit of comedy prevails this evening,” observed the sober +voice of the doctor, who was lighting the ancient candles with a +modern wax vesta. + +“Ha!” exclaimed the old squire, picking at the yellow ruffles upon his +wrist. “What is that, doctor? Comedy! Why, to be sure, let us laugh +and sing. Where are the servants? Let us have a bowl of punch and a +few long pipes.” + +He stumbled in his big shoes towards the bell-rope, tugged it, and the +cord came away in his hand. + +“I have no servants,” said Conway meditatively. “But there is wine in +the house. I will bring you some.” + +He left the saloon, and they could hear him laughing across the hall. +Dr. Berry went on lighting the old candles in the sconces, in the +ormolu chandelier, and the candelabrum, until the saloon began to +glitter. He closed the decayed shutters and drew the torn folds of the +crimson curtains, singing a ballad as he worked. The light revealed a +painted ceiling, in the centre of which appeared a nymph entwining the +stem of an apple-tree with garlands of flowers. + +“A forest of lights!” cried Mr. Price, standing before the +chimney-glass and lifting his hands in rapture. “The view of this +handsome apartment regarded thus is indeed exquisite. The lights +dazzle and shine from one mirror to another in an endless vista. Ha! +here comes our wine. What elegant glasses, my dear Sir! What a superb +piece of workmanship is this salver!” + +They drank, to the health of their dying king, to George William +Frederick, Prince of Wales, to a lord admiral, and a great duke, all +of whom had left the body many generations back. They drank confusion +to the French and prosperity to their country. Then the scholar took +Flora by the hand, and leading her out into the centre of the saloon +danced with her a minuet. + +The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared startlingly at the entrance. +Having failed to make himself heard, and finding the front door open, +he had taken the liberty to enter, and now stood struggling with +amazement and some little fear, and yet without finding anything of an +incongruous nature in the scene before him. + +“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, addressing the capering little gentleman +whom he recognised as his master. “Do you want the horses to stand, +sir, or shall I put them up at the Inn?” + +Another wave of sanity passed across Mr. Price’s brain. He understood +that it was his duty to leave that present company and go into an +altogether mysterious world. With many apologies, and much +snuff-taking, he approached the master of the house to take his leave. + +“I shall see you at Almack’s or White’s, when we are next in town,” he +said after a final warm good-night, glibly repeating the words that +were forced upon his tongue, although feeling them to be absurd. + +There was still daylight upon the village. A couple of labourers, +their day’s work done, had proceeded towards the iron gates, attracted +by the Kingsmore carriage, and had been summoned by the coachman to +hold the horses while he went in search of his master. These men stood +craning their necks towards the garden, until they saw in the twilight +two figures approaching; an old gentleman in a monstrous periwig, +handsomely embroidered sack coat, flowing waistcoat, and gleaming silk +stockings, assisting the progress of a young and beautiful lady, with +protruding panier and powdered head, a fan swinging from her wrist, +and a soiled Pamela hat upon her whitened hair. + + + + + ENTR’ACTE + + An avowal of poverty is a disgrace to no man; but to make no effort to + escape from it is certainly disgraceful.--_Thucydides_. + +A fortnight had passed since Conway’s departure from his rooms in +town, and still the profligate gave no sign of his existence. Every +morning, when the postman’s knock sounded along the street, a weary +man crept down a dirty flight of stairs from his attic, praying for a +letter which might cheer his heart, but finding none. After a meagre +breakfast he would venture out to another house, to inquire if there +was anything for Mr. Drayton. The answer was always in the negative. + +The hack-writer had been compelled to abandon Conway’s rooms, not so +much because the place was being subjected to a thorough cleansing, as +owing to the fact that the rent was overdue, and the attentions of the +agent had become pressing. Drayton had written several letters to his +patron, acquainting him with this fact. As these letters were not +returned, he concluded they had been received, and yet nothing came +from the distant country to prove that Conway was alive. This +continued silence was becoming a serious matter for Drayton, who at +that time was in a desperate state of poverty. Younger men were +jostling him out of the ranks of an overcrowded profession, his one +suit of clothes was more than threadbare, and his health had begun to +fail for want of sufficient food. He knew that Conway hated country +life, and would never separate himself from the pleasures of town +unless compelled to do so. Concluding that the missing man was ill, or +had met with an accident, Drayton resolved to go down into the country +and find his way to the Strath. + +This determination came on a morning when he found himself absolutely +penniless. + +Leaving the wretched lodging-house, he passed into the street where +the sun was showering golden favours upon rich and poor alike, let +himself into Conway’s rooms by means of the key which had been left +with him, and searching in a cupboard found to his delight a tin of +biscuits and some apples. Having breakfasted, he passed into the +bedroom and exploited his patron’s wardrobe, remarking as a +justification for the act he contemplated, “Conway has always been +good-natured, and I don’t think he will mind. Anyhow I will play +boldly and take the risk.” + +The impecunious writer believed in being thorough in his methods. +Having come to a decision, he discarded his own seedy garments in +favour of one of Conway’s numerous suits, borrowed a pair of boots, +which were not, like his, gaping at the seams, and a change of linen; +and presently returned to the sitting-room better dressed than he had +ever been in his life. There was a jar of whisky in the cupboard. +Drayton helped himself moderately, then sat down to think. As he +contemplated a railway journey it was obviously necessary to be +provided with cash; and to that end it would be equally necessary to +pawn something. + +He looked round the room to select a victim. Pictures were too bulky; +an inquisitive policeman might meet him at the door and put +inconvenient questions. There were, however, numerous small +money-bringers, such as a marble clock, a pair of field-glasses, a +handsome tantalus, a silver cup, any of which he might very easily +hypothecate. He selected the clock, and approaching the chimney-piece +had put up his hands to remove it, when the two masks above caught his +eye. Straightway his arms dropped at his sides, and his mind became +possessed by a new and quaint idea. + +Five minutes later he was hurrying down the street towards a familiar +pawn-shop, with the pair of grotesque faces wrapped in brown paper +beneath his arm. He felt unusually excited, and somewhat +conscience-stricken at purloining the heirlooms. + +At first sight it seemed as though he was to be sharply disillusioned, +for the pawnbroker, who knew Drayton well enough, pushed the parcel +back indignantly. + +“Having a lark, ain’t you?” he satirically demanded, noting the +writer’s unusually well-dressed appearance, and jumping at the +conclusion that he had made some money and had spent an undue portion +of it in liquor. “There’s a toy-shop round the corner,” he went on, +endeavouring to repay insult by insult. “Take ’em there. Maybe they’ll +give you a penny for the pair.” + +Like many of his profession Drayton was sensitive, and sarcasm hurt +him. Muttering an apology, he caught up the masks and slipped out of +the shop, hot and awkward, with the idea of returning for the clock +that he might convince the pawnbroker of the seriousness of his +intentions; but when again upon the street the former influence +possessed his mind, and there flashed across his vision the picture of +a dusty little shop, a mile westward, beside which he had often +lingered, to glance at the fantastic objects exposed for sale, and to +wonder how the proprietor made a living, because he had never seen a +buyer enter or leave the house. Mechanically he turned his footsteps +towards the mean and dirty street, where the little curio-shop +survived, while more ornate trading ventures went to the wall. + +A swarthy little man advanced from a black recess when the writer +entered, and in a guttural voice sought to learn what the gentleman +required. Somewhat nervously Drayton explained the object of his +visit, and opening his parcel placed the masks side by side upon the +counter. The dealer assumed a pair of spectacles, and bent his head to +examine the two brown objects; then, with a muttered apology, he +lifted the models tenderly and carried them towards the light. + +“They are worth very little,” he said deliberately, as he looked back. +“I will advance you five shillings upon the pair.” + +“That is no good to me,” Drayton replied. + +“If you desire to sell I would give you one pound,” the little man +said, his foreign accent becoming more pronounced. + +“I do not wish to sell,” said the writer. “I want to borrow five +pounds.” + +The curio-dealer said nothing, but his head inclined slightly. Then he +walked away into a back-room and very quickly re-appeared, with five +sovereigns and a scrap of pasteboard on his little crooked hand. +Drayton confessed that he had not a copper on him to pay for the +ticket, whereupon the little man gravely gave him change for one of +the sovereigns, bowed him out of the shop without a word, and then +scurried back into the dark recess, shouting: + +“Jacob! Where is that boy? Jacob! Run, my son--run!” + + + + + ACT III. + + Scene I.--HEROIC + + All that thou sayest I can bear unmoved; for thou hast a voice bereft + of power, like a shadow. Thou canst do nought but talk.--_Euripides_. + +It was dusk when Drayton entered the parish of Thorlund, after a +wearisome railway journey, and a long tramp of nine miles from the +station. He walked straight to the partly-open iron gate, without +pausing to seek information from a homeward-bound ploughman, the only +being whom he met upon the road. He knew he had reached the Strath. He +felt that he had known the place all his life. To one born and brought +up in the metropolis, to struggle for daily bread, it was a joy to see +that wilderness of flowers, and to breathe the heavy perfume wafted +across the grass. The weary man pushed at the gate and passed in. +Great stagbeetles were droning across the bushes. He removed his hat +reverently, and waded through the tall herbage towards the house. + +His eyes were heavy, as though with sleep, when he reached the door +and rapped upon it, gently at first, then loudly, and finally with an +energy akin to fury. + +He had no idea how long an interval elapsed, before an old woman +shuffled across the hall, and held up a sharp white face to hear what +he had to say. She was short-sighted, deaf, and asthmatic, incapable +of deep feeling, untroubled by emotions. This poor creature had been +on the eve of being cast out “broke” from the cottage home of her +relatives; and the rector, hearing of it by chance, had rescued her +for a time, and secured her poor services for the owner of the Strath. +The influence of the house failed with her, perhaps because there was +in her so little that was capable of responding to its dramatic power. + +“Mr. Conway,” she whined sadly. “He is walking in the orchard.” + +Drayton recrossed the weedy moat and walked away, plucking flowers as +he went, pushing them into his button-holes, the brim of his hat, +behind his ears, and even into his hair; and when they fell replacing +them with others. + +A ragged hedge appeared before him, and beyond were apple and pear +trees with sparse foliage fluttering and whispering above mossy +trunks. Hearing a human voice, Drayton peered through a gap to behold +the man whom he had come so far to seek, walking through the long +grass among the drooping branches, reading aloud from a book, and +smiling as he read. Pausing close beside the hedge which concealed +Drayton from his view he recited thoughtfully: + +“I profess I know not what to think, but still there are some scruples +remaining with me. Is it not certain I see things at a distance? Do we +not perceive the stars and moon, for example, to be a great way off? +Is not this, I say, manifest to the senses?” + +“It is manifest,” muttered Drayton, as he tumbled stupidly through the +hedge. + +Not a sign of surprise crossed Conway’s white face, when the +apparition fantastically dressed with flowers stood by him in the +fading light. He continued his even paces, after motioning to the +visitor to keep step at his side; and when Drayton obeyed the two men +walked on through the orchard to the music of the evening, regarding +one another, if they considered the matter at all, as spiritual beings +unnecessarily encumbered with flesh. + +“Tell me, my friend,” said the late debauchee, who in his former state +had hated the sight of books and the thought of philosophy, “what was +the cause that impelled the rustic mentioned by Horace to lie on the +bank of the stream, waiting until the waters should pass? Have we +there ignorance in its most inexplicable form, or a super-normal +belief in the wonder working power of faith?” + +“Or a passionate longing for a revolution of nature’s laws,” Drayton +added in the same gentle manner. “So often had he watched the flow of +the stream that the sight may have wearied him. His wish might have +suggested a half-belief that the source had failed, that the waters +were actually flowing away, that any moment might witness their final +exhaustion. Perhaps again, in monstrous arrogance, the fool believed +that he stood beyond the law and at his word the waters would be +stayed.” + +“When the brain has been wrought upon by insanity the sufferer will +lift himself to the plane of godship,” Conway mused, drawing down a +mossy branch and gazing thoughtfully at the little emerald apples. +“But our author assumes that his hero is sane.” + +“Yet we are unable to deduce sanity from his actions,” Drayton argued. +“There are limits to the imaginings of ignorance. The most insensate +mortal knows that the apple, if detached from the bough, will fall to +the ground. The observation of countless generations of ancestors has +imbued him with so much knowledge. Instinct alone should advise him +that the river must flow continually.” + +“I acknowledge it,” Conway murmured. “The sanest philosopher is also +the humblest. He who loses his reason holds up giants and examines +them through a microscope.” + +They continued to pace the orchard through the thickening air; and +Conway still felt no astonishment at finding Drayton by his side, +attired in a suit of his own clothes. As for the latter he had +certainly some dim remembrance of a visit to a pawn-shop, of a +landlord waiting for the overdue rent, and of a back attic in a noisy +street; but such matters were very distant and indistinct. Had he been +told he had pawned the masks a decade ago, or even assured he had not +pledged them at all, he would have assented. + +“Is this happiness?” he inquired of his companion. + +“Wonderful happiness,” Conway answered. “I sleep much. My head aches a +little, but it is no pain. It is a gentle heaviness, which does not +cloud my vision. When I am awake I read. After supper I will read to +you. The house is full of books.” + +“Do you hear voices?” + +Conway shook his head with a sleepy smile. + +“It is always peaceful here.” + +“To-morrow I shall write,” went on the uneducated man confidently. + +They went by slow periods to the house. + +The deaf old woman had no culinary skill, therefore the meal awaiting +them was of the plainest--thin soup, a piece of mutton, a milk +pudding, and a little fruit. Both men were silent, Conway reading from +a book beside his plate, Drayton already absorbed upon the first act +of a play which he intended to begin at once. When his host rose he +also pushed back his chair, and they stood gazing at one another +foolishly, until Conway pointed towards the flight of stairs. Side by +side they crept up into the darkness. + +Passing along the passage they entered a windowless room cumbered with +much furniture and mouldy books; a great bed, heavily draped, occupied +the centre; the carpet had been eaten away, and the rotten planks +crumbled beneath their tread; a sofa and two chairs occupied spaces at +the foot of the bed, and between the chairs stood a marble table, and +upon the table two candles in bronze candlesticks, which when lighted +revealed also a manuscript book in shagreen covers and a floriated +cross. On one arm of this cross some long vanished hand had scratched +the name of Winifred; on the other Geoffrey in similarly tremulous +characters. + +Drayton seated himself upon the sofa, and drawing the heavy draperies +apart admitted light across the bed. There was nothing to be seen, +except a mass of tumbled garments, and a black heap which might once +have been a wreath of flowers. + +There came a scurrying of rats from beyond the wainscoting, and after +that silence. + +“What room is this?” asked Drayton, as he permitted the damp curtains +to fall and close. + +“The bedroom of Winifred Hooper,” Conway replied, without raising his +eyes from a closely written page, dated along the margin January 14th, +1742. The writing was fine, and perfectly distinct, sloping from left +to right, blurred occasionally by the damps of time, or perhaps by +tears from the writer’s eyes. The master of the house snuffed the +candles, and said: + +“I found this book to-day, in that cupboard beside the fireplace. It +is the journal of one who formerly lived in this house. I will read +you a few pages, and if you grow weary, or desire to sleep, put up +your hand and I will cease.” + +Drayton was huddled at the end of the sofa, his arms folded tightly +across his breast, his eyes fixed upon the cross. He made a motion of +assent, and straightway the host began to read: + + + “I write to you, my Geoffrey, although I know you may never see these + lines, therefore I will not commence with Beloved, or My Love. Such + words spring warmly from my heart, but lie as cold as snow upon these + pages. Yet I write them. ’Tis but a little happiness. I am alone in + the wind. It is so cold a wind. It howls round the house, and enters + this room, to make my candle flicker. Snow has been falling all the + day, and the garden lies buried, and the great tombs in the churchyard + are covered with white sheets. The dead shall sleep to-night more + warmly than I. My father is playing chess with Mr. Blair, the rector + of Thorlund, in the saloon. At the end of their game a summons will + come for me, and I must go down and sing. They say my voice is + beautiful, but that is because I sing to you, and sometimes you seem + so near that tears will come into my eyes, and my voice will tell + again what it has already told, and would so gladly tell again, until + I hear the drunken parson thumping his great shoes upon the floor, and + shouting, ‘My God! She sings like Farinelli.’ + + “Let me tell you how I have passed this day. In the morning I walked + out. It was so still, and winter fog was lying along the valley. I + heard the horses stamping in the stable, and saw the white mist + steaming off the moat, while I scattered bread for my hungry sparrows. + (Pardon this careful account of my trivial actions, Geoffrey. I could + not write if I did not hope that Providence might place this little + book into your hands some day, perhaps when you are wedded, and I am + in the vault. You will not be false to your wife if you kiss this + page, because my hand has rested for a cold hour upon it.) Then I + walked into the plantation, and beneath the bushes were snowdrops, so + pale and white. They seemed to be shivering and to say, ‘Why does the + sun not shine?’ But I knew that it was I who shivered, because the + snow flowers are children of the winter, and I am made for the + bluebell and the rose. Do you, I wonder, sometimes recall to mind that + daffodil I plucked and gave to you last spring? I planted a chestnut + beside the bulb, and the tiny tree grows strongly and the daffodil + will come up again this spring in just the same spot, and will bear a + bloom like that I gave to you, but you will not be here to take it + from my hand. + + “That same day, while walking with me through the plantation, you + stepped upon and crushed a crocus. After you had gone, I went back for + the bulb, and planted it in a box which stands beside me now. The + divided bulb has sent up two little spikes of bloom, but one is very + much stronger than the other. The weak one is mine, the strong is + yours. Mine will flower last and fade first. I cannot water mine + without watering yours, or I would be selfish and make the spears of + equal strength. + + “During the afternoon I walked to Queensmore to visit my uncle the + vicar, a man I cannot love, because he is so hard, and I fear a miser + also. The wheels of the coaches had beaten down the snow, but it was + slippery to walk, and once I went down. Had you been there you would + have taken me up, and carried me against my will--so I would have + declared--down Stone Hill, as you carried me once when my foot gave me + pain from the sign-post to the village stocks. A coach passed me, the + guard blowing upon his horn as though to warm himself, the passengers + very cold and miserable, the poor horses sadly weary. A woman in the + basket called, ‘Good-luck, pretty dear,’ and I started when I + understood the good wish was intended for me. It cheered me on my + lonely walk. I am sure the sharp wind had put colour into my face and + brightened my eyes. Perhaps I was pretty then. But I am white again + now, and the mirror opposite tells me that my prettiness was borrowed + after all. It was only for the hour. And, Geoffrey, you were not there + to see it. + + “The bushes are covered with berries this winter, and I am glad to + know that my singing-birds will not starve. But I have found some + stiff little bodies upon the road. There is miseltoe in our orchard, + but none has been brought into the house. On Christmas night my father + was out late, and when he returned drank deep, and would have beaten + me, for no fault whatsoever save that I had seen him come home, had I + not run from him and hidden in the lumber-room. No Yule log burnt in + this house; no hackin, nor turkey, nor plum-porridge was served at our + table; the village mummers did not enter this garden; and when I heard + the bells a-ringing I shut myself in my room and tried to be brave. I + had seen woodmen hauling the Yule log merrily towards Kingsmore, and + Mr. Price himself was sitting atop, with a great branch of holly in + his hand, singing a carol with all his might. They are merry folk at + Kingsmore. I could hear their drums and fifes on Christmas Eve, and + Deborah tells me the whole company gambolled and danced all night, and + their boar’s head was one of the largest seen, and their masque the + most diverting, and their ale the finest ever brewed. Happy that ’tis + given to some to spend their lives in giving pleasure to their + fellow-men. Deborah tells me also, or will whisper it rather, how that + she heard the phantom bells in the long pasture between here and + Queensmore. + + “But, Geoffrey, I wander. Would you desire to hear of my uncle, whom I + found this afternoon in his study, sitting without a fire, a red cloak + round him, and stiff white gloves upon his hands? I think you would + rather I wrote about myself. I will promise you I am no bigger than + when you saw me last, and then you thought me, I fear, somewhat too + small a person to contain a heart so big with love. But there, wise + sweetheart, you were deceived. My face has not greatly changed. My + eyes are just as blue, but as they look back at me from the mirror + they do not smile. I would not have them try, because happiness cannot + cannot be forced. I see I have written the word cannot twice. I have a + little scar upon my wrist, which was not there when you departed. + Shall I tell you how it came? But, no! I would not have you think me + impatient. I am like the willow tree beside the stream, which yields + to every blast, and rises forgetful of the few weak leaves that the + wind has taken away. + + “I have been to the window in the passage. The snow is deep and + smooth, and all the world is silent. What a pitiless thing is this + frost, and yet how kindly does it work! It soothes the unprotected + into sleep, and draws life away, so painlessly, so gently. How + different from cruel man or beast. Yesterday I discovered my cat + playing with a poor mouse. I took the little thing from her, but alas, + it shivered once and died in my hand. I could have cried for it. I + knew! + + “My candle is burning out. I would gladly seek warmth in my bed, but + dare not while the noise below continues. Where are you, Geoffrey? Oh, + my love, I know you will play the man amid the wicked society of our + time. I pray you shun the court, the painted faces, the cringing + favourites, shun also the gaming-house, and the cockpit. Nay, I mean + no harm. My father is shouting for me upon the stairs. Ah, Geoffrey! + Come again.” + + + + + Scene II.--PASTORAL + + Let me, neither in adversity, nor in the joys of prosperity, be + associated with women.--_Aeschylus_. + +After searching diligently Flora discovered a little farm-house some +three miles to the west of Kingsmore, which the tenants were glad to +let at a weekly rental, sufficient to give them a long awaited +opportunity of visiting relations elsewhere. On a set day Maude +presented herself with a cartload of baggage; and after spending a +night beneath Mr. Price’s roof, and horrifying that simple old +gentleman exceedingly, went on with her friend in the morning to the +retreat on the side of the hill, with which she was graciously pleased +to declare herself “pretty well satisfied on the whole.” During the +week that ensued she was occupied, putting the place into her idea of +order, and endeavouring to regain the prettiness which she believed +London had taken from her by driving abroad in a donkey cart. But +before the first week had elapsed she had begun to complain, +ungrateful person that she was, of the monotony of country life. + +The empty-headed little woman would have been horrified had anyone +dared to suggest that she was not a perfectly righteous person. What +harm, she would have argued indignantly, had she done in the world? It +was true she had married Mr. Juxon for the sake of his money, but then +she did not believe people ever married for love. It was certainly too +comical to suppose that any woman could possibly fall in love with +Herbert, who was short and bald-headed. She had been true to him, she +considered, and constancy was all that could reasonably be required +from her. It was his duty to go on making money, and when he remained +in the city until dark, as he had been doing lately, she did not +inquire the cause. She had certainly been surprised when he raised no +objection to her proposed jaunt; but it never entered her head to +imagine that his affairs might not be going any too prosperously. She +would have been vastly astounded could she have heard the remark which +he made when he watched her train depart. He had given a sigh of +relief, and said, “It will be better for her not to know.” + +“I have nothing but trouble, my dear,” said the ungrateful person, who +had been a penniless little nobody before the stockbroker married her, +to Flora, as they sat together on a tiny lawn under a dwarfed tree in +front of the bijou residence. “I have lately suspected that Herbert +drinks. Men who stay late in the city, as he has been doing, cannot be +at work, because as everyone knows there is no work done after four +o’clock. They meet together in some horrid low place, drink brandy and +swear, and make bets on horse-races.” + +Flora trailed her handkerchief along the grass for the delectation of +a fat kitten, and made no reply. + +“It is disgusting,” went on the little lady. “Drunkenness is so vulgar +and costermongery. I had a letter this morning,” she added in +aggrieved tones. “He wants to come here from Saturday to Monday, and I +have written to say that I have not got the house in order yet, and he +is not to come. I am here for privacy,” she concluded pathetically. + +“Pretty people must not expect to have privacy. Especially when they +have husbands,” said Flora. + +Maude Juxon laughed delightedly. Flora could say what she liked, so +long as she wrapped the sting of her truth in a sheath of flattery. +The kitten jumped across the lawn sideways, its tail like a +lamp-brush, flung a mad somersault, and dashed into a briar-bush, +bringing down a shower of petals. + +“When are you going to take me to that remarkable house in Thorlund?” +asked the beauty. + +Flora turned grave at once, and answered shortly, “Never.” + +“That’s jealousy,” murmured Mrs. Juxon. “I want to see the house.” + +“You can tell that to Mr. Conway. He is coming to Kingsmore on +Thursday, that is if he can remember the engagement,” said Flora. “I +am not going with you to that house.” + +“Is that clever delightful poet coming too?” cried Maude, sincerely +interested at last. “That nice, handsome, doctor clergyman?” + +“He never goes into society,” said Flora. “I suppose he’s afraid of +meeting fascinating little women like you. Do you really think him +handsome?” + +“Oh yes, superb. His head is like one of those pictures you see, +somewhere or other. And that beautiful silvered hair, and smooth grave +face, and great grey eyes--why, Flora, there isn’t an actor in London +half as handsome. I’m sure he looks a saint.” + +“He neglects his parish fearfully,” said the girl. + +“Well, you can’t expect him to take any interest in those stupid +labouring people,” said Maude with some asperity. “I shall intercept +him in one of his walks, and tell him he’s to come to Kingsmore on +Thursday. Now do say something, and don’t leave all the talking to +me,” she went on fretfully. “You have become such a silent person +lately. Tell me all about Mr. Conway. Does he like you? Has he money? +Do you think we could persuade him to give a dance in his wonderful +house?” + +Flora was troubled. She had been given reason to suppose that Conway +did “like her,” when at a distance from the Strath. She supposed him +to be fairly well off; he gave the idea of a man who had never done a +day’s work in his life. As for a dance at the Strath, she found +herself smiling at the suggestion, then began to wonder why the idea +should appear incongruous. + +Neither she nor her uncle could recall what had taken place during +their visit to the Strath. When upon the road they had discovered +themselves costumed after the fashion of a by-gone day; but memory had +given them no answer when they asked why those old habits were upon +them, or what had been their actions inside the house. Soberly and +silently they had returned to reassume their modern garments, and Mr. +Price had since avoided any reference to that afternoon. + +The same with Conway, Drayton, and, in a lesser degree, with Dr. +Berry. Inside the Strath they were puppets; outside they +resumed--although there were exceptions to this rule--their normal +selves. The time spent among the antique furniture, or along the +tangled walks, left no more memory than a night of sleep. They +discovered a subtle influence drawing them back, as opium will recall +its victims to their dreams. They knew that the sleep induced by the +Strath was delightful, that happiness was given there; but former +experience told them nothing concerning the nature of that sleep, or +the substance of that happiness. + +Outside the garden Conway fell beneath Flora’s spell, and would decide +to settle every pressing affair in London by letter upon his return; +Dr. Berry continued his work on Aeolian poetry, and vaguely remembered +that he had a flock. Inside the garden the world went away from them, +and they were mimes, speaking the words put into their mouths, and +playing the parts which had been assigned to them. All that their +minds were capable of producing was brought out there. So long as they +did not attempt to oppose their will against that of the controller of +the masque, as Henry Reed had done, all went well. + +“Of course the place is haunted,” said Maude with a dainty shiver, +when her friend had told her all that she knew. “I don’t think I want +to go there after all. But I should like to see the china. You say +there is lovely china in the drawing-room?” + +“Beautiful,” said Flora. “Uncle says there was a rage for china during +Queen Anne’s reign.” + +“No atrocities? No horrible wool-work, or samplers, or antimacassars? +No wax-flowers, or leather fruit, or horsehair sofas?” went on the +little lady, confusing her periods. + +“I saw none,” said Flora. “I only remember the china, and some +pictures which wouldn’t be allowed nowadays, and a quantity of mirrors +and candles.” + +“I am glad there is nothing vulgar,” said Maude. “I almost think I +could go there, if there were plenty of people with me. If the house +is haunted I expect it will all be done in a proper and genteel +fashion. When I went to see Hamlet I was quite prepared to be +frightened when the ghost came on, but I wasn’t, not in the least. He +was such a gentle and aristocratic ghost. I expect the bogey of the +Strath would be just like that.” + +The stars in their courses were propitious to Maude. Towards evening +on the following day she encountered the rector of Thorlund, after +driving over to the hamlet in a gig drawn by a tandem of donkeys, and +placing herself in ambush so to speak along his usual walk. She had +been introduced to the scholar by Mr. Price in his offhand fashion +upon the day of her arrival, chancing upon him as they drove from the +station towards Kingsmore. Directly she espied the scholar, she +abandoned gig and donkeys, and fluttered along the field road, +pretending to be busily engaged in gathering a handful of marguerites +and ragged-robins. + +He, poor man, was fully occupied with the problem of Sappho’s +morality, mentally weighing the evidence in her favour, sifting the +chaff of legend from the grains of fact as best he might. He did not +perceive Madame Papillon until he heard her salutation; and then he +started and stared up into the golden mist which the sun was trailing +across the side of the hill. + +Maude was pretty--just then wonderfully so, because she was anxious to +please--somewhat doll-like perhaps, but beautifully made, and scented, +and bravely tricked out in _batiste_ and lace and flowers and innocent +infant hat. Her throat was as white and soft as the petal of a lily, +and her little nose as dainty as a rosebud. She was frothing over with +life and health, and her feet in toy white shoes were as light as +bird’s wings. Perhaps it was unfortunate for the scholar that his mind +should have been occupied by thoughts of Sappho, whom he admired and +loved academically as the world’s one poetess. Some Greek escaped his +lips involuntarily; he was no pedant, but the sweet Ionic words were +as familiar as his own tongue, and better expressed his thoughts. + +“How funny I should have met you!” cried lady frivolous. “Because I +was wondering whether I could summon up enough courage to go all by +myself to the rectory and leave a message. I don’t believe you +recognise me. The sun is dazzling, isn’t it?” + +“Ah,” said the scholar. “Yes, the sun blinds me.” He took off his hat, +and the light glinted across the silver of his hair and made it live. + +He did not question himself as to whether this divinity was maid, +wife, or widow; he only knew that the apparition was very good to gaze +upon, and he found himself hoping that it would not vanish suddenly. + +“I hope your carriage is safe,” he murmured. + +“My carriage!” exclaimed Maude with ringing laughter. “Why, it’s only +a wobbly gig, drawn by two of the most ridiculous donkeys. Do come and +look at them. They have ears as long as--as--” + +“King Midas after his transformation,” suggested the scholar. + +“That’s it,” said Maude, who had no idea what he meant. “But they are +champion trotters. Come into the cart and I’ll drive you home. We +shall be packed tight, but I’m small.” + +There was something here which made lyric poetry doubly sweet to the +scholar’s mind. A life of dreams, of fingers on pen, and eyes in +books, had fallowed his heart unconsciously for the reception of a +seed which had been with him nothing but a name. His eyes were sleepy +as he approached the cart, and the lines about his mouth showed +weakness, and there was irresolution in all his actions. This was not +Dr. Berry of the study and the Strath. It was Dr. Berry who was +learning that he was a man. + +“Get in,” said Maude. + +The scholar obeyed, and the dainty creature followed. The cart was, as +she had said, very small. They filled it, as they sat facing one +another, Maude’s scented frills trailing upon the scholar’s feet, her +breath coming to him when she spoke, her hat brushing his forehead +when she turned with some sudden motion. For the first time in his +life Dr. Berry cast down his eyes and was ashamed. He did not know +that the little beauty was a butterfly: but he began to understand why +Leander swam across the Hellespont and why Sappho flung herself from +the Leucadian rock. + +The birds were singing in the beech-wood as they had never sung +before. + +“The country is beautiful,” Maude was saying. “Oh, Dr. Berry, I could +live here always, just to walk, sleep, and dream in the sun. But there +would be winter. How I wish we could have summer every day!” + +Maude meant nothing that she said. She knew how pretty she looked in +furs. She was a rattle, not understanding her own noise; but the +scholar hung upon her words, and believed them inspired, and did not +know they were murmurings from a shell. + +“You have a message for me?” he said, without perception of a +labourer, who passed, and grinned as he touched his hat, at the +strange conjunction of the stately poet with that tiny cart and the +donkeys and the pretty lady. + +“Yes,” said Maude, flicking at the flies with her toy whip. “You are +to be at Kingsmore on Thursday. Flora commands your presence, and so +do I. It is impossible for you to refuse.” + +“You will be there?” mused the thinker. + +“Of course. And I’ll see that you have a comfortable chair in the +rosiest corner of the lawn, and if you feel a sudden desire to write +you shall have pen and ink, and if you are lazy you can talk to me. +But you must not be too clever. I shall tell Flora you are coming. How +do you go to Kingsmore?” + +“I seldom leave my home,” the poet answered. “I am not able to fit +myself into society.” + +“It’s easy,” said Maude. + +“I always walk,” he went on. + +“But that must be tiring, especially when the sun is hot. Suppose,” +said Maude, “suppose you found this little cart on the top of the hill +outside Thorlund at half-past-three on Thursday afternoon, and suppose +I drove you in triumph across to Kingsmore--wouldn’t that save you a +lot of trouble, and mightn’t it be rather an inducement for you to +keep your promise?” + +Dr. Berry could not remember how he answered, whether indeed he spoke +at all. He looked towards the hill which rose above his valley, and +saw the white road bending away in the far distance. “Would it not be +cruel upon these little animals?” he said, with a more confident +smile. + +“Not a bit,” replied Maude. “They are full of oats, and they shall eat +all Thursday morning to prepare themselves for the honour of drawing +wisdom and--” + +“Beauty,” added the scholar, sincerely. Folly he should have said, but +Maude was well masked. + +One low thatched roof peeped from its green bower, and the mossy spire +of the church pointed reproachfully upward. The poet did not look +there. His eyes were upon the things of earth. A pink rose at Maude’s +throat shed its petals when the cart jolted across a ridge, and the +dainty fragments rained upon his hands. He began to gather them up one +by one, storing them unconsciously in the warm hollow of his hand. +Maude’s eyes were dancing with satisfaction. He had called her +beautiful and she was happy. + +The day dedicated to Thor arrived. Down in the valley the sun +scorched, but a gentle breeze was playing across the hills when Dr. +Berry reached the summit and seated himself upon a hummock of short +grass. He had done nothing all the morning, except pace study and +garden, wondering at the tenderness with which he was able to +criticise the self-dedicatory odes of comparatively obscure singers. +So it was passion that called out what was best in mortals. Had +Archilochus not loved Neobule he would have passed into the cloud of +oblivion. Had Sappho been cold and chaste that magnificent ode to the +Goddess of Love could never have been given to the world. The heart, +mused the scholar, not the mind, strikes into being the living fire. + +He saw nothing of a frivolous nature in the donkey tandem. He walked +down to meet the cart as it ascended the hill, and Maude greeted him +warmly and began to chat vigorously. She had never spoken so agreeably +to her husband, but, as she would have argued, it was absurd to +fascinate a man who belonged to her. She was a child, playing with +fire, and not to be warned of danger until the fire burnt her. + +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Price with more than his usual +fervour, when the gig came jingling up the avenue. Flora contented +herself with smiling, while Mrs. Neill, a fragile lady filled with +inaccuracies of speech, put up her glasses and made her customary +statement, _apropos_ of nothing in particular, that social customs had +changed very much for the worse since that age of respectability when +her dear brother and herself attended school. + +The hill country was very sparsely populated with gentry. There were +not more than a dozen guests, of whom the majority had covered a +considerable distance and were on that account leaving early. Everyone +knew the recluse of Thorlund, either by name or reputation, and upon +him were showered the honours of the afternoon. Dr. Berry found +himself in a new element which was not so distasteful as he had +supposed. + +“Maudie, how did you manage?” Flora whispered. + +“I circumvented him, and told him he was to come,” explained the +little lady. “And here he is.” + +“But you drove him!” + +“Why not? He brought himself down to my level beautifully.” + +Flora slipped away to attend to her guests, giving thanks because she +believed she was more righteous than her friend. + +A bald-headed clergyman annexed the scholar, and was leading him apart +with inaccurate historical chatter, when Maude intervened, routed the +bald-headed clergyman, and installed Dr. Berry into the comfortable +chair which she had promised him. Then she brought tea and little +cakes and strawberries, and soothed him with empty talk, which seemed +to him more worthy of attention than words of wisdom. This man, who +had shunned women all his life, not from any innate dislike for the +sex, but simply because no inclination had drawn him on, found his +tongue loosened by the fascinations of the butterfly. Presently he +began to speak of himself, his aspirations, and his work, Maude +leading him on with skilful flattery. + +“How I would like to see your wonderful book,” she sighed. + +“It is not finished,” he said. “There is still much to be done and I +work slowly. I have a conviction that my translations are, not only +more accurate, but more artistic and powerful than any which have +preceded them. I think if I could read you some of those early +lyrics--” + +“I should cry,” interrupted Maude pathetically. “I’m certain I should. +Poetry, or music, or sad pieces at the theatre, always make me cry. I +went to a dreadful pathetic play last winter, and I cried all down a +pretty new frock and spoilt it.” + +“Yours is indeed the true poetic temperament,” said the scholar +earnestly. “What a rare and precious gift it is! You, more than +anyone, can understand me when I say that my work has engrossed my +life. Many in their ignorance sneer at the classics, but your mind can +respond with mine to the true message of art. Being yourself beautiful +you are able more readily to appreciate the pure beauty of those +poetic jewels with which the human intellect has enriched the world.” + +This last remark was balm and honey to the silly soul of his listener. + +“When the book comes out I shall buy it,” she declared. “And you must +write something nice and original upon the front page, and I shall +read it again and again. Will it be out soon? I know a book doesn’t +take long, because I met an author once, and he told me it took him +three weeks to write one of his.” + +“I have been fifteen years over my work, and I expect it will take me +another five to complete,” said Dr. Berry. + +“Oh, but I can’t wait all that time,” cried Maude. “I shall be old by +then.” + +“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,” quoted +the scholar with unmistakable sincerity. + +“How lovely!” said smiling Maude. + +He could not see through the pretence of that outward show to the +empty soul within. He never doubted her sincerity; her beauty was +apparent; and he thought her clever and a poetess at heart. + +“I will tell you what you must do,” Maude rattled on brilliantly. “You +must read me some of your beautiful poems. Pick out the very best, and +come over to my farm-house on Sunday--no, that’s your workday--on +Monday, and I will give you a cup of tea. I shall look forward to it +immensely. You won’t forget? I shall expect you on Monday.” + +“Would you like to hear my verses?” said the delighted scholar. “You +shall hear them. We will discuss their merits. You will be able to +help me by suggestion and advice. Two minds are better than one. Two +kindred minds strike sparks.” + +“And I will make you a nice rice cake,” said the little lady, +irrelevantly, but as she thought very happily. + +At that point Mrs. Neill interposed, to claim her share of the lion. +She had met him upon previous visits to her brother’s house, and was +desirous of showing him the hidden beauties of the garden; and +obtaining at the same time a full account of the means and position of +the young man who had been lavishing some polite attentions upon +Flora, to-wit Conway, who had been expected that afternoon, but had +failed to appear. + +“Maude, you selfish child, I have come for your gentleman,” she +announced. “I want to take you down the garden, Dr. Berry, and show +you a pretty little corpse quite covered with fly-orchids.” + +The good lady had meant to say copse. Maude shrieked with laughter, +and corrected her rudely, because she was indignant at being deprived +of her property; and, having revenged herself, she tripped away across +the lawn in a pink froth of frills, with one innocent blue-eyed glance +behind. + +“She is very beautiful,” murmured Dr. Berry. “And as clever and good +as she is beautiful.” + + + + + Scene III.--EXTRAVAGANZA + + Human nature is so constituted as to be incapable of lonely + satisfaction; man, like those plants which are formed to embrace + others, is led by an instinctive impulse to recline on his + species.--_Cicero_. + +To account for Conway’s non-appearance at Kingsmore vicarage it will +be necessary to revert to the day of Dr. Berry’s meeting with Maude +upon the upland, because that encounter was in the main responsible, +although indirectly, for the young man’s absence. The scholar walked +back to the rectory, but did not open his books that evening. +Outpourings from the intellects of the immortals would not content him +then. In a heat he cast off an original poem and proceeded with it +into the garden of the Strath; and there he came upon Conway who was +confused by struggling memories and a present anxiety. Money had been +required of him for the settlement of accounts. Being unable to +comprehend the meaning of that demand he had taken his trouble to +Drayton; but the writer, who was entirely engrossed upon his +historical play, gave him little satisfaction. “If the woman asks for +money, give it her,” he said, and straightway had returned to his +work. + +Dr. Berry’s understanding was less obscured. After listening to +Conway’s complaint, he advised him to leave the garden, and walk out +of the valley. “You will then perceive what should be done,” he added. +“If you require to write letters, go into my study, and write them +there.” + +Conway did as he was directed, that is to say he left the garden; but +he did not enter the rectory. He walked out of the valley, and when +darkness came upon the country he was still walking, with his face set +towards the town. Night fell upon the Strath, but the master was +absent. The next day Drayton noticed that he was alone, but his mind +had no desire to learn the cause. Another day went, but Conway +remained absent. The next morning a letter came to Drayton, and the +dazed writer found himself charged with various heinous offences. It +appeared that the profligate’s furniture had been seized for +non-payment of rent, and among the articles on the inventory made by +the agent the two masks did not appear. Therefore, the writer argued, +Drayton had most perfidiously stolen them. The shaky epistle concluded +with the statement that the writer was about to return to Thorlund for +the sole purpose of dragging the “ungrateful, sponging, thievish +brute,” Drayton to-wit, out of his house by the ears. + +“A strange document,” murmured the gentle scribe. “Interesting also as +illustrating a phase of the human mind. Penned, I should determine, by +a dissolute character, somewhat under the influence of _aqua-fortis_.” + +As the letter was not of sufficient interest to be subjected to any +more critical analysis, he set it aside, and went into the orchard to +think of other things. Late in the evening Conway returned; but so +soon as he entered upon his property, shame took the place of anger. +He became dimly conscious that he had degraded himself during the past +three days. Very soon the determination, which he had made that +morning, to offer the Strath for sale, and to resume his former manner +of living, became forgotten. As he made towards the house, feeling +sleep settling again about his eyes, he encountered the perfidious +Drayton; but, instead of seizing the thief by the ears, he passed his +arm within that of the writer, and asked, “Have you finished the +translation of that ode of Horace, the song in which he deals with +woman’s love?” + +Drayton put a hand to his forehead, and presently replied, “I have +forgotten. I will make you the English rendering to-night. Have you +not been out a long time?” he added. + +“Yes,” said Conway absently. “I have been troubled with bad dreams of +late.” This was Conway’s first and final effort to break from the +influence of the Strath; and after failure his mind, like that of his +companion, succumbed entirely. + +There came a day when rain soaked the moss-grown garden and the trunks +of the trees were black with moisture. Mists were exhaled from the +stagnant moat to form into shapes about the house. The spell-bound +wanderers, hovering between the seen and unseen, found the Strath +altered. It remained peaceful in its decay; there was neither +fluttering of tapestries nor whisper of misery; but over all brooded +an indefinable sensation of calamity impending. + +In that room where Winifred Hooper had slept and written, Conway sat +alone, with her journal between his hands. The influence impelled him +to reason concerning himself. “What was he?” A card, engraved with a +mere name, lay on the table, but the words Charles Conway brought no +answer to his question. Perhaps he was a product of that damp old +house, an ephemeral growth like the mosses and lichens upon its walls, +or a passing shadow, with a name to distinguish it from other shadows. +One touch of sunlight might cause him to vanish into vapour. Or again +a little spark roving like Jack o’ lanthorn through space, seeking +another spark with which to unite and strike the wondrous flame called +life. He saw a face in the time-stained mirror. Was it that of Flora +Neill, or of Winifred Hooper, or of Lone Nance of the hills? The spark +which was himself became blown into fire, and waved to and fro.… The +place became a museum, and he a dry and dusty exhibit, catalogued +Charles Conway, and numbered 31. He was a curiosity, genuine and of +some practical use once, but now out of fashion. What had he done in +his foolish life? Walked out with his hair in papers, inhaling snuff +through the pepper-pot head of a clouded cane; sauntered at auctions, +or in the Mall; spent one quarter of the day in dressing, another in +dining, a third at the coffee-house, a fourth at play; half the night +in drawing-rooms, the other half in sleep. What noise had he made in +the world, beyond piping on the French horn, or springing the rattle +of a drunken watchman? If there had been work to his hand he had +closed his eyes. Work! Why should a man work? What was the reward for +a life devoted to tilling the ground, to fighting the French, to +ministering to the sick, to sitting at the king’s council? The finest +machine must break down some day, and rust, and become old framework. +Work! What about Southey, poet laureate, sweating heart and brain, and +confessing at the end that it had not been possible for him to lay by +anything for old age? What about old learned Johnson, putting off his +threadbare clothes upon his birthday, and muttering bitterly, “I can +now look back upon threescore and four years, in which little has been +done, and little has been enjoyed; a life diversified by misery, spent +part in the sluggishness of penury, and part under the violence of +pain, in gloomy discontent or importunate distress?” What about Lamb, +thanking for nothing a great minister who brought the reward of labour +as the hand of death dragged him off the scene? + +The Strath was in a morbid mood. Drayton was pacing the saloon, crying +like a woman. The deaf crone prepared food in the kitchen, working out +her time indifferent to the drama. The rain poured heavily flooding +the worm-eaten boards of the upper rooms. Conway raised his hands, +which held the book in shagreen covers, brought the yellow pages +nearer to his eyes, and read aloud: + + + “To-day the wind is warm, and the birds sing merrily. For it is + spring, the gladdest time in all the year. Were this a letter to you, + my love, as I would cheer myself by believing, I might tell you much + that would bring you pleasure, and much that would not be true. I + might describe to you the beauty of the country. I might tell you how + happy I am to breathe the odours of the young larches, and to feel the + warmth of the sun. I might assure you how I laugh in the mornings, and + sometimes sing the songs you taught me, and how I watch the roads with + a light heart, sure that you are upon your way. And I might promise + you, praying God the same moment to forgive the lie, that I know no + trouble. But, alas, this is my journal, and here I may not cheat + myself. + + “Spring will never come again, unless it brings you, Geoffrey. All day + I have sat beside a downstairs window, listening to the joyful sounds + of life, watching the little leaves unfolding, and the first yellow + butterfly playing across the lawn. Everything in nature has something + to do, and I alone am idle. I can only sit, with my hands together, + wondering that there should be joy upon earth for the brown sparrow, + and none for me. Yet the sparrow might pine and cease her twitter, + perchance give up her little ghost, were she to be imprisoned in a + cage. Even so there might be happiness for her. She might see her + mate, and sometimes hear his song. + + “Last night my father threw at me a log of wood, which struck my + ankle, and to-day I cannot bear my shoe. Ah, Geoffrey, could you but + see my poor swollen foot! I dwell upon the happy thought that you are + nursing it in your dear hands, and looking up into my face with your + tender eyes. Would you not come through fire and water to save me? But + I know all now. The light of life has gone, and each morning and + evening the message of curfew comes, ringing, ‘No more! No more!’ + + “My father has admitted much over his wine. Your messengers have never + reached this valley. Perhaps they have been killed upon the highway, + for my father’s men are instructed to watch the roads, and he has lost + all scruples. I cannot warn you, Geoffrey. I am not able to bid you + keep away from me. Would I, if I could? I do not know. I have become + selfish. You might meet Sir John, and he is stronger than you. Were + they to carry you dead into this house.… well, we should be together + at last, for I would throw away my chance of heaven in the hope that + my soul might pass with yours through space. If you killed my father I + would yet receive you with the same love. I am unnatural indeed, but + he has beaten me with a cane when in his cruel mood, and has pulled me + to the ground by my hair, and closed his hand round my arm, tighter + and tighter like a vice, until I have satisfied his cruelty by + fainting. + + “I know that my father is a highwayman and the most daring of them + all. It is when I am so unfortunate as to see him returning from some + expedition that he is more than usual pitiless. I have seen Thomas + Reed, his trusted man, leading the chestnut mare--the swiftest horse + in the country, they say--sweating to her stable at midnight, and I + have seen his masks, his pistols, and his sword. He will have this + Reed into the saloon to drink with him. I have heard them fighting, + but Reed is a strong-willed fellow, and know my father cannot break + with him, lest he should turn informer. I know the vileness of their + lives; but God also must know, and if there be justice above--which + sometimes I am wicked enough to doubt--an end must come, and soon. + + “Placing before me the beloved face which I hold in my heart, I + painted your portrait, and finished it last Saturday at sunset. It was + a happy sorrow to kiss those cold lips, to touch and retouch that fair + hair, only one shade darker than my own, and to bring into being your + own dear smile. During that night the portrait seemed to me to have + taken life, and through the hours of darkness--for I sleep but + little--I thought you were protecting me, and I felt the warmth of + your eyes, and heard your breathing, and your soft whisper, + ‘Winifred,’ just as you whispered it--ah, so long ago--with your lips + against my hair. It was so like you, Geoffrey. Even that tiny spot, + where you were cut as a child above your left eyebrow, was there in + all the beauty of its blemish. On Sunday I went to church, not indeed + to listen to Mr. Blair’s hypocrisies, but to pray with all my soul for + you and for myself; and returning hurried to your portrait to tell it + how I love you. But it had been cut into pieces, and the pieces were + strewed about the floor. + + “I did not shed any tears. Indeed it is seldom that I cry now, not + because I am stronger, but perhaps I have shed them all. I began to + sing, and put a flower into my hair, and laughed and talked to you, so + that I might forget how I was shivering. I am made of tough stuff, + though I am small and white, and as for my heart is it not yours, and + did you not replace my loss with the gift of your own? It is your + strength that holds me up. But it was a good portrait, Geoffrey, else + my father had not recognised it. + + “That night I saw a strong light pouring through the keyhole and the + chinks in the wood. While I looked the door came open, and there was + old Deborah, standing in her nightdress, with a candle in her hand, + and the passage round her was filled with light and a fragrant odour. + She made me a sign that I should not be afraid and said, ‘There is a + stranger waiting for you below.’ So I got up, and wrapped a cloak + round me, and went down. There was light everywhere, but I could not + see whence it came. Standing in the hall I saw an old man, clad in + white, with hair flowing upon his shoulders, and holding a great + pitcher between his hands. He came to me, when I stopped in fear, and + spoke in a low sweet voice, ‘I am bidden to return you these. They are + your tears.’ But when I held out my hands to take the pitcher it + dropped and I found myself standing among pearls, and it was dark, and + the old man was gone. Then I awoke and discovered that I had been + walking in my sleep. + + “Do you not dream, dear, in your London home? Do you never see me, + bending low, drawing my hair across your face? Do you not hear me + calling? Cannot you feel my lips near yours in sleep? Am I never with + you? Oh, my love, I am there. Look, and you shall see me. Call, and I + will answer. Put out your hand, and I will touch it. What has space to + do with love? There is nothing between us, but the will of God. I am + yours, beloved, and you are mine until these shadows pass away.” + + +There the book fell, and it seemed to Conway that an invisible hand +had struck it out of his. He rose, leaving the journal lying open as +it had fallen, and hurried from the room. A gloom filled the passage, +and the house was full of horror, resounding with the sufferings of +its past inhabitants, and dripping with their tears. His hand closed +upon the damp balustrade, and the rotten wood exuded moisture like a +sponge. A minute later the owner, but not the master, of the Strath +was speeding through the garden, his being reaching out to find an +affinity, as embryonic life must grope into the darkness for its +promised soul. + +The deluge had ceased. Milky rivulets bubbled down the chalk road and +dark clouds scudded across the hills, while Conway hastened in the +direction of Kingsmore, with Winifred Hooper’s piteous voice still +sounding in his ears. When he came near the grass-filled road which +led to Queensmore he thought he saw her. She reached scarcely to his +shoulder, the pretty pale maid, and over her white forehead the fair +hair clustered and tumbled into tendrils round her ears and neck. +There was a scar upon her delicate wrist, and she limped slightly as +she walked from the sign-post downwards. Her voice was exceedingly +plaintive, and the words caught in her throat with the sound of a sob. +Her eyes were large and blue, like two corn-flowers upon white satin, +and her features were small and very frail. They quivered when the +wind met them. + +On the far side of the hills a more serious dreamer was at that moment +shaking out his umbrella in the porch of a little farm-house, while +its dainty bedecked mistress implored him to wait until the rain had +passed, and insisted upon retaining a precious bundle of +manuscript--of which she could understand no single word--that she +might study it alone. And the handsome dreamer remained yet another +hour, until the watery sun broke through the clouds and tinged the +mist with red, and when he departed the manuscript which he left +behind was not so precious as it had been. + +At Kingsmore the sun was shining through the rain. A bow was bending +across the sky, one end of its span over the ruins of Queensmore, the +other filling a chalk-pit with coloured vapour. Mr. Price assumed one +of his shameful overcoats, a slouch hat, and long boots, and went out +upon the farm to poke about in ditches and free obstructed +drain-pipes. Mrs. Neill was upstairs, writing ungrammatical letters. +Flora roamed aimlessly about the house, yawning for dulness, and well +able to appreciate the saying of Chilo the sage, that one of the three +most difficult things in life is to make a profitable use of leisure +time. + +Finally she wandered into the study, a room forbidden to her sex, +therefore the more attractive, and stood aghast at its untidiness. Mr. +Price was the most unmethodical man incarnate. Upon his writing-desk +were farming-reports, parish-magazines, bundles of twine, sermons, +cigarettes, horse-shoes, theological works, and samples of wool. More +books were piled upon a central table, novels, bibles, philosophical +works, and agricultural digests, thrown together with bags of grain, +much of which was scattered over the carpet, and eggs dated in blue +pencil. The fireplace was filled with rubbish, an old saddle, and a +broken reaping-hook. The single armchair was piled with horse-cloths. +The pictures on the walls, chiefly framed photographs of horses and +landscapes, were hanging awry and begrimed with dust. An open work of +Josephus was covered with cartridges, and a brace of pigeons, shot in +the early morning, were staining the right reverend bishop’s latest +charge. The remaining chairs were occupied with a jumble of tools, +coats, and hats. Boots and guns were lying about the carpet. A bust of +Shakspere supported a leather shooting-cap; and a little oak desk of +ecclesiastical design held a couple of soiled collars, an incomplete +copy of a book of common prayer tied together with string, a flask +half filled with sherry, some candle-ends, and a half-dozen unanswered +letters. + +“No one would imagine uncle was well off,” Flora murmured, moving +through the confusion, with her skirts gathered round her. “I wonder +how much he loses every year on this stupid farm. It would be much +more sensible if he put by the money for me to spend later on.” + +She approached the window and pushed it open; but while shaking some +rain-drops off the back of her hand footsteps became audible upon the +wet gravel. She knew it was not her uncle’s tread, and looking out saw +Conway, his garments splashed with chalky mud, and his face flushed by +the wind. + +She was at the door before he could ring. He came up, and said +quickly, but solemnly, as though it were a matter of the last +importance, seizing her hand and looking into her eyes, “There is a +change to-day.” + +The girl flushed, because she saw a crisis impending. Conway was +altogether different; younger, fresher, better-looking. There was not +a trace of nervousness in his manner. + +“Won’t you come in?” she said. “How wet you are! Uncle is out, but +will be back soon, and then we will have tea. You are right about the +change. But we agricultural people wanted this rain.” + +“It is the Strath,” he exclaimed. “The change is there.” + +Flora looked round, with a very uncomfortable feeling. There was not a +sound in the house, except the ticking of a big clock in the hall. + +“Come in,” she repeated. + +“I cannot quite remember what has happened,” Conway went on rapidly, +his eyes fixed stupidly upon her. “I want you to come back with me. +The rain has stopped. I want to show you a room in my house, a room +with a blocked up window. I think you will recognise it.” + +“Mr. Conway,” Flora exclaimed. “Do you know what you are talking +about?” + +“I have something to show you there. I have made a discovery, and I +must share it with you. Is it not Cicero who says, ‘Were a man to be +carried up to Heaven, he would receive little pleasure from the scene, +if there were none to whom he might relate his experience?’” + +“I cannot talk to you while you are in this state,” said Flora. + +“Then will you come with me to Queensmore? We can cross by Deadman’s +Hill. I can tell you everything there, but here I cannot remember +things.” + +“If you have anything to say to me I can hear it here,” Flora replied. +“Mother is in the house,” she added. “But, if you are going to +stay--come in.” + +“You want to sit down?” said Conway. “Your ankle pains you still?” + +The strong-minded girl looked at the speaker in dismay. This was sheer +madness. + +“I have not hurt my ankle,” she said. + +“It must have been some time ago,” he muttered. + +“Mr. Conway, if you will take my advice you will live no longer in the +Strath,” Flora said strongly. “Remember what happened to your uncle +there. They have never been able to discover who killed him. No +stranger could have entered Thorlund without being observed. It is a +horrible place.” + +Conway shook his head, perplexed at her argument. The Strath was to +him a Paradise. + +“That is only because you are not there,” he answered. “Hooper is dead +now, and the house is yours. The Reeds were always interlopers. I want +you to take possession of the Strath at once.” + +“You want me to have the Strath?” exclaimed Flora with a laugh. + +“It waits for you,” he replied. + +“And its master?” she said. + +“There is no master. I am its servant, and yours.” + +“You have made a quaint proposal, Mr. Conway,” the girl said +flippantly. “If the Strath were mine I would take uncle’s advice and +have it down; and if you were my servant--well, I might perhaps want +to give you notice and engage another. I think you had better not +stay,” she went on. “You are not yourself. I am sure you do not know +what you have been saying.” + +“I cannot enjoy life alone,” cried Conway. + +“Is Mr. Drayton so unsociable? Give up the Strath, Mr. Conway. Take my +advice--and another house, before it is too late.” + +Then, as Conway still evinced no inclination either to enter the house +or to move away, Flora unsympathetically shut him out. + + + + + Scene IV.--SENTIMENTAL COMEDY + + Praise undeserved is satire in disguise.--_Broadhurst_. + +Implicit faith had never become rooted in Dr. Berry’s mind. He had +sought ordination because “out of these Convertites there is much +matter to be heard and learned,” and the disposition of his mind +towards retirement seemed to him a call sufficient. He believed that +it was necessary to pay tribute for the delights of Nature, the +flowers, the trees, and the sight of the sun. This was a debt which +might be discharged by accommodating the will to that of the higher +influences, and by living in tune with the unseen. + +The scholar was gentle, charitable, and forgiving. He would have +emptied his pockets to benefit an unworthy beggar, and have travelled +far out of his way to relieve suffering, and yet in many things he +remained more ignorant than a child. + +During the past twenty years he had changed, both outwardly and +inwardly. The greater part of his time had been spent in the +imaginative world within the influence of the Strath, until the day +had come when he could not clearly distinguish between shadow and +substance. Gradually the tension between mind and body had relaxed +while the light across the past had become correlatively stronger. He +could not give up the Strath, nor was he able to understand the +dangers which threatened him there. + +His friendship with Maude had introduced another change into his +strange existence. He had been very near the borderland when she had +come to signal him back to the material world. He had however passed +too far away ever to return as a rational being. He could only look +back. And she could not advance to him, because she was made of stuff +which would not float across the gulf which spread between them. He +was deceived, and she was dazzled. He knew that he wanted to be near +her, and listen to the silly prattle, which by process of filtration +through his brain became wisdom. Her mind throbbed in response to his; +she, he believed, was filled with the divine fire of poetry; they met, +he assured himself, upon common ground. + +“But that’s not real,” she exclaimed, breaking in upon his reading; +and he paused to set a query against that line. + +“And that jingles.” + +He pencilled upon the margin the words, “More dignity required.” + +“That’s heavenly!” + +And happily he marked the verse “Good.” + +Maude was only speaking whatever came into her head, lolling among +cushions, eating chocolate, twisting her pretty hair round slender +pink-tipped fingers, and thinking how handsome he looked with the +sunlight upon his head. + +When she informed him that her husband was coming down on Saturday, +she was a little disappointed when he absently remarked, “Indeed.” She +would have been astounded had she known that he did not even consider +the affinity she had so plainly suggested. Husband to him was a word, +such as man or woman. Had Mr. Juxon entered that room, the scholar +would have greeted the financier with his invariable courtliness, and +have proceeded to appropriate Maude to himself as before. + +“I’m coming to Church on Sunday,” said Maude triumphantly, as though +the idea appeared to her worthy of a reward for originality. + +“I will, in that case, select a sermon which I am sure will interest +you,” came the grave reply. “A careful inquiry into the nature of the +Bacchanalian Mysteries.” + +“It sounds nice,” said she dubiously. + +“I will have cushions placed for you in the front seat underneath the +pulpit.” + +“And I’ll wear my new hat,” she rattled joyously. “How about the +donkeys? Where shall I put them up?” + +“There is a small stable at the rectory. I will tell the sexton to +wait for you by the lich-gate.” + +“The what gate?” said Lady Ignorant. + +“The gate of the churchyard. We still call it by the Anglo-Saxon +name.” + +“Oh yes,” said Maude, reaching towards the bell. “Now we will have +supper. You will stop for supper.” + +Sunday morning there was a jingling of silver bells in Thorlund +valley, and Maude made her entry in a pink and white hat and a radiant +costume. A stout man was packed into the cart with her, he who +provided for her luxuries, and received in return upon that particular +day the assurance that he was crushing her dress, added to +instructions that he should make himself as small as nature would +permit. Mr. Juxon had pointed out the propriety of accompanying his +wife to church. + +The stockbroker had few natural advantages. He was neither elegant nor +learned; but he was very true to his wife and sincere in his love for +her. Indeed she was everything to him. He had made the mistake of +giving way to her always, and at the outset had failed to show her +that without his purse she could do nothing. Juxon was not a saint; he +did not object to a certain amount of chicanery in the transaction of +business; but in private life he was thoroughly upright. He had caught +Psyche in his hand, and when she struggled he let her go, lest he +should damage the beauty of her wings. + +Dr. Berry came down to the porch and entered with them, retaining +Maude’s hand in his affectionate manner, and grasping the arm of her +husband as he walked between them to their cushioned pew. The +stockbroker’s eyes were upon him, but the rector did not feel them. +Both men were perfectly honest in their different ways. The scholar +made no secret of his admiration for Maude. The husband was +mistrustful, but when Dr. Berry left them, after an invitation to +luncheon, his suspicions gave way to wonder. Either this learned man +was the simplest soul incarnate or a consummate knave. The latter +supposition was reduced to an absurdity by one glance at the pale face +uplifted in the pulpit. Then the unpleasant thought occurred that +fault, if fault there was, lay entirely with his wife. He looked at +her. The sunlight was slanting across the little church, and in the +midst of a dusty beam sat Maude, a vision of innocence in pink, her +head tilted back, her lips apart, her ears filled with the music of +Dr. Berry’s rich tones. There was no colour in the stained windows to +be compared with hers; there was no cherub weeping, or +flambeau-waving, over the recumbent effigies of the Hoopers more +modest or free from guile. + +The rector’s sermon was paganism from beginning to end. It was an +account of the birth and early history of the drama. He began by +remarking upon the prevalence of mankind to bow down before the works +of their own hands; to worship the seen, in preference to the unseen. +He pointed out that the drama in its original form was the direct +result of idol-worship; and not only the drama, but all the +arts--sculpture, painting, poetry, and architecture--came into +existence, and were inspired, by the worship of false gods. + +Being unable to form any clear notion of divinity, men endeavoured to +represent the subjects of their thoughts under the human form. + +The divinity would need a dwelling-place among them; therefore they +built temples. + +He would require their gratitude and worship; and so poetry came into +being, also the music and dance which accompanied it. A hymn +accompanied by music was the first state of the dramatic performance. + +Such exhibitions were invariably connected with the celebration of +religious duties; and the theatre in which they were performed was a +temple dedicated to Bacchus. In the earliest times it was the custom +for the entire population of a city to meet together in some public +place, and praise the gods with songs and dances. These songs were +martial, but tinged with religious feeling; and the god to whom they +were usually offered was Apollo. They were accompanied by the lyre, +because Apollo was not only the god of the sun, but the god of music +also. Later this religion became slightly altered, and moon-worship +was introduced into Greece, very possibly from Egypt. Then Bacchus, or +Dionysus, was adopted as the sun-god, in place of Apollo, and Demeter +his sister became the moon-goddess. It was a natural transition in a +wine-producing country. The sun ripened the grapes, and Bacchus was +the god of wine. Demeter was the earth which grew the vine. So the +Bacchic festivals in honour of the wine-god came into being; the +lesser festival, accompanied by the song and dance, and procession of +the fig-wood phallus, was held to celebrate the vintage; the greater +festival was held in the spring, when Bacchus was worshipped as the +Deliverer, because he had brought the people safely through the +winter. The former was a country festival, and from it comedy +originated; the latter was held in the city, and it was the beginning +of tragedy. + +As the god of wine, light, and procreation, the festivals of Bacchus +were accompanied by liveliness and mirth. The sun-god was supposed to +be attended by certain grotesque creatures; the Sileni, represented as +old men generally intoxicated, who were not very appropriately +regarded as the deities presiding over running streams; and the +Satyrs, half-men and half-goats, who were not divinities, but merely +representatives of the original worshippers, who were goat-herds, and +during the festival assumed the skins of the goats which they had +sacrificed as an offering to the god of wine. + +The earliest state of the drama was therefore a hymn to Bacchus, which +was called the Dithyramb; who invented the hymn is not known, nor is +the precise meaning of the name. It was danced in a wild fashion by a +chorus around a fiery altar, and accompanied by the flute. The poet +Arion introduced many striking changes into the Dithyramb, the most +important of which was a tragic style of declamation. He substituted +the soft lyre for the shrill flute, and decency and order in place of +irregularity and licentiousness. The name of Bacchus was dropped, and +the deeds of semi-divine heroes were exploited in the hymn; there were +no actors; it remained a chorus, but of a mimetic nature, and led by +the exarchus--the forerunner of the principal character--who was the +best dancer and mimic. The others took their cue from him. Thus, in +the course of lamentation, when the exarchus struck himself as a sign +of grief the rest of the chorus would imitate his example. + +While the feast of Bacchus was thus developing another cause +contributed to the birth of the drama. This was the recitation of +Homer’s poetry by wandering minstrels. These men carried a staff as +the symbol of their business, and chanted the national poetry with +musical accompaniment. As these recitations increased in popularity +many of the living poets became themselves minstrels in order to make +their own works known; every kind of poetry was recited; and the +musical accompaniment was dropped. Minstrelsy became a profitable +trade. On great occasions, when a large number of the rhapsodes, as +they were called, came together, different parts would be assigned, +which were recited alternately; making the first approach towards a +theatrical dialogue. The next step was to unite the methods of the +minstrels with the Bacchanalian goat-song; and it was that blending +which brought the drama into life. + +The man who accomplished this was Thespis, but his action was probably +the result of an accident. He discovered that the Bacchanalian chorus +became tired of singing in the course of the festival, and so he +introduced a minstrel, or an actor, to rest them. This actor was +himself. He disguised his face with pigments, and prepared a mask in +order that he might be able to sustain more than one character. He +addressed himself to the chorus, which stood near the thymele or altar +of Bacchus, and that the singers might have no difficulty in hearing +him he stood upon a table, which was the origin of the stage. + +Thus tragedy became established; but after a time the lower classes +grew discontented with the serious performances, and missed the +buffoonery of the Satyrs, which was the principle feature of the +vintage festival. They considered also that Bacchus was not +sufficiently honoured by performances which dealt with heroes and +other gods. To remove their discontent the Satyrical drama was +introduced, that is to say plays in which the chorus was composed of +Satyrs. In the meantime comedy, which at the outset was nothing more +than a Bacchanalian orgy, was gaining ground. At the festival of the +vintage the countryfolk went about from one village to another in +carts, or on foot, making jesting and abusive speeches and singing +licentious songs. Such a song was called Comus. The same word +signified also a night revel. Young men would go into the streets +after supper with torches, and sing to the flute and lyre. Such a +party was called a Comus. Thus the Bacchic reveller was known as a +Comodus or comus-singer, just as the singer of the Dithyramb was known +as a Tragodus or wearer of a goat-skin. + +The orgies of the vintage were still confined to the country and the +lower classes. They were unspeakably coarse, and consisted largely in +the abuse of public characters. For that reason comedy was +subsequently introduced to the city. One political party in Athens +desired to attack its opponents, and could think of no better method +than the introduction of the lower order of country-folk, to repeat +their performance in the town, and to speak the words which were put +into their mouths. This led to the recognition and establishment of +comedy, which in its then form was little more than the scurrilous +abuse of some unpopular demagogue; the aim of comedy being to exhibit +individuals in a ridiculous light, and worse than they were; while +tragedy showed them as sublime, and better than men could be. + +The preacher went on to consider the subject of representation, +pointing out that the performances, which it was the duty of every +citizen to attend, were of a religious character; the actors wore the +festal robes used in the Bacchanalian processions; the theatre was the +temple of the god; and its central point was the smoking altar. He +went on to trace the connection between religion and art; and +concluded his strange sermon, which interested nobody, except the only +one who understood it and that was himself, with a discussion upon the +scenic accessories and the dramatic incidents connected with public +worship, both in pagan temples and Christian churches, from the +earliest times to the present day. + +Service over--neither Conway nor Drayton attended, because the Strath +was no observer of the first day in the week--the rector joined the +Juxons in the churchyard, and escorted them to the rectory, talking +with unusual brightness. He demanded Maude’s opinion upon his sermon, +and she replied that it had been too long. At that Juxon interposed +with a few quiet words of praise, but the rector maintained that Maude +was right. There was much extraneous matter which should have been +removed. He ought to have remembered that his sermon was to be heard +by a gifted critic. He feared that long association with rustics had +dulled the edge of his intellect. The stockbroker listened with +increasing amazement. + +Whatever doubts he might still have entertained regarding Dr. Berry’s +attitude towards his wife were to be set at rest that afternoon. After +luncheon they sat upon the lawn, and the stockbroker politely +introduced the subject of Greece, although he knew little about the +country, beyond the fact that its bonds were not easily negotiable; +and the conversation naturally passed to the poet’s special period and +the great work of his life. + +“You should read some of Dr. Berry’s poems,” remarked Maude, who was +beginning to feel neglected. + +From that moment she had no cause for complaint upon that score. + +“Mine is not the intellect,” said the scholar. “I am little more than +a translator. It has been my effort to express in our own tongue the +thoughts of the ancient singers.” Again he placed his hand upon +Juxon’s arm. “In my recent endeavours this lady has been an +inspiration. Before she came into my life I worked in a groove, which +I can now perceive was leading me towards the dangers of commonplace. +I lacked tenderness; the softer qualities were altogether lacking. I +was neither sufficiently broad-minded nor sympathetic. But she has +shown me my faults.” + +Maude became scarlet. She cast an agonised glance upon her husband, +but his head was down. + +“Upon the occasion of our first meeting she expressed great interest +in my work,” went on the musical voice. “She was good enough to invite +me to her house. I confess I hesitated. It may seem strange to you, +but throughout my previous life I had refrained from female society. +To my shame be it said I could not believe that the analytical faculty +could be found highly developed within any beautiful woman. +Fortunately for me I went to this lady’s house, and she convinced me I +was wrong. I found appreciation, a tender listener, a sympathetic +critic, an affectionate adviser. Such a help-meet was the one thing +wanting in my life, though I had not known it.” + +“Yes,” said Juxon. + +Maude was digging her sun-shade into the turf. It was horrible to know +she could say nothing in self-defence. She was painfully conscious how +often she had told her husband she could not tolerate being read to, +she absolutely never had an opinion to give, she hated reading, and +thought all learning a bore. Now she was being extolled before her +husband as an efficient critic upon one of the most brain-vexing +periods of history. + +“I went again and again to this lady’s house,” Dr. Berry continued, +lifting his hat reverently and gazing into the sky. “Not content with +rendering me very much valuable assistance, she showered upon me her +hospitality also. The welcome I have always received from her has made +a very deep impression upon my heart. Quite recently we spent a +memorable evening together, I in reading my translations--for I find +she has not as yet made herself thoroughly conversant with the earlier +Greek--she in suggesting alterations and improvements, dealing chiefly +with the necessity for introducing more natural tenderness of feeling. +Afterwards we had supper, and her conversation I remember was +beautiful and inspiring.” + +“I am glad my wife has been of such service to you,” said Juxon. + +“She has been a guiding star,” said Dr. Berry, putting out his white +hand and touching Maude’s fingers tenderly. “And I trust she will ever +remain so. I have become a changed man of late. My studious interests +have redoubled. Formerly I was working for myself alone. Now I have +her approbation to secure. Through the light of her mind I am enabled +to see many truths which formerly were hidden from my eyes. I have +been callous; but she has quickened me with new life. I have to thank +her for my present insight into the tender mysteries of devotional +love.” + +“Herbert,” Maude cried with a gasp. “I think we ought to be going.” + +“I hope,” said the scholar, closing his fingers affectionately round +Juxon’s fat hand, “that you also have realised this happiness. I +understand now that there is help for every man in this world, when he +has been led to that one of his species whose being throbs in unison +with his own. Our most secret ambition may be realised through the +mind of a faithful friend.” + +Juxon rose. He looked at his wife, and their eyes met. He was not +angry with her then. He was sorry for himself. She had won the heart +of a far more intellectual man than himself, and he had given her +nothing beyond that which he now believed her soul despised. He had +given her liberty to move about the world, a certain position, the +very clothes she stood in. He compared his flabby features and +half-bald head with the grave handsome face, the sensitive mouth, and +silvered hair of his dreamy host, and the mystery became solved. He +understood that women require something besides luxuries and freedom; +and he had neither fascination nor charm of tongue to offer. + +Again the silver bells jingled through Thorlund and the donkeys +presently stopped their trot, to walk the long hill. Maude was +indignant because she felt she had been made ridiculous. She had not a +word to say, until the cart reached the grass-grown road which led to +Queensmore, then she lashed her diminutive team spitefully, and +exclaimed, “I suppose Dr. Berry is mad.” + +“I thought him original,” answered her husband quietly, “but +remarkably sane.” + +“That is just the sort of exasperating remark I might have expected,” +said Maude angrily. “He made a perfect idiot of me. Why didn’t you +change the subject?” + +“He regards you as a saint. It was not for me to disagree with him,” +her husband answered. “I must own I was astonished to find you held up +as an art critic,” he added with a gentle, and perfectly legitimate, +touch of irony. + +“It was all utterly idiotic,” said Maude. “And I will never ask him to +the cottage again. I am not going home, I want to go and see Flora.” + +The following morning Juxon returned to his business, which just then +was engrossing all the attention which he was able to bestow; and +after his solitary dinner he sat down and wrote a long letter to +Maude. For a man of his temperament it was easier to write than to +speak. + +When Flora came over on Tuesday morning she found her friend simmering +with indignation and a sense of injury. + +“I have had a ridiculous letter from Herbert,” she began at once, “He +talks of my duty to him and to our child. I’m sure Peggy is much +happier with a nurse than she could ever be with me. Besides it makes +one feel old and ugly to have a growing child hanging to one’s skirts +and crumpling them. He says, as I am so fond of the country, he will +take a house within easy reach of London, and go backwards and +forwards. That is altogether absurd. If the weather happened to be bad +he would stop at home whole days and ruin his business. And I don’t +want to be planted down. I like to go about. And he says he knows I +mean nothing, but I ought not to encourage Dr. Berry’s visits and this +poetry reading. What rubbish, Flora! Dr. Berry’s voice is so soothing, +and I like to watch his face. Do you know he said all sorts of nice +things about me on Sunday--called me his guiding star, and--and angel +of inspiration, and Herbert was there and had to listen! Sit down, and +I’ll tell you all about it.” + +Thereupon the little weathercock favoured her friend with an account +of the scene in the rectory garden, adding her own airy touches of +imagination to what she could remember of the scholar’s actual +utterances. + +“I always thought you were a wicked person, and now I am sure of it,” +said Flora, when the pink lady had done bubbling. “You had much better +make the best of your husband and be good. As for Dr. Berry, I should +advise you to leave him severely alone. You know you are just a little +bit fascinated, and he might become dangerous, and you might be +stupid, and Mr. Juxon would hear of it--and then, where would Miss +Maudie be then, poor thing?” she concluded flippantly. + +“You are always preaching,” said her friend pettishly. “You have +changed altogether, and I don’t like you now.” + +“Givers of advice are often unpopular,” Miss Neill admitted. “But you +are right about my preaching. I have been lecturing uncle on the +condition of his study, and advising Mr. Conway to destroy that house. +By the way he has been trying, in a weird sort of way, to approach.” + +“What! Proposing?” cried Maude, forgetting her own tribulations. + +“Something rather like it. You will please remember I am still a line +moving through space, and Mr. Conway has chosen to establish himself +as my curve for the time being. It is the duty of the curve to remain +motionless, but he has forgotten propriety and jumped out to meet me.” + +“With the result that you jumped back?” + +Flora nodded. + +“The idea of calling me wicked!” exclaimed Mrs. Juxon indignantly. “A +married woman has certain flirting privileges, but an unmarried girl +has none. You will play your game too long, and some day you will wake +up and find yourself growing old and ugly, and then you may whistle as +much as you like but no one will come to you. I have a heart, Flora, +and yours is just a horrid cold lump of stone. You will become a nasty +old crabbed spinster, sitting at a window, knitting socks for +missionaries, keeping cats and canaries, and saying atrocious things +about your neighbours.” + +“You may threaten,” said the fair-haired girl loftily. “Remember what +I said to you at home. The sympathies will not be forbidden. If you +are married without love, some state of the soul will assert itself.” + +“Rubbish,” said the little lady. “Go into the garden, while I write +no-thank-you to Herbert, and pick me some roses.” + +“You know I cannot touch roses.” + +“Then do, for goodness sake, take a piece of string and play with the +kitten.” + +So Flora went on her way, Maude Juxon on hers; and the Strath waited +for them both. + + + + + Scene V.--PAGEANT + + Toss fortune back her tinsel and her plume, + And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene.--_Young_. + +The two dwellers in the Strath went on dreaming. Drayton had reserved +a small ante-chamber leading out from the saloon for his work-room. +Here the escutcheon of the mask was endlessly repeated in wood, +plaster, and copper; a pinched tragic face was represented, +crest-like, upon the picture frames, and along the cornice. And it was +here that the tragic influence of the house was felt more strongly +than elsewhere. + +The day was grey. The sun had shone little of late; and a moist wind +carried restlessly through the garden. The playwright sat nursing a +volume which served him for a desk. He appeared in good health, +although his eyes had a trick of roving, and at times he would shudder +as though with cold. He believed that he had never been so well in his +life, and this opinion was shared by Conway, who was lying in the +saloon, listening to his friend. The journal that he loved was lying +open upon a cushion before him. The draperies which divided the two +rooms were fastened back, and when the enraptured voice came louder to +his ears Conway put back his head and laughed in sheer happiness as he +heard the noisy sophistry of the writer: + +“I cannot conceive a Deity who finds pleasure in tragedy. The Creator +must understand and appreciate comedy. If there be the divine frown, +there must be also the divine laughter. I am assured that the Sublime +would rather see a wine-skin dressed out in child’s clothes than the +lion-hide and the club; and rather hear the quack of the frog-souls +against the Acherusian lake than those anguished cries in the grove of +the Eumenides. If that be so, let us have no more tragedy. Let us grow +wings and fly to Cloudcuckootown, and take a bird’s eye view across +mortality.” + +“Before you attempt to fly, be sure that your wings will bear you,” +called Conway, also speaking in the spirit of ancient comedy. “The +nearer the sun the greater the effort; and if you fall there may be no +Icarian sea to receive you.” + +“Give me a theme, and I will set to work upon it,” cried the +enraptured Drayton. + +“Listen then,” said Conway, picking up the journal. “Take a well known +theme. In old fields we gather fresh flowers, and new learning may be +found in the oldest tales.” Then he went on thus to read: + + + “Can there be anything more bitter than solitude? This morning I was + driven out by my aching tongue to speak to nature. I called to the + flowers, and they were silent. I cried to the birds, and they + chattered, but not to me. I whispered to the stream, and it murmured, + but not to me. The eyes I saw in that water were not those you have in + your memory, my fair-haired love. I spoke to the trees, to the wind, + to the clouds, and despairingly to God. The trees whispered, and the + wind murmured, but not for me; the clouds drifted on; and God remained + more silent than any of the wonders He has made. + + “The prisoner in the Fleet has consolations which I may not share. He + may wrangle with his turnkey concerning fees, or argue with his + fellows in misfortune. I have nothing, but memory and faith. There is + a place for me in this world, and I may not fill it; a love, and I may + not have it; a life, and I may not enter into it; one voice above all + others, and I may not hear it. This is to be in prison indeed. + + “You will wonder, Geoffrey, should this little book in time to come be + brought into your hands, why I did not escape from this misery, before + death, like some kindly nurse, snatched me from my play-things and put + me to my bed. Let me answer you. The roads are watched, not only + against your coming, but against my going. I know that silent men + follow me. Were I to enter a coach, I should be dragged down. Were I + to steal forth some night, I should be seized, brought back by + violence, and beaten for my effort. + + “Sir John fears me, because I know too much concerning his two-faced + life. Yet for my freedom I would promise anything, nay, I have + promised, but ’tis of no avail. He knows that the caged bird is + secure, but let that bird fly, and it will be seen no more. There is + also another, more bitter reason. That it is which now tears out my + heart. My uncle, miser and parson of Queensmore, told me, with a grin + and a screwing up of his pig-like eyes, that you were lately taken by + the press. That pitiless and cunning wolf my father set the plot to be + rid of you. May God alone forgive him. + + “Is it true? While I write these words are you far upon the seas, + shamefully degraded and abused? You could not have kept from me a + whole year. You would have found a way, for love laughs at swords, and + knows no fear, and has no sense of bodily pain. You have gone far from + me, and I am left with a sad last hope that someone will be found to + tell you I was true. My final breath shall be in prayer that you may + be brought some day into Thorlund, to stand upon a cold stone marking + the spot where I shall be in silence. Do not be afraid, Geoffrey, even + though it be night and a wild wind beating; for your mind shall not be + troubled and you shall see no ghostly sight. You will know I did + myself no harm. + + “Would that I might leave you something, a ribbon, a lock of hair, a + ring. Why, so I will. None but old Deborah shall handle this small + white body when I am wrung out of it, and she will do my bidding yet. + Our vault lies beneath the chancel. You have but to shut yourself in + the church during the night, raise the great stone beside the + wall--’tis graven with the Hooper arms, surmounted by a cross + fimbriated--and descend the stone steps. Beloved, do not be afraid. I + shall be loving you still, and I may be nearer than you think. If a + light breath passes, call it not night wind. Upon my body you shall + find the ring you gave me, and the lock of hair which now lies upon my + forehead. Yet I have forgotten. My brain is wandering. How shall you + discover this poor record of my daily life? + + “The trees are white with dust, and the flowers wither. No rain has + fallen for long, and the people who dwell upon the hills are hard put + to it for water, and much sickness is, I hear, abroad. Mr. Blair takes + his customary ease, smokes his long pipe, makes fishing-lines, and + turns a deaf ear to the calls of the cottage folk. His duty begins and + ends with his Sunday sermons, and these he is too idle or too ignorant + to write himself. What a little charity there is in this great world! + I can do nothing for the poor. I may not visit them, nor send one + bottle of my father’s wine. Reed, who is the master of this house, + keeps a sharp eye upon the household, and nothing goes out without his + knowledge. ’Tis strange that my father should trust him, and none + besides, but villainy acquaints a man with vile partners. + + “To-day I met with Poor John, one who has lost his wits and roams + about the country making verses. I see him often, at evening trapping + sparrows in the ivy, at morning whistling beneath the elms, and at + noon lying beside the stream to laugh at the image of his white face. + He asked me for apples, as his custom is, but I could only tell him + that all last year’s apples were done. Then he gave me a whistle, + which he had made, and directed me to go into the woods and blow upon + it, when I would immediately set all the birds a-singing. And so he + left me grinning. Poor John do they call him? Why, he is far happier + than I. I could envy this gentle madman. He views his surroundings + through a weird atmosphere of imagination, and regards sane suffering + men and women as underlings, and passes them in the belief that he is + nature’s king, never knowing what a misshapen oaf he seems to them. + + “It is exceeding hot. My brain aches and my eyes burn. This is my + twentieth summer. I have lived a long time. You have been given and + taken away; I mourn the loss and forget to be thankful for the gift. + My books tell me nothing is left for a woman when the time of her + love-making is passed. The man may still have his ambitions. He may + attempt to follow in the steps of Mr. Pope, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Hogarth, + or Mr. Fielding. He may serve his country, or aid the Pretender, + winning scars and fame, as you may be doing while I write, my + Geoffrey. But Miss Hooper, sad, and white, and shivering--what may she + do? Nothing but sigh, and wait, and hope; and sighing kills, waiting + maddens, and as for hope--why, hope is a fading flower. Oh, Geoffrey, + cannot you send some small message through all this darkness, + something to tell me that you live? Cannot you make a sign? I listen + in the night for the movement of your spirit, or the echo of your + mind. Ought I not to feel your heart longing for me? I hear only the + night throbbing, the insects murmuring, the house creaking, and beyond + there is cold pitiless space half-lit by stars. The daffodils were + glorious this year, Geoffrey. They filled the plantation with a light + of gold, and yours was there, and I stood by it alone.” + + +The reader stopped, and a gentle movement came from the ante-room. + +“There was a time when every living creature saw the bright side of +things,” said the voice of Drayton. “Even when the human emotions were +first represented upon the stage, it was believed that happiness ruled +the world, until the philosophers discovered that whereas one play +aroused the laughter of the audience another excited their compassion +and their tears. Thereupon the drama became divided into its two great +heads, known as the goat-song and the wine-song, the goat being the +prize for tragedy, the wine for comedy. Comedy is the beginning of the +story; tragedy is the end; there is only the difference of a letter +between them. That which you have read seems to me to contain the germ +of tragedy. When my modern drama, dealing with the life and death of +George the Third, is completed I will give the world that story. The +emotions are there,” he went on noisily. “I see light there, and it +must be the phosphorescence of the dead which produces it.” + +Conway joined the speaker. His face was pale, and his eyes shone with +a mad light as he cried, “Let us remain here and work together. Let us +discover the origin of love, and find the cause of its unhappy ending. +Why does the glamour of life end when love has been satisfied?” + +“Because of that satisfaction,” said the other character. + +“That could never be so here.” + +“There is a vast region outside,” said Drayton. “Love is here a +religion; there a passion. Here desire becomes etherealised by +possession, and consummation leads to higher things; there ambition, +rivalries, and all the petty wedges of worldliness are driven in to +love’s destruction. It ends in a tragedy there. It must end so, +because of that finality. For every thing that knows an end is a +tragedy.” + +All the little tragic masks frowned at the spell-bound men, in copper +and wood and plaster. + +“There is no such thing as comedy at all.” + +“Call the drama a knot,” said Drayton. “Call, the gradual unloosening +of that knot comedy, the complete unfastening tragedy. The one deals +with human beings, the other with actions. The light which falls upon +the stage is constant, if difficult to discern. That light is not shed +by religion, for religion is a superstition, and superstition is a +flickering lamp which requires to be often recharged and changed. We +live in the faintly glimmering region which lies outside, where there +is no terror and no suffering, because we are spiritual. This state +cannot be tragic, because it knows no ending.” + +“Our minds demand an ending,” the other urged. + +“When the body ceases to be material the mind will be unable to +realise an ending,” said the man, who but a few weeks back had with +difficulty made a living by writing snippets of nonsense for people of +no intellect. “We are living in the half-light under these present +conditions. It is the finest state we are capable of attaining while +encumbered with the body.” + +He leaned forward, parted the creepers, and holding them apart +continued: “I perceive a woman walking in the garden. She is looking +into the lilies beyond the topiary hedge. Her hair is dark, and her +face tanned by exposure to the weather. Now she turns to me. There is +a poetic gloom in her dark eyes.” + +Before Drayton had done speaking he was alone. Conway had stepped into +the garden. The creepers fell back across the window, the scribe’s +fingers closed round the pencil, and he resumed his automatic labours. + +It was Lone Nance who stood in the garden. She was often there, but +the dreamers had not sighted her before, because she had hidden +herself when she saw them coming. They had heard a singing voice +during the still evenings, but had given it no heed. What was it to +them if the nightingale sang old ballads, and the blackcap madrigals, +so long as the songs were in tune with the influence? + +He, who was called the master of the Strath, reached the yew hedge, +and discovered the girl scraping moss from a long low stone. She +looked up at him fearlessly with large eyes lightly blurred with +tears. + +“Why do you kneel beside that stone?” Conway muttered, not venturing +to remove his eyes lest the vision should disappear. “And why are +there tears in your eyes?” + +The girl put out her hand and held up the speckled and stiffened body +of a thrush, which had been smitten by some hawk and had tumbled into +the garden to die in the dust. + +“The birds come to the Strath to die,” she said. “I will not bury it, +for there may still be life in its little brain. I will let it lie +upon the stems of this long grass, where the wind shall rock it up and +down, and the sun shall warm it, until the little body may forget that +it is dead.” + +“Why are you scraping the moss off that stone?” he urged. + +“I was running on the hills when a voice stopped me and called me into +the valley,” she answered. + +“I did not hear it,” he said. + +“At sunset there is always a voice, like music melting in the air,” +she said. “You must make no sound, or you will not hear it. He hears +it.” She nodded in the direction of the rectory. + +“What is that stone? Why is it broken across the middle?” + +“This stone cries out, and the house answers it,” went on the girl in +a low voice. “Lives and hearts have been broken here. He was young and +he was beautiful. As they carried him past the gates into the garden +he sighed once and that was all. They buried the body here that night, +and covered the grave with a great stone taken from the stable-yard. +But in the morning the stone was broken. The spirit had escaped in +spite of them.” + +“What was his name?” Conway asked. + +“I do not know. His hair was fair, and his eyes were blue. I have seen +him walking with the lady of the white lilies.” + +She stroked the stone. Her hand was a deep brown, bearing marks of +bramble scratches, and the fingers were delicate. Her head was small. +There were white seeds of grass held in its thick dark hair. She was +strong and healthy, this wild girl. + +“I have never been in there,” she said, pointing towards the house. + +“Come with me,” said Conway. Holding the girl’s hand, he led her +through the garden, across the moat, into his home, and left her at +length beside the door of what had been Miss Hooper’s room. “This is +your place,” he said quietly. “You will find here all that you can +require.” + +But there still existed a gross world of evil-thinking outside the +influence, and there was materialism even within the Strath. Early in +the afternoon the crone of the kitchen accosted the master, as he +walked in a state of innocence, and stated her intention of quitting +the place forthwith. The influence had left her absolutely untouched; +she had no laughter to give, nor shudder to spend. But she could not +tolerate the presence of Lone Nance; and if the girl were to remain +she, the speaker, would go, and that immediately, even to the work +house and her pauper’s coffin. + +Conway could not understand, nor was he able to reason with the +rachitic dame, who insisted upon dragging the custom of another world +into his paradise. Why this turmoil because another character had been +added to the drama? He did not know why she should seek to disturb his +state of peace. There were the iron gates in all visibility; she might +so easily walk off the stage. The birds did not first come to him, and +scold noisily, if they intended to fly away. + +“Human nature has many phases,” observed the philosophic Drayton, when +the respectable dame came and appealed to him. “One well-defined trait +is a longing after change.” Then he gravely handed her the Ethics of +Aristotle, and bade her study the pages for her soul’s good. + +Finally the poor muddy-minded creature became appeased, not through +the wisdom of Aristotle, nor yet by the indifference of her masters, +but owing to the natural passing of her indignation after the noisy +assertion of her wrongs. She returned to the kitchen, after a manner +mollified, to grope grumbling among the pots, and to prepare the +evening meal which differed not from day to day. + +That same evening rumour went rustling into Kingsmore, where the +relations of Lone Nance lived, and charges were brought against +Conway, as gross as they were false, while wiseacres nodded heads of +clay and recalled predictions made by them aforetime. They had seen +the squire of Thorlund at the fair, and had written him down a fellow +of the baser sort. They exhorted the lone girl’s guardians to take +immediate action; but these practical folk merely realised that there +was no longer a superfluous mouth to feed and an irresponsible spirit +to suppress. Only one old man was sage enough to say, “No harm will +come to her if she is at the Strath.” To those who reminded him of +Henry Reed’s fate the grandfather replied, “He set himself against the +place.” + +When Dr. Berry came into the garden at his accustomed time he +discovered a young woman, dressed in the mode of the eighteenth +century, selecting blooms from the rose-bushes. He bent his head +courteously and passed without a word. + +The night fell, close, humid, and dark. There was not a breath of wind +to move the heavy clouds which obliterated space and its starlight. +Through a mist hanging about he garden beamed the light of a single +candle, set beside the stone under the topiary hedge. The long yellow +flame rose like an ear of wheat, and only flickered when a moth darted +into it. There was a sound of music in the house, and presently the +chorus reached the garden, and loomed into the misty radiance of the +candlelight. First came Nance, grave and self-possessed, her head +bare, her hands full of white roses; then Drayton and Conway; and +finally Dr. Berry. They were holding sprigs of rosemary gathered from +the herb-garden. + +They took their stand about the stone, and when the girl had covered +it with her roses the exarchus recited the office of the dead. The +garden was steeped in silence outside the halo of light. The window of +the saloon could be seen faintly glowing in the distance, but the +outlines of the house were lost. + +The Dithyramb was sung and the chorus marched away, leaving the solemn +candle to burn itself away among the blooms. The Bacchanalians sat +down to eat and to drink, but there was no sound of laughter, nor any +careless word. The mind of the house was grim. + +The procession made its way out the second time, Dr. Berry leading. +Behind him came Conway and Drayton carrying iron bars and chisels. +They passed the gate leading into the churchyard. Beneath a drip-stone +terminating in a diabolic face, at the west end of the building, the +scholar left them and went to his house for the key. The atmosphere +continued to be dense; not a sound was heard, except the squeaking of +bats, and the cry of a nightjar. + +When the heavily clamped door had been opened, the three men passed +into the mouldy interior. The rector locked the door, lighted one of +the chancel lamps, and indicated a long stone let into the tiles, +beneath the north wall of the building; and, when the others +hesitated, he snatched the bar from Conway’s nervous hands and forced +its point into the mortar which crumbled in the crevice. + +A canopied memorial, adorned by miniature fluted columns and capitals +of spiral volutes, acanthus-leaf bosses, brackets of decorated +foliage, grape pendants, and crotchets terminating in mitre-head +finials, had been let into the chancel wall, where a marble slab +lyingly recited virtues of dead and gone Hoopers. There was no mention +of Sir John, nor of his wife Edith, nor of his daughter Winifred; and +the parish registers dealing with their period had been destroyed by +carelessness and by fire. The baronet, as was well known, had been +buried in unconsecrated ground. The stone which closed the entry to +the vault was soft and much chipped. The cement crumbled at a touch. +Conway, who had joined the work in fearful expectancy, felt the slab +heave. Another moment it came up, and they could hear the hollow sound +made by fragments of mortar falling into the vault below. + +A step appeared, dry and dusty, and when a candle was brought and +lowered they discerned a narrow flight leading into the silent space. +Dr. Berry was the first to descend, and Conway the last. A brick arch +sloped over them, and on either side appeared stout shelves, +supporting narrow berths where the bodies of the extinct family had +been put aside like old garments in a press. + +“This is the one,” the scholar whispered, raising the candle above his +head, and tapping a worm-eaten plank which gave forth a hollow echo. + +“Died December 12th, aged 20,” muttered Conway. + +“Let us see whether her lover came to her,” the scholar murmured. + +There was nothing terrible about those swathed remains. Only a lock of +fair hair, which had escaped from its bonds somehow, glistened when +the candlelight entered the coffin. What had been little white hands +were folded; and between them Conway perceived a tiny packet, bound +with white ribbon, and inscribed with one word “Geoffrey.” He put out +his hand, but shrank, afraid to rob the dead. + +“It was never meant for me,” he whispered. + +“Nevertheless take it,” urged the rector. “She does not need it now.” + +Conway put out his arm, but again the effort failed. The packet was +retained jealously, and the grave-breaker had neither the courage nor +the inclination to use force. He turned away quickly, and sought the +steps, muttering as he escaped, “She will not let it go.” + +“I wished to bury it beneath the stone where her lover lies,” murmured +Dr. Berry, as he also turned away. “But she knows what is best.” + +As they replaced the stone, the light went out. Velvety darkness, +heavy as cobwebs, closed down, submerging them, leaving them standing +as it were upon the bottom of the sea of space. Then Drayton spoke: + +“A current of cold air passed me. It was going from east to west.” + +“It passed me also,” said the rector. “And I could see its outline and +its eyes.” + + + + + Scene VI.--MELODRAMA + + And the Voices of the Dialogue would be Strong and Manly. + And the Ditty High and Tragicall; Not nice or Dainty.--_Bacon_. + +Drinkers of tea in Kingsmore continued to talk scandal concerning +Conway and Nancy Reed; but when the evil practice extended beyond the +farm-houses and reached the untidy Vicarage, Mr. Price considered the +time had come for him to act. The breath of ill-report was poison to +the simple squire. Having drunk his customary four cups of tea, he +roundly lectured his sister and niece; and when he had finished his +sermon he went out to the stable-yard, saddled a cob with his own +hands, then jogged across the hills to Thorlund, to acquaint himself +personally with the facts relating to his peccant parishioner Lone +Nance. + +The squire remained a very short time at the Strath; yet it was long +enough to satisfy him. He trotted back contented, although ignorant +that he had regarded his neighbour’s domestic affairs through the +spectacles which the spirit of the place had thought good to push +before his eyes. Reaching home, he fell in with Flora, and after +removing himself slowly from the saddle thus expressed his mind: + +“The only way of punishing scandal-mongers is to disgrace them +publicly. Our ancestors had the sense to know that. When gossips made +a nuisance of themselves they had their heads harnessed in an iron +cage. I could name a few chattering people who would be none the worse +for a dose of old English penalties. Give me the stocks again, and let +me see the public nuisances with their ankles picketed, and a beadle +handy to encourage honest folk to jeer at them--” + +“I suppose you have been to the Strath?” broke in Flora, who knew by +experience that when her uncle was mounted upon a hobby his speech was +liable to flow. + +“Where I discovered the truth,” the vicar snapped. “Mr. Conway finds +that old woman totally inadequate, and I’m sure I don’t wonder. It +appears that Nancy Reed came and offered her services and he accepted +them. It is all quite respectable and right. But the extraordinary +part of it is the girl appears to be perfectly sane.” + +“Did you go into the house?” Flora asked, with meaning. + +“I stood in the hall for about five minutes, and enjoyed a very +interesting conversation with Mr. Drayton. A most well-informed man, +my dear, and as clear-headed as anyone could be. I have asked him to +come and visit us. Really I found the Strath quite fascinating. After +all I should be sorry to see it pulled down.” + +“Did you interview this young woman?” Flora pursued. + +“What?” said her uncle, somewhat blankly. “Well, I cannot remember +that I did,” he went on crossly. “I was perfectly satisfied. Anyhow +it’s not a subject for you to discuss, and I do not wish to hear any +more questions.” + +The squire was walking beside the girl, who was tall enough to look +down upon him. As they came near the house he turned to her, and asked +sharply, for he was not in a good humour that evening, how many men it +had pleased her to refuse to marry. + +“Four at present,” replied Flora carelessly. + +“Ah!” exclaimed her uncle. “It is evident you are incapable of +selecting a husband for yourself. When is your reply going to be in +the affirmative?” + +“Probably never. I don’t want to marry, and I don’t want to talk about +it,” returned Flora. + +“Bless my soul! A good-looking girl not want to talk about matrimony!” +said the astounded squire. “I want to see you settled,” he went on +seriously. “I am an old man, and I should like to have the pleasure of +uniting you to some suitable partner before I take my departure.” + +“You have someone in your mind,” she suggested. “Is it Mr. Conway?” + +“You might do worse, I suppose,” said the vicar, stroking his chin, +and glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. + +“And live at the Strath?” she went on. + +“You might improve it.” + +“Not very long ago you told me Mr. Conway was not a gentleman,” Flora +reminded him. “You remarked that he was connected with the Reeds of +this village. You called the Strath a haunted house. Do you know what +has caused your mind to change so completely?” + +The vicar stared her in amazement. + +“It is the house,” she said. “You have just come from there, and I +believe its influence is still upon you. You were not expressing your +own opinions just now. They are not your opinions.” + +“Flora,” the old gentleman exclaimed angrily, “I may be over seventy, +but I am not a fool, and I am not to be told by a young girl that I do +not know what I am talking about. I want you to marry, and of course I +hope you will choose a worthy gentleman. In my young days girls were +not allowed to have opinions of their own, and it was very much better +for them. I did not ask your poor dear aunt if she would marry me. I +went to her father, who, I believe, was far more capable of judging a +man than she could ever have been and told him I wanted his daughter. +That is the way marriages ought to be arranged. If any man asks me for +you, and I think him desirable, I shall take it upon myself to answer +for you, and if you refuse to accept him I shall leave my money +elsewhere. I have an idea you have behaved disgracefully.” + +With that the squire led his horse off to the stable; while Flora, +very white and angry, mounted her bicycle and rode across country to +seek consolation from Maude. + +The little lady was not at home. A man of general uselessness, who was +rolling the lawn without energy, volunteered the information that his +mistress had driven off in her donkey-cart half an hour earlier. Flora +returned to the road, and tempted by a long declivity ran down into +Thorlund. + +She saw no one in the hamlet; not a living thing appeared upon the +road; only a subdued hammering issued from the smithy on the side of +the hill. The Strath never appeared more alluring than when flooded in +evening sunlight. It seemed to be breathing softly, reaching a dreamy +influence over church, fields, and hills, hushing nature into silence. +Flora walked to the gate in the churchyard, responding to a summons +which would accept no denial; and for the second time found herself in +the garden with the eyes of the house upon her soul. + +The mood had changed; on her former visit the house had transferred +her into a light-hearted mummer. Then it suggested solemn truths, +responsibilities which might not be avoided, and the necessary sorrows +of existence. It suggested that a thin veil separated knowledge from +belief; creatures of a day could not afford to dally; the mind which +faces the whirlwind must bend or be broken; women who will not obey +the call of destiny must die, even as Henry Reed had died; tragedy +arises from self-will; obedience is the road to happiness. Through +this atmosphere Flora wandered, with an indefinite longing for a +guide, beginning to comprehend that she could no more struggle against +destiny than the butterfly against the storm. + +A rebellious desire came over her to defy those influences, and in +that moment it seemed to her that the light darkened. She experienced +the stunning sensation of walking out to execution before a howling +mob; there was the ancient tragic wail, “Alas, my sister!” and she saw +a stage with curtain descending slowly before a dying body. Here then +was the end of those who opposed themselves to destiny. So she +resigned herself, and immediately the light became clear, and her mind +was at rest. She was told contemptuously that she was human, therefore +ignorant, and fated to stumble. She was like a foolish moth coming out +of darkness, burning its beauty, and returning into darkness. + +Life must be something more than a glimmering meteor. It is a flame +burning well, or flickering feebly, according to the supply of soul. A +life might light the world, and continue burning. Far back in the +morning mists of time a fair woman had struck the lyre. It still +vibrated. Four thousand men had held at bay three millions of foes, +falling at last, envied, their tomb an altar; and a general in command +of a few heroes had faced the fighting force of the world, and hurled +it back, with death in the front, destruction in the rear. The light +shed by such lives might never be extinguished. + +Flora had sought originality. She had longed to render herself +conspicuous by a line of action contrary to the laws of the drama. It +was for the Strath to open her eyes, and point out, what should have +been obvious, namely that she was a very ordinary woman. Originality +does not consist in doing uncommon things, but in doing common things +in an uncommon way. Thousands of men had fought and fallen, before +Miltiades occupied the plain of Marathon, or Leonidas led his handful +to the pass of the Hot Springs. Hundreds of singers had lifted up +their voices, before Sappho’s throat melted with its music. They were +immortal, because they had played the fine old parts as well as it was +possible to play them. But let a man or woman create a fresh part +which was contrary to the laws of the drama--then would come failure, +dishonour, and the hisses of the audience. + +The voice of warning was clear. Away from the Strath the girl might +assume her part of attracting men with no idea of union; but there at +least she was bound by the custom of ages. She stirred among strange +forces. The dramatic fingers of destiny indicated the well-worn paths +along which she must walk, through pain and difficulties by performing +a woman’s duty, to attain present happiness and rest at last. The +influence suggested, moreover, that she might not turn into that +beaten track without a punishment for having gone astray. + +The lessons of the Strath were those of the didactic drama, which +teaches that mortals must submit to unchanging laws. The battle of +free-will against destiny was its theme when serious, but under the +teaching there lurked undoubtedly the sting of malevolence, of hatred +for the actors upon its stage, and a desire to destroy them if it +might. It had no phantasm to show, nor could it terrify by any sound; +it could only shape minds for good or evil, causing the puppets to act +and speak in comic or in tragic mood, showing them that life is not a +small thing, the world no passing scene, but rather a permanent stage, +upon which actors pass and repass, each playing many characters, with +the same passions in them, and the same destiny always behind. + +Unmindful of time or place Flora walked on until she reached the +orchard. And there other voices came to her ears, and looking out she +saw Conway and Nance walking beneath the mossy branches. + +She stood aloof, watching those dream-like figures crossing the bright +green orchard, her ears filled with the drowsy hum of their voices, +until the knowledge came that she was jealous of the brown village +girl who trailed across the grass the long discarded garments of +Winifred Hooper, and rested a hand, half hidden in lace ruffles, upon +the arm of her new-found friend. + +Flora swayed to and fro beside the hedge, and endeavoured to reason +with her sane self, but the Strath held her fast. Could this wild +Medea-like passion be love, or was it hatred? There was hatred in her +heart, but it was for Nance, and her eyes had never seen the girl +before that day. A breath of wind shivered through the trees, and +strong-minded Flora bent beneath the tragic influence of the place. + +She ran to the house and entered the hall, which was filled with +dust-flecked sunbeams. Then into the saloon, where Drayton was lying +asleep with a smile upon his white face. A mask of tragedy stared from +the wall with pitiful blank eyes. Flora smiled wildly at the emblem; +then, catching the reflection of her own face in one of the mirrors, +shrank because of its tragic similarity. She caught up the rusty +sword, which her uncle had handled upon their former visit, and passed +again through the garden with the day upon one side, and the night +upon the other. + +The man and the girl were still walking within the orchard. Flora felt +no sense of nervousness, when they approached her hiding-place. She +could see the lone girl’s face, idealised in that atmosphere, its +large eyes roaming restfully across the sun-mists. She could hear the +long grass brushing against their garments. A few more steps and they +would have passed; but the opposing influence had already issued its +warning, and Nance stopped a few paces from the hedge, and lifting her +hand pointed towards the exact spot where Flora stood concealed. + +“What is that?” she said to her companion. + +“It is a holly bush,” Conway answered. + +“A flash of light passed through it,” the girl said. + +“It was the sun. See how it flashes through the apple-trees.” + +“There is a dark shadow round the holly bush, and the light that I saw +was cold,” Nance went on. “This morning a robin was singing there. It +has flown away, and now the sun has gone too. Let us follow them. I +hear the robin singing beside the stream.” + +They turned and went away, Nance casting back glances at the deep +green bush, until they came into a jungle of roses, leading towards a +little stream which murmured evermore among its weeds. Here the girl +paused and pushed Conway back into the sunlight. “Go to the holly +bush,” she said. “There is an enemy in the garden.” + +He regarded her with calm astonishment. + +“There is danger there, and it is to me,” she went on. “You are safe. +I will sit here, and watch the water until you come.” + +Her wild eyes aroused him and he returned, smiling in perplexity, +wading through masses of scented herbs, and tangled brakes of briars, +scattering rose petals all over the slope; and so advanced, forgetful +of his mission, until he saw Flora walking to meet him with the bent +sword hanging from her hand. + +He remembered her dimly as one who had scorned him once, but the +thought that she was out of place in that garden did not occur, until +another breath of wind came from the house and set the leaves in +motion; and then there came a suggestion of treachery and the memory +of bodily death. + +“So you would have killed her,” he said quietly, as they stopped face +to face. + +Flora was deathly pale. After that wave of passion a spirit of cunning +had entered into her. She was following her enemy, hoping to find her +alone; but now that she was confronted by the man of her desires +resolution began to ebb and the deeper self came uppermost. + +“I would only have frightened her,” she said glibly. “She has no right +to be here--in my place.” + +“This is not your place,” he answered. “Nor is it mine. I was brought +here to learn, but I am on probation. One who was here before me +rebelled against the master of the house, and he was punished.” + +“Have you always acted according to the dictates of your master’s +mind?” she asked. + +“I dare not do otherwise.” + +“Neither do I,” she cried. “My enemy is here, and I was told to hide +in the holly-bush and kill her as she passed.” + +“She has done you no wrong.” + +“She is winning your love. She is drawing you away from me. She walks +by your side, with her hand upon yours, and looks into your eyes, and +you return her words of affection, and give her smile for smile. I was +watching while you walked together in the orchard. I heard your +flatteries--” + +“You are lying,” the male actor interposed. “She is as clear as the +light. I gave her no word of flattery. She has a place in this garden. +You have none. I do not know you, and I do not desire to see you +again. Put down that sword, and go.” + +The wind was blowing steadily from the house. + +“Do not speak so cruelly,” she prayed. “Do not look at me with those +hard eyes. It is my love which has driven me to this. I will go if you +bid me, or come if you call, or kill myself if you would be rid of me. +Have pity upon me. Let me walk with you. Come into the orchard, and +talk to me as you talked to her, and let me rest my hand upon your +arm.” + +Conway stepped from her to an open spot, and faced the wind. + +“I believe there is no sincerity in you,” he said. “I have had dreams +of a woman like you, one who would lead men on by smiles, and later +spurn them. You are tall and you are beautiful, but I do not trust +you. I am told you are incapable of love, and this one thing I +feel--it is dangerous for you to be here. Give me that sword.” + +She put out her arm and gave it him. + +“Come with me.” + +“Give me something to carry away with me,” she prayed. + +He plucked a white rose and handed it to her. She touched it, and +screamed. That environment, which had caused her to forget the world +and to act a strange part, had not removed her natural antipathies. +The bloom was dashed to pieces between them. She allowed herself to be +hurried on, through the deepening shadows and that cold scrutinising +wind, in silence and hopelessness, towards the ivy-covered wall and +the gate which stood ajar as she had left it. Conway fell back from +her, as she fled through and escaped. + +At the sight of the grass road, and blue hills beyond, the girl’s +normal conditions were established. But as she passed out there was a +feeling in her body, as though some vital essence, which had abandoned +her temporarily, was then restored, and with it came a dull pain +throbbing above her eyes. + +Conway stumbled stupidly back to the side of the stream, where he +found Nance singing to the water and making boats of buttercups. He +gave her the old sword without a word of explanation, and she as +silently received and flung it into the water, where the long tresses +of weeds closed over and hid it from their sight. + +Then she sang him an old sad song. + +Mr. Price had just returned from the farm, and was standing on his +lawn drawing long white hairs meditatively off the arm of his +overcoat. Seeing his niece he hurried to her, smiling in his genial +fashion, because he had been afraid she might have taken his late +lecture too much to heart, and it was not in his nature to play the +part of stern guardian for long. + +“Been taking the air?” he cried. “Your mother was wondering where you +had gone to. Why, child, your face is as white as chalk.” + +“I have a horrible headache,” said Flora sulkily. “I am going to lie +down. I actually went into the Strath and met Mr. Conway, and I +believe I had a row with him about something or other, but I really +cannot remember, because my head is so bad. It was an extraordinary +thing my going there at all.” + + + + + Scene VII.--IDYLL + + Now fast beside the pathway stood + A ruin’d village, shagg’d with wood, + A melancholy place.--_William Stewart Rose_. + +Maude Juxon had failed to materialize at the time of Flora’s visit, +because she was on the other side of the great chalky billows, +enjoying life after her usual manner, that is to say by wasting it in +vain pursuits. Had Flora dropped into the Thorlund valley earlier, she +would certainly have seen the notorious little tandem of asses in +front of the rectory. So glorious was the evening that Maude +determined to give herself the gratification of calling upon Dr. +Berry, to offer him a drive through the serene and poetic atmosphere. + +The spoilt beauty had soon forgiven the scholar for that indiscreet +praise of herself before her husband. Indeed she liked him the better +for his panegyric, which at least convinced her of the thorough +genuineness of his nature. She knew that he liked her; it flattered +her that he should think her clever. She had been indeed so impressed +by this fact that she spent two terrible days struggling to compose an +equal number of original lines of poetry; and when the effort brought +forth, after much ruffling of silken hair and puckering of pretty +brows, nothing but a silly series of ragged syllables, she shamelessly +copied Sir Nicholas Breton’s “Farewell to the World” from an old book +of English poetry which she discovered in the house, and this inky +forgery was crumpled in her pocket when she jumped into the cart. + +The rector was in the church, said the housekeeper, and thither Maude +repaired, to discover him unpoetically engaged in discussing the +condition of the roof with a pair of ruddy sheep-farmers. Some mossy +tiles had been worked awry by wind and weather, and in time of rain a +puddle would occur symbolically in the vicinity of the font. As +Maude’s bright colours illuminated the porch, the first bucolic was +expressing his conviction that a certain handy labourer in his employ +would experience no difficulty in resettling the recalcitrant tiles: +the second bucolic indifferently suggested that the repairer should be +summoned forthwith; the rector dreamily concurred, and the meeting was +adjourned. + +“Now you are coming for a drive,” said Maude, when the farmers had +clamped away, side by side like twin brethren. “I am sure you deserve +it, after being shut up with those things. What funny voices they +have, and the red on their cheeks is just like blobs of paint! Why is +it that big men squeak, and little men bellow? How can you talk to +them? I shouldn’t know what to say after I had exhausted the weather.” + +“With these men, fortunately, that subject cannot be exhausted,” said +the poet. “It is very kind of you to invite me to drive with you on +this magnificent evening, but I always find you kind and good,” he +went on, gazing into the marvellous flora of her hat with his calm +thought-filled eyes. “I have not seen you for three days, and in that +time have made, I am ashamed to say, no appreciable progress with my +work. I dream too much. Even when I sit beside my table I am unable to +control my thoughts. I am carried away beyond the border, and there +wander at will tween truths and half-truths. And there I am lost, and +when I awake it is late, and nothing has been recorded.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Maude. “I hope you don’t talk like that to the +sheep-men and the cow-men?” + +“I speak upon such matters to you only,” he replied tenderly. “Because +I know you understand.” + +He dropped the church key among the weeds on the gravel walk, and did +not appear to notice his loss until Maude stooped and picked it up for +him. + +“Look at my cart!” she exclaimed, with childish pleasure. “Doesn’t it +shine? I have just had it varnished, and those pink lines painted +round it. May I have some of your poppies?” + +“Let me gather them for you,” said the scholar, as she hovered about +the border. “You will soil your gloves.” + +Immediately he began to decollate all manner of poppies, scarlet, +white, and variegated, great sleep-scented globes of blossom, ragged, +and fluffy, and seed-capped, until Maude arrested his hand with a +scream of laughter. + +“No, no! What could I do with those things--as big as cabbages? It is +the pink Shirley ones I want.” + +Laughing and chattering, she selected half-a-dozen of the prettiest, +and fastened them into her dress; while the abashed scholar strewed +the flowers of his own selection about the turf. + +“Don’t waste them,” cried Maude. “Go and stick them about the heads of +my donkeys.” + +The poet did so, but as he bent his silvered head over the long ears +of the little steeds, a voice out of the breeze from the garden of the +Strath sardonically whispered, “Oh, scholar, scholar! How has your +wisdom served you? Has it fitted you for nothing better than to deck a +donkey’s head with poppies? Reason and infatuation, to say truth, keep +little company together.” + +“You too must wear a flower,” said Maude, approaching him. “Here is a +pink rose for you.” She lifted her dainty self on tip-toe, and +fastened the bloom into his coat with perfumed white-gloved fingers, +rattling on, “We must preserve the scheme of colour. I like every +thing on me and near me pink. When I die I should like to be carried +away on one of those delicious pink clouds we see at sunset.” + +“A beautiful thought,” he said reverently, touching her hand lightly +as it brushed a petal from his coat. “And beautifully expressed by a +true poetic mind.” + +“I am clever?” cried Maude eagerly. “I really am a little clever?” + +He smiled upon her, as he replied devoutly, “Cleverness is a small +thing. It is an attribute we allow even to the lower animals. You are +inspired.” + +Then he submitted to be packed into the little cart and driven from +the valley. + +At the sign-post Maude whipped her leader round to the right, and they +descended the slope which ended among the ruins of Queensmore. The +little lady had been silent for some minutes. That copied poem made +itself uncomfortable in her pocket. She knew that her companion was +widely read. He might recognise it, and she would be shamefully +unmasked. She did not so much mind his discovering her shallowness, +because it was somewhat of a strain to maintain the part; but what she +did fear was lest a forced acknowledgement of her sheer ignorance +might also deprive her of beauty in his eyes. She did not want to lose +her present hold upon him. She liked him, she told herself, immensely, +because he was handsome and dignified, so immeasurably, if +unconsciously, superior to all the men she had known. She had seen her +husband standing by his side. She could never have believed it +possible for two men to be so widely different; the one had seemingly +all the gifts Nature had to bestow; the other had--mere money. + +She refused to consider Herbert Juxon’s healthy mind and honest heart, +and resolutely turned her eyes from his excessive forbearance. She had +received a letter from him that morning. Somehow his kindly utterances +always irritated her. He was coming to her on Saturday; he wished he +could take her upon the Continent for a time, but business was holding +him closely to the city; he intended to look out for a house in the +country, which he hoped might suit her health; it was his ambition to +make her happy. But his kindly words and thoughts were merely +hailstones upon this butterfly. + +The wheels jolted round a bend in the grass-grown road, and the +entrance to what had been the village appeared before them. On a dark +winter’s day the scene would have inspired with melancholy; then, +mellowed with sunshine and enriched by flowering grasses, lush reeds +and lichens, it made a gratifying picture for the artist. Ruin and +decay were all around; here, brambles choked the bleak foundation of +a former ale-house, the bricks and woodwork of which had been carted +away; there, a roofless cottage gaped with doorless mouth and stared +with empty window sockets. + +The church had been a low thatched building with a shingled spire. The +remains were tottering upon a slight eminence beside a gigantic yew. +The thatch sagged heavily, loaded with moist mosses of an emerald +green, and the rotten rafters snagged inward like broken ribs. The +interior was stripped bare. Its bell miles away was used for calling +children to school; its encaustic tiles and fittings had been +distributed abroad; its font and brasses had passed into the hands of +collectors of antiques; even the burying place had been rifled, and +the old grave stones taken to fill gaps in walls or to floor +pig-sties. + +A portion of the parsonage stood gaunt and spectral, its windows +gloomy gaps fringed with ivy, its garden a pasture ground for straying +cattle and adventurous sheep. The roof was golden with lichen, and the +gutter-line broken picturesquely into a dog-tooth pattern by tiles, +jutting off, awaiting removal by October winds. Swallows were darting +in and out of the space once occupied by the door, where old parson +Hooper had often entered in ragged red-lined coat and stiff gloves +eager to count his gold. The village green beyond, where a rust-red +pump leaned far out of the perpendicular, was a mere field, lined +geometrically by four cart-tracks. White butterflies were swarming, +and fruit-trees grew unpruned, and all the old gardens writhed with +caterpillars; the grass and reeds fluttered lazily; a gentle sound +issued through the vacant windows that were left. + +Maude tried to be solemn as they drove through this desolation. She +quickly found herself incapable of sustaining the effort, and dropping +the reins demanded from her companion accurate information as to +whether _asinus vulgaris_ really delighted in consuming herbaceous +plants of a spiny character. + +“By refusing to do so the animal would destroy a long cherished +belief,” the scholar replied. + +“Then their little hearts shall rejoice,” said Maude. “There are +enough thistles here to feed a hundred donkeys for a year. I will tie +one of the reins round this pump, and the beasts may eat prickles +while we explore.” + +When the tethering process had been accomplished they roamed through +the village of the past, and presently entered the churchyard. A low +tomb beneath a cypress offered a shady resting-place which met with +Maude’s approval, and thither she led the scholar, who was prepared to +indulge her smallest whim. Seating themselves upon the sunken masonry, +they watched the drops of sunlight filtering through the leaves, and +making satin-like patches upon the mouldering and mossy stones which +sealed down the bodies of those who long ago had taken the mystic +road, which, in the words of a wise Greek, is not of difficult +passage, nor uneven, nor full of windings, but all very straight and +downhill, and can be gone along with shut eyes. + +“It is heavenly,” said Maude with a sigh, firmly believing she was +perfectly happy, and fortunately ignorant of the saying of another +Greek, that a woman knows only two happy days, that of her marriage, +and that of her funeral. + +Dr. Berry was leaning forward, his beautifully shaped hands clasped +between his knees, his eyes fixed upon an inscription still faintly +legible beside a laurel, “Here innocence and beauty lie.” A beautiful +woman was close beside him and in her soul, he believed, innocence was +personified. The gently rounded summit of Deadman’s Hill rose in the +distance. Clearly outlined against the rosy sky stood the tall rugged +post which marked the spot of the gallows where former villains had +been compelled to submit to fate. The gallows had long ago been swept +away. The post, which stood as its representative, cast a long narrow +shadow across the ruins. + +“Say something,” urged the pink idol. + +“I shall remember this,” he answered dreamily. + +Maude flushed a little. She did not like to be reminded of the future, +when her dainty bloom must ripen off and the wrinkle assert its +tyranny. “Ruins always make people sad,” she said a little crossly. +“The only ruins which could deject me would be those of my +prettiness,” she went on in a lower voice. + +“Dear lady,” murmured the poet, taking her hand impulsively. “Beauty +will never leave you. It is the soul gazing from your eyes that gives +you loveliness, and the soul does not age. Fifty years hence there may +be snow upon your head and lines along your brow, but the beauty that +is within can defy the years.” + +Maude conceived that moment profitable for the production of her +borrowed master-piece. Releasing her hand, she burrowed into her +pocket and brought forth an inky ball of manuscript, which she +unrolled with blushes and smoothed modestly upon her knee, saying in a +small faltering voice: + +“You’ve never asked if I have written anything, but I--I’ve listened +to you so often I want you to--to hear what I have done. Will you let +me read you a little poem of my own?” + +Her heart began to thump. + +“My sister! My dear sister!” the scholar cried. “This is indeed a +privilege. How selfish I have been! Completely engrossed in my own +work, I had forgotten yours. Let me put myself in the disciple’s place +and learn.” + +He stretched himself upon the grass by her feet, and in that posture +of humility put back his uncovered head, that he might behold her +pretty features, and the brilliant curls fluttering beneath the brim +of her hat. + +“I am ready,” he murmured. + +“It is sad,” said Maude warningly. + +“We poets love the sorrowful theme. The sweetest music is also the +saddest. But read! I am impatient to hear.” + +“It is called Farewell to the World,” she murmured, with shy +deprecation, and then hurriedly, “I believe you don’t want to hear it. +I’m sure you’ll think it stupid.” + +“I shall feel only admiration, with perhaps some little envy,” he +answered. “But why are you so diffident? Am not I a poor weaver of +fancies, like yourself?” + +His encouragement was so kindly and sincere that Maude gained courage. +With increasing colour she began to read: + +“Go! Bid the world, with all its trash, farewell.” + +“Slower,” he entreated with upraised hand. “The music is lost when the +time gallops.” + +Maude’s fear began to be dissipated when the title and opening line +passed unchallenged. She continued with more confidence, until her +dainty voice sounded disdainfully the last of the stanza, “Leave it, I +say, and bid the world farewell.” + +A few moments of silence intervened before the poet spoke: + +“For freshness of conception, strength of imagery, and purity of line, +that verse is only to be surpassed by the best work of the Elizabethan +poets. It recalls indeed to my mind Sir Nicholas Breton’s--” + +“Oh!” Maude interrupted, dreadfully pale. “You don’t think I--” And +there she stopped in dire confusion. + +“Indeed the similarity is but upon the surface,” he continued. “We all +have our models. The Elizabethan, to whom I have just referred, had +neither your originality nor your strength of metaphor. To draw from +the model is one thing; to improve upon it is another. Talent may +copy, but genius will improve.” + +Maude breathed again and, after resolutely repelling the idea that she +was acting with shameless wickedness, read the second stanza with +boldness, the third and last with impudence, and sat, joyous in her +sins, awaiting the verdict. + +“That verse again,” he prayed. + +When she had complied with this request, he repeated the first line in +a resonant voice, with his eyes fixed upon the ruined church: + +“Then let us lie as dead, till there we live.” + +Silence fell again, intensified by the ticking of the insects in the +grass and the wings of the swallows cutting through the air. Dr. Berry +turned abruptly and seizing Maude’s right hand pressed it passionately +to his lips. He was paying his tribute then, not to face and figure, +nor to dainty garments, but to a beautiful soul which was not there at +all. + +“I am a mere clerk,” he said in a thrilling voice. “A poor transcriber +of the ideas of others, while you soar through the clouds, and drink +out of the golden cup of the gods. How hollow must my poor lines have +sounded upon your ears! Yet you listened patiently, and approved, +condescending to stoop and lift me upon your pinions and point out to +me the path to the stars. My feeble song is but a piping of pan-pipes. +Yours is a trumpet blast, stirring the depths.” + +“I’m so glad you like it,” said Maude, blushing deeply, and delighted +by his praise. + +“What is your inspiration?” he continued, gazing up into her flushed +face. “Tell me what stirs your soul. It is not true, as men have said, +and will still affirm, that wisdom lies latent in the mind. We are the +inspired media of an influence, that influence emanating from the +minds which have preceded us. One great poet of the past heard a +gentle fluttering of wings above his head. Another thought he could +see a butterfly quivering about his pen. I, if I may mention my +unworthy self, have a strange nervousness, the sense of a presence, a +quickened heart, and a pricking sensation round my forehead. When the +inspiration passes I am depressed and weak.” + +“I don’t know,” quavered Maude. “Oh yes! I like to smell roses.” + +“It is fitting,” he said reverently. “Daintiness and sweetness make +appropriate food for the divine soul. I see now that I have been +misled. I have always refused to admit that the poetess, if born into +this present age, would be able to break the bonds of social and +domestic life, and fly upward with her song. Tell me,” he added in a +low and pleading tone. “Confide in me, dear sister. Only the heart +which has been wrung, and the mind which has cried, ‘The hand of God +has touched me,’ could have controlled the brain to fashion such +sorrowful truths as those you have recited. You have already passed +through tribulation?” + +A robin darted into the cypress, and his beautiful little body +throbbed with song. + +“Indeed I have,” said Maude pathetically. “I have had dreadful +troubles, but I have never told anyone.” + +Honestly she believed what she said. She did not know that her silly +life had been a mere ramble through a pleasance. Never having seen +suffering, she did not know what it was. But she had a husband whom +she did not care for, ambitions which had not been realised, clothes +which had not come up to her expectations, and friends whom she knew +had scoffed at her idle ways. So she had passed indeed through the +valley of tribulation. + +“We do not talk of these things,” the scholar gently answered. “Like +the young Laconian, we hold the fox to our bosom, and though it may +gnaw, and we may wince and faint, we still declare the creature is not +there. We clutch the rose tightly, and aver there are no thorns. But +those who love us know, and we are glad that they should know, because +we need sympathy even as the flowers need dew. I have not known +suffering, and while thankful for the privilege, I confess my work +lacks that refining touch which suffering alone can give. Dear sister, +put your hands for one moment upon mine.” + +The little lady quivering slightly, permitted him to take her hands. +Her eyes were hidden by her hat, and waves of pink chased one another +across her face and throat. + +“Our souls are here united,” he cried triumphantly. “Beautiful and +inspired poetess! Did you not feel that restful sense of approaching +union when first we met? We have grown together, during these blissful +days, like two blooms upon one stem. Our ideals are the same. Together +we may succeed in realising them. I have perhaps--pardon the +presumption--more learning, but you have far clearer sight, a more +perfect mind, and a soul quickened into fire by the suffering you have +undergone. We will bring these forces together. How perfectly destiny +works! She brought you to me at the time when I needed you most. And I +have served you a little. You were neglecting your gifts. The fires +were smouldering ineffectually. I flatter myself that, if we had +failed to meet, that magnificent lyric I have just heard would never +have been penned by this white hand.” + +“It wouldn’t,” Maude quavered. + +“Then I have served you, but the debt upon my side remains still +large. What a mysterious thing is this union! You have often seen a +climbing plant reaching out for support, and when it finds a stem to +which it may cling it grows into full perfection; but if it cannot +establish the union it must wither. The same with our souls. But +destiny is so kind she would not see us wither. You and I have been +languishing, but now we shall grow--together and undivided.” + +He pressed her hands together, and bent his head over them. + + + + + INCIDENTAL + + All things are changing; and thou thyself art perpetually altering + and, so to speak, wasting away always.--_Marcus Antoninus_. + +The time of ripened fruit had come, and the grass was yellow and sere. +Change was upon the face of the country, the prospect was mantled in +mists, and the shortened evenings were dark with rain-clouds. The note +of Nature’s song had altered. Autumn had taken the lyre out of +summer’s reluctant hand, and as she struck her fiercer notes the +foliage turned from green to gold, and the migratory birds went away. + +The spirit of change had settled upon the Bethel of Thorlund. The +interior was in better order than formerly. The spider had been +routed, and the mouse discomfited; the strong coarse flowers of autumn +glimmered dimly at the east, where the old hangings had been replaced +by new; the brass-work shone, and the damp altar itself awoke one day +from a long lethargy to find itself resplendent in a new green mantle. +The sleep which hung so long upon the rector’s eyes had been in some +part dissipated. Foolish Maude was the murderess of that slumber. +Through her trivial and wholly terrestrial mind Dr. Berry perceived +that one side of his environment lacked the beauty which was requisite +for his bodily peace. Hitherto his mind had been so fully occupied in +its strange flights that his charge the church had been but lightly +included. But, subsequent to that memorable evening in the churchyard +of ruined Queensmore, his lower self noted, with a distinct +uneasiness, a certain lack of harmony between dreamland and the +earthly vision. His manner of life had made stains which he would +willingly have seen eliminated. The neglected church was one of these +blots. He opened his eyes, and removed this reproach, in order that +his poetic soul might no longer receive offence. This partial +awakening was not spiritual, because at the same time he attended more +carefully to his own appearance. His hair was more thoughtfully +arranged, and his shoes were more elegant. Selfishness was the root, +pride the stem, and vanity the bloom of this sudden growth, which had +been raised into being and propagated as a pastime by Maude. + +Change had come also over the spirit of the influence. It was +stronger, more assertive, and more binding. It was at the same time +more sinister. Conway and Drayton had become drifting particles +controlled by the house, the instruments of its will, like electrons +imprisoned within the atom. They roamed the garden in a perpetual +state of dreams, responding to every breath from the hidden chamber, +where the heart of the Strath was beating. Had Drayton been able to +remind his companion of those past days of profligacy, Conway might +have shaken his head with a perplexed smile. Had the older man been +told of his former struggles to keep oil in the lamp of life, he would +probably have replied, “I am thankful such misfortunes have never +occurred to me.” + +As for Lone Nance she was noisy no longer. The Strath supplied what +had been wanting in her. Had she wandered again into the country, she +would doubtless have been seized by the former wildness, and claimed +by the old evils; the borrowed reason would have left her; she would +have sunk again to the level of the animals. Conway would often sit +and gaze upon her face. Though she was brown and tanned, she brought +back for him fair-haired Winifred, walking sadly through the orchard +in glimmering white, her small pale face set towards the road, +watching the night for the lover who did not come. + +Flora too had changed since that evening when her soul had been +stripped bare. She had the feeling that youth was departing from her, +and that her woman’s pride of beauty was beginning to wane. Mr. Price +regarded her with apprehension, believing her to be ill. But she was +not ill. She was only undergoing her punishment for having defied the +first principles of the drama. She had come to regard her former +opinions with a sort of loathing akin to fear. She confessed that she +was an unnatural woman, after all her boastings of having made a step +in advance of the remainder of her sex. What had actually occurred +during her visit to the house of the drama she did not know; but she +carried away a dream that evening which became a cloud darkening her +life. + +Upon a cheerless afternoon when a mass of grey vapour spread across +the sky dropping warm rain at intervals, Conway brought his +fellow-dreamer to Kingsmore vicarage. + +Flora flushed when the leading character of the Strath entered. She +had never been backward in speaking to any man, but then she was +afraid. She knew that she desired to attract Conway, that she would +still draw back if she could make him approach, but the knowledge came +to her that power was wanting. She had lost the old art. At a glance +she understood that he had no real affection for her. Could she have +come to the Strath with a pure mind, as a humble heroine seeking +development, as one anxious to discharge the high, if seemingly +commonplace, functions of a woman, even as Nancy Reed had unwittingly +approached the house, it might have been otherwise. + +Mr. Price sought possession of Drayton, and Flora stood in the garden +with the man whom she desired to shrink from, but could not. The rain +had ceased, but the grass was mantled with film, and all the trees +dripped moisture. The girl was cold; she was wearing white, which did +not suit her. She might have recalled to him Winifred, as she had done +once before, because she too was fair-haired, but she did not. Conway +appeared to have forgotten that she was near. Once Flora would have +been enraged at being thus slighted, but now she was pitying herself. +A cluster rose, still showing a few blooms, wreathed an old-fashioned +archway, and Flora in passing brushed against one of the flowers, and +shivered when it became immediately resolved into a number of wet +petals about their feet. + +“I have changed a little lately,” she said with a new timidity. “I can +touch a rose now.” + +Conway stopped when she spoke, and looked fixedly into the mist. + +“Could you never hold a rose?” he said. “That is unnatural.” + +It was the cruellest word he could have uttered. She shrank from him +again, but gathered courage to say, as they moved on, “It is not easy +to conquer any antipathy. Last summer I would faint, if I came into a +room where roses were. Next year, perhaps, I shall be able to wear +them.” + +Nancy wore roses in her hair. Indeed she was always fragrant with +flowers. Conway had been sorry to see the grass flaked all over with +shell-like petals; but Nance assured him that at the Strath roses +bloomed all the year round. When Flora confessed that the fragrance of +the queen of blossoms had caused her to faint the gulf between them +became wider. + +“There is a rose-bush at Queensmore, close beside the ruins of the +church,” he went on, in the abstracted manner which had been his of +late. “I walked there early in the summer, when the flowers were at +their best. It was close upon evening, and as I looked through the +trees I thought I saw a woman, clothed in white, leaning over a tomb. +When I came nearer I saw it was this bush covered with blooms. I went +back and tried to make out the white woman again, but could not.” + +“I drove through Queensmore once by moonlight,” said Flora. + +“The ruins show us what a small thing life is,” Conway answered +sagely. “They teach us that no trouble is worth taking very much to +heart, because suffering, like our time here, does not last for long. +You know my house?” he added sharply. + +“I have been inside it once,” the girl faltered. + +“Why is not that a ruin? Queensmore flourished for years after my +house was abandoned, but the village has fallen, and the Strath +stands. It has defied wind and weather. Its foundations are secure, +and its walls sound, although creepers were rotting the bricks before +any man now living was born. Do you know the secret of its strength?” + +“They built for eternity in those days,” said Flora more lightly. + +“It is because the house has a soul,” went on Conway, as though she +had not answered. “Because it lives and breathes, and has its moods +like us. If it were to die it would crumble in a day. You would +understand if you lived there. The Strath resembles you and me, in +that it contains a spirit, which, while it remains, preserves the +fabric from corruption.” + +Flora was about to reply, as pleasantly as she dared, when to her +great relief little bells sounded through the damp air, and Maude +Juxon came to join the party, as pink and fresh as ever, although her +curls were limp, and her hat saddened by raindrops. She tripped to her +friend and embraced her daintily with sympathetic comments upon her +appearance. + +“You are white, and thin, and ghostly,” she declared. “My dear, you +should do as I tell you and take a glass of warm milk, with an egg +beaten up in it, every morning directly you wake up. I have been +quarrelling with myself all day,” she ran on, “because I was dull; and +now I’m damp and cold. Mr. Conway, say something to make me laugh.” + +“I am no comedian,” said the owner of the house, which was just then +very far removed from the fantastic mood. “I live, you must remember, +in a valley, and it is the inhabitants of the mountains who laugh and +sing.” + +“But now you are out of your valley you might laugh and sing,” +suggested the beauty. “Well, I shall go into the house and search +diligently for a fire. It is shivery out here. Come along, Flora. How +is your mother’s cold? It is so stupid to catch colds. I never do, but +then I take care of myself. A cold is so unbecoming, but of course +when one is old that doesn’t matter.” + +Frivolous Maude rendered her society one service. It was not easy to +be depressed in her presence, and her pretty face, always laughing at +nothing, quickly changed the atmosphere of any room which had been +dark and dull before her arrival. When all that could be said against +her had been urged, the fact remained that she was always full of life +and sound, like a shallow stream bubbling with bright waters +unceasingly. + +Her husband came frequently on the Saturday evening, leaving early on +the Monday. He too had changed; he had stopped “worrying,” to use +Maude’s expression, and talked no longer of a house in the country. +The careless wife would possibly have laughed as usual, had anyone +suggested to her that she was spending more money than her husband +could afford. When he gave up persuading her to return, she believed +he had accepted his defeat. As a matter of truth Juxon was hard hit; +he was in a tight corner; he had ceased begging his wife to come back +because there was no longer a home to offer her. His lease had run +out, and he could not afford to renew it; and while Maude fared +luxuriously in her farm-house, the husband lived and slept in his +office, where there would be a light showing until the small hours of +morning. + +He had been hard pressed before to meet his obligations on settling +day, but had escaped, and made the running as strongly as ever, and he +trusted that energy and ingenuity would pull him through again. He was +made of tough material, this stout little stockbroker. His only fear +was lest Maude might stumble across the truth. When he found it +impossible to allow her all the money she asked for, he stinted +himself and did his best; while she sulked and called him stingy, and +told him to his face that he did not deserve her. He only smiled in +his quiet way, instead of shaking her as she deserved; and refreshed +by the hill breezes, went back to work, pouring all his energies into +a final struggle which should decide whether he was fitted to survive, +or fated to go to the wall. His work would have been less arduous, had +he married a wife who would have shared his burden, and assisted him +with sympathy. + +That very day Maude had received a message which, stated concisely, +ran thus: “Could you obtain a more inexpensive cottage? I have +suffered an unexpected reverse. Nothing to worry about, but clients +have been more dilatory than usual in paying purchase price of their +investments and differences owing on speculations. And when they are +behindhand I must find the money.” The little lady had driven into +Kingsmore to send a telegram in reply. A telegram was so much less +troublesome than a letter. On this occasion she was not extravagant, +as all she had to say in response to her husband’s note was the single +word, “Nonsense.” It was very inconsiderate of Herbert, she thought. +She had told him so often that she did not want to be troubled with +business matters. As for that reverse, if it was of no importance, as +he implied, why on earth did he want to mention it to her? She was +most distinctly an injured person and a long-suffering wife. + +The influence of the Strath extended even to Kingsmore vicarage. +Conway and Drayton had brought it with them, and the heartless little +lady was no doubt its object. So far Maude had escaped. She had come, +as she thought, to visit her friend that day by mere chance, not +knowing that she had been led to that place by the destiny which was +then weaving her idle phrases into a net through the meshes of which +she would not escape until she had learnt to know herself. + +It was natural, she thought, that she should speak to Conway +concerning the house of which she had heard so much. She longed to +behold for herself its china and pictures. The garden, she owned, did +not interest her in the least, because she liked order as represented +by carpet-bedding and level lawns. Then she knew that Drayton was a +writer. Dr. Berry had spoken kindly of him. + +“I can criticise,” Maude declared, with wicked confidence. “I must see +your work and give you my opinion, Mr. Drayton.” + +The scribe muttered something which sounded complimentary, but he did +not display any of Dr. Berry’s enthusiasm. He was not in the least a +clever man, but his eyes were open, and he was well aware that Maude +was sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. + +“Is it true you have a stone floor in the hall?” went on the lady +frivolous, turning to Conway. + +“And the floor of what you call the saloon is of real solid oak?” she +went on, when he had replied. + +“It is not solid now,” he said. + +“Marvellously preserved,” interpolated Mr. Price, swamping his saucer +by adding to the contents of his tea-cup his customary three lumps of +sugar. + +“And there are mirrors round the walls, and candlesticks--what do you +call those things with a lot of branches?--and old pictures, and +windows with those quaint diamond panes of yellow glass,” Maude cried. +“Oh, Mr. Conway, you shall give a dance. Just a little dance for us.” + +“Don’t, Maude,” said Flora. + +“Be quiet, Flora. Mr. Conway, it would be perfect, and we will wear +fancy costumes and masks, and believe we are those wicked people of +the eighteenth century one reads about--yes, a masked ball, and I will +help you with the supper.” + +“My dear lady, the place would frighten you to death,” said Mr. Price. + +“Of course I know the house is haunted,” said Maude flippantly. “But +these gentlemen have not been frightened to death, and I don’t mind +groans and rattling of chains and all that sort of thing, so long as I +don’t see real ghosts in white sheets. Besides we shall be making such +a noise the ghosts won’t be given a chance. I shan’t be frightened. +Why, with people all round me I believe I might endure one glimpse at +the wicked baronet himself.” + +“The Strath is not haunted,” said Drayton stolidly. + +“Then we must have that dance,” cried Maude. “Yes, Mr. Conway, you +have promised. No outsiders. Just us, and Dr. Berry, of course.” + +“Certainly we might have a dance,” agreed Conway with some spirit. + +“At the end of the month,” cried Maude. “You need not worry, Mr. +Conway. Flora and I will attend to all the preliminaries, and I know +we shall have a lovely time.” + +“I do not see the use of wearing masks,” objected the squarson. “As +there are to be so few of us it will be impossible to conceal our +identity.” + +“Masks will be appropriate,” said Drayton almost sharply; and his +voice settled the matter. + +When the two men who were bound for Thorlund left the vicarage rain +was again falling. On this return journey they talked incessantly; but +it was not until they reached the summit of the hill, and saw the +ivied roof of the Strath among the wet trees, that the thought of the +proposed masquerade recurred to their minds. It was Conway who touched +upon the subject by remarking: + +“Do you imagine that a dance would give offence?” + +Drayton understood and answered, as he inclined his head towards the +dreamy hollow, “Not if the suggestion came from there.” + + + + + ACT IV. + + Scene I.--PUPPENSPIELE + + To have a wife, and to be father of children, bring many troubles into + life.--_Menander_. + +While rain was falling upon just and unjust, Herbert Juxon sat in his +gas-lit office up a gloomy court, struggling to conquer the London +which roared around him. A clock indicated half-past-three. The +stockbroker was working excitedly, because he believed that the +combination which might restore him much that he had lost was nearly +made. + +Without lifting his eyes from the file of letters and the pencilled +notes before him, he held out his hand to take a message from his +clerk; and at that moment the door opened noisily, and a man hurried +in, hatless and unannounced. He was a lawyer, well-known in the city, +and one of Juxon’s friends. The son of parchment bent over the desk, +and making himself on this occasion a man of few words, whispered into +the stockbroker’s ear. Juxon’s face went white for a moment, then he +recovered, and jerked out a nervous laugh. + +“It is impossible,” he muttered. “The business is a small one, but it +has been established for so long. I have heard rumours. They did not +come from a reliable source, and I could not trust them. I had no time +to think of them. But my little nest-egg is there.” + +“Get it out. You have just time--if it is not already too late,” +whispered the counsellor; and then he left, as hurriedly as he had +entered. + +Juxon pounced upon his cheque-book, filled a form, then, glancing up +at the clock, caught at his hat and raced from his office and the +court. He dodged breathlessly along the crowded streets, until he came +to a dark lane, which he entered at the double, and turned in at the +door of a private bank where his money was deposited. He had always +banked there, having no suspicion regarding its stability, and the +manager was a personal friend of long standing, who, he firmly +believed, would have given him a word of warning had any crisis been +impending. He noticed, as he passed the threshold, a group of men +discussing in low tones. + +The cashier himself received Juxon’s cheque, but he did not say a +word; nor did he once raise his eyes, after a nervous word of greeting +and one hasty glance upon the stockbroker’s heated face. His own face +twitched, in spite of himself, when he glanced at the figures on the +slip of paper. He flung open a drawer and produced a handful of gold, +which he swept towards the client, so fiercely that some of the coins +rolled away along the floor; and then he rushed round to the door, +locked and bolted it. There was a crash of broken glass, followed by +an outcry and an uproar at the head of the lane. It was twelve minutes +to four; and the little bank had failed. + +Juxon received the blow with the patience which was part of his +nature. He said nothing, but slipped clear of the crowd assembling +rapidly before the bankrupt premises, and escaped into the comparative +silence of his office. He believed in being quiet under affliction. He +was not religious in the accepted sense of the word; but he was strong +and upright, for his mind was unobscured by any perplexing creed; just +as the faith of the savage, who kneels beneath the sun, amid the +wonders of nature, may be at least as pure as that of the priest, +standing before an altar, bound and tied by superstitions of man’s +creation. Had Juxon been a scholar, he would probably have uttered the +consoling words of Philemon the dramatist, “If thou couldst only know +the evils which others suffer, thou wouldst gladly submit to thine +own.” + +Four hours later Juxon was hurrying from a suburban station, between +parallel rows of lamp-posts, along numerous streets, past endless red +villas exasperatingly alike. In a street, which differed from others +only in name, he drew up before a house which was made dissimilar to +its neighbours by the possession of a distinctive number. He knocked, +waited impatiently, and knocked again; and then an elderly woman, +attired in the uniform of a nurse, admitted him to the little house, +and ushered him into a tiny room, where pretty four-year-old child was +sitting up in her cot playing with a doll’s house. + +“Daddy!” cried the child in an ecstasy, holding out two pink arms. + +“Here he is again,” laughed the stockbroker. “Like a bad old battered +shilling.” + +The tiny lady, who was already wonderfully like Maude in appearance, +received his caresses, returned them with interest, and straightway +demanded with odd severity: + +“Where’s Mummy?” + +“Far away in the country, little Peggy,” said the father. “Only Daddy +left. Are you glad to see him, sweetheart?” + +“Vewy,” lisped the dainty miss. “Here’s a wose-bud for you.” She +collected a white rose, somewhat the worse for ill-treatment, from the +quilt, and lifted it laughing to his lips. “Put it in you coat. Here’s +one for Mummy, a pwettier one, but Mummy won’t have it. You shall have +it instead, Daddy. My Mummy is pwettier than my Daddy,” she announced +generally to a family of small dolls. “But I love my Daddy most, +’cause he comes to see me, and my Mummy don’t. Oh, Daddy!” + +Thereupon a pair of cherubic lips parted, and a chocolate disappeared +between two rows of pretty teeth. “But you must have one too--the +greatest one,” came from the little mouth in action. + +“I was afraid you would be asleep, my Daisy,” said the father. “How +you are growing, miss! You are getting quite a giantess. Do you know +what a giantess is, darling?” + +The fair curls were shaken violently. + +“Well, a giantess is a great tall lady, who has to stoop whenever she +comes into a house, lest she should knock the roof off. If you go on +growing so fast, you will be like that some day, Miss Peggy, and you +will look down, and pat me on the head, and say, ‘Poor old Daddy, what +a long way down you are.’ Now, Daisy, shut your eyes, and open your +mouth just as wide as ever you can.” + +“Don’t tell Nursie,” adjured the smallest of the transgressors. + +“Of course not. It would never do to be caught by Nurse, or she might +slap us both. What were you doing before I came, sweetheart?” + +“Talking to my dollies,” said Peggy, munching busily and pointing to +the doll’s house. + +“You was answering me lots, but Mummy wouldn’t speak. Naughty Mummy!” +She picked up a little pink doll, with flaxen hair and scarlet cheeks, +and scolded it scrupulously. “And Mummy don’t stand up nice a bit.” + +“Why can’t she stand up, Peggy?” asked the father. + +“I stooded her up, and down she went--so! It is silly of her, isn’t +it? P’raps she ain’t vewy stwong, poor Mummy! I’ll put her on the +sofa. She looks pwetty on the sofa, doing nothing, cept laugh. This is +you, Daddy. You’re so drefful busy you ain’t got time to talk much, +and when you laugh it’s quick--so! And then you go on working.” + +“That is quite true, Peggy. You see I have you and Mummy to work for, +so I mustn’t be idle. And now I must run off again, and work, and +work.” + +There were protestations and tearful blue eyes, but the former were +checked by the promise of a visit the very next evening, and the +latter were kissed bright again. But before the stockbroker left his +little daughter, he bent over her, and said in a whisper, “When I am +gone, Daisy, say over and over again, until you go to sleep, ‘God help +Mummy.’” + +“God help dear Daddy and Mummy,” a small voice amended. + +The honest man caught his treasure in his arms and kissed her many +times. + +“Good-night, sweet Daisy.” + +“Come again vewy quick, Daddy.” + +When in the street again there was an elasticity in Juxon’s step which +had not been apparent earlier in the evening. There were heavy odds +facing him. Many men would have shrunk from the difficult task of +restoring the ruined fabric. A few cowards might even have sought the +easiest way out; but quiet Mr. Juxon was prepared to go on playing the +game. Although outwardly commonplace, and lacking in originality, he +was not an ordinary man. His character could not be better revealed +than by the statement that he did not entertain a single bitter +thought towards his absent wife. + +He did not intend that she should hear the truth, and he was resolved +that she should not want even the least of those luxuries which she +had hitherto enjoyed. He argued that she had a right to look to him +for these things, and because he was true of heart he determined she +should have them, if only he could avert that imminent and final +disaster by hard work. + +He reached his lonely office in the deserted city, leaving far behind +the voices of paper-vendors screaming in malicious enjoyment the news +of the bank failure. He turned up the gas, removed his coat, and +wrapped a moistened handkerchief round his forehead. He smiled at the +excessive plainness of his careworn face when it met his eyes in the +glass. Was it possible that any woman could care for him, if he were +poor? That smile was still upon his lips when he sat down to his desk. +“There is still a chance,” he muttered. “The veriest loophole, but I +may struggle through yet. I can fight, and I will fight, and I will go +down, if that be my destiny, fighting all the time.” + +It was close upon midnight when Juxon pushed aside his business books +and papers, and began the composition of a letter to a client who was +encumbered with wealth in very much the same proportion as Egypt was +once troubled with flies. Upon this letter much depended, as without +financial assistance he would have to declare himself a defaulter. All +the securities which he had to offer were hidden in his safe. They +were not so valuable as he could have wished, but he believed they +might prove sufficient for his purpose. He wrote quickly, the pen held +loosely in his tired fingers, winking his eyes often to dispel the +black spots which rose persistently between his face and the sheet of +paper. + +The clocks chimed over the city of Mammon, which was empty, but not +silent. Wind was howling along the deserted streets, and a heavy rain +lashed the window. The noise of business was not there, but while men +slept Nature awoke to traffic in storm and tempest. Instead of the +rolling of carts came the rush of rain water, and the cries of the +wind arose in the stead of the voices of men. Round the corners, where +by day traffic crushed, nature in wet garments shouted and bustled; +and in that one room, which made an eye of light in the solitude of +buildings, Juxon went on writing. + +How exhausted he was he did not know, until the knowledge came that he +had lost control over his pen, which for some moments had scratched +upon the paper without any apparent assistance from his hand. There +was a coldness in his arm. He dropped the pen and rose, opening and +closing his stiffened fingers. Then he brought the paper up to his +tired eyes and read what he had written. + +It was an ordinary business letter. There was nothing remarkable about +it until he came to the last sentence; and there the writer must have +lost control over his pen for a few moments. He was very tired. He had +hardly known whether he was writing sense or nonsense. Certainly he +had not the slightest idea that he had concluded his letter with the +extraordinary sentence, “Go to the Strath.” These four words however +were staring at him from the paper. There was no sense in them. He did +not know what they meant. He had no memory of having written them. He +only knew that they were there in his own crabbed handwriting. + +“I must be careful,” Juxon whispered. “This sort of thing won’t do. +This is what some people might call insanity. I have been working too +much.” + +He went into the corner of the office, dipped the hot handkerchief +which had been around his forehead into cold water, wrung it out, and +replaced it. Then he said:-- + +“My wife is living in the country, and in the neighbourhood stands a +house about which strange things are said. That house is called the +Strath.” + + + + + Scene II.--LYRICAL DITHYRAMB + + It often happens that those who try to avoid their fate run directly + upon it.--_Titus Livius_. + +The day of Maude’s introduction to the Strath arrived. The careless +little lady, to whom the future state was a terrible black cloud, had +taken it upon herself to fix a date for their festivities within that +house; and as the day was near she deemed it necessary to attend in +person and make arrangements upon the spot. Accordingly she decked +herself out in a vesture of pink wrought about with divers laces, +drove into Thorlund in usual state, and requisitioned the services of +Dr. Berry as companion and guide. + +The scholar was in a silent mood that calm sunless afternoon. His +sleep had been much broken of late, and fear had crept about his bed. +He was exceedingly sensitive to every outside influence, and thus had +foreseen evil impending, but its nature was not revealed. The thought +occurred to the rector that he had wasted his life in selfish +pursuits, that punishment was in store; and therefore he was afraid. + +Maude prattled joyously as she walked towards the wall, having, as she +firmly believed, no sins to be sorry for. It was true she trembled +when she set foot inside the garden, and caught at her companion’s +arm; but Flora had told her strange stories concerning that haunted +ground, and for at least the first minute she had a right to be +nervous. It was natural weakness, she assured herself, but she was +relieved when the sensation passed, as it did suddenly; and to show +her relief she laughed, boldly and defiantly, the first foolish laugh +that had sounded in that garden for many more years than any living +man could look back upon. + +There was a dead tree lying within the shadow of the house, its trunk +mantled with moss, its few remaining branches smothered in the mud of +the moat. + +There Conway was seated. He looked up with vacant eyes when the +visitors approached, and invited them to sit beside him and listen +while he read; and when Maude demurred, after a glance at the heavy +moss, he removed his cloak, a quaint blue garment lined with scarlet +cloth, and spread it across the trunk. Then the little lady +condescended to take her ease, and looked about with disapproval and +disappointment. + +“What a dirty tumbling-down old place!” she observed. “I think you +ought to have the garden put into some sort of order; and as for the +house it must be full of rats and spiders. I suppose it looks all +right when it is lighted up, but by daylight--” + +“If you please you must not say these things,” Conway interrupted. + +“What!” Maude laughed. “Why, what nonsense!” + +“You must remember, my friend,” said the scholar gently, “this lady +has a mind superior to ours. The perfect beauty in art alone appeals +to her. She finds her present environment unusual, not having been +here before, but time will bring appreciation. What book is that you +are holding?” + +Conway held out the journal, its pages tinted lightly with ink as +yellow as dead grass, and replied, “I will read to you if you will.” + +“I want to see the house,” said Maude. + +“Listen a few minutes to a voice from the past,” Conway entreated. + +Maude, who was accustomed to having her own way, was about to reply +indignantly, when she heard a rustling against the side of the house, +and turning beheld Drayton gazing at her from between the creepers. +The expression on his face silenced her, and the colour began to leave +her cheeks. Before she was able to assert herself, the master of the +Strath bent his head over the pages which contained the sad record of +Winifred Hooper’s short life, and his voice came into her ears, +ringing sad echoes of the past: + + + “I have been ill, and have not written in my book for days. I have + been lying on my bed, listening to the wind in the trees, and seeing + by the light of the harvest-moon forms and faces in the mirror + opposite. I am well again now, and wondering why I was so foolish as + to spend so long a time out of the air and sunshine, for indeed + nothing ailed me except sorrow. Already it seems a long time since I + went out, in a white dress, with a thick shawl about me, and my hair + hanging down because I was too sick at heart to bind it, and yet it + was scarce a week ago. Now we are in autumn, cold and blustering, but + is it not always cold when one is sorrowing? + + “How true was Mr. Spencer when he wrote, ‘for every dram of honey + found in love a pound of gall doth over it redound.’ I could almost be + sorry that I love you, Geoffrey. Love has visited me of late with + dreams, when I would find myself struggling with my heart up a steep + mountain, knowing that if I might reach the summit I should gain + happiness. But at a certain point my strength would always fail. I + have read that love requited gives perfect rest, but is it so? Wise + Sophocles has better described it as a storm in the heart, which all + must endure, even the gods. This written page can only speak. It + conveys no feeling. I may write down ‘sorrow,’ but what can the word + convey? A lacerated finger, a pain in the head--no more; and I may so + easily, if I will, run my pen through the word, and write instead + ‘love,’ and still nothing is conveyed. Love requited becomes a + restless pain, when the loved one is far away. How shall lovers when + separated express their feelings? It is the presence that speaks, not + the tongue. One look is more eloquent than a life of letters. + + “My dog has placed his paws upon my knee and looks up with soft brown + eyes. He loves me, and yet speaks only with his eyes. I have seen so + little of the world, and my reading of its doings come but rarely, but + ’tis enough to humiliate me into a half-belief that the purest love is + not in us, but in the animals. Have you watched a mother thrush + feeding her fluffy chicks? Or an owl fighting a cotter for the sake of + her offspring? Or a dog dying broken-hearted upon his dead master’s + coat? Are we exceptions, Geoffrey, you and I? Do we love too much, and + is it for that cause we are separated, least we should be too happy + and thus anticipate the joys of Heaven? + + “These are wandering and foolish thoughts. I should turn my mind + towards the white hills and the woods, and note the beauty of the + changing leaves; but, when I strive to do so, I see the wind whirling + the dry foliage down the slopes and around the tombs of the old + churchyard. Even when I look across the scenery it is upon the cypress + and yew that my eyes are fixed. And yet so strange a creature am I + that I would rather suffer than forego the privilege of having won + your love. + + “I keep this journal in a secret place where my father would not think + to look. I must hide it now more securely than ever before, because I + have done a dangerous and fearful thing. I have given information + against my own father. It is horrible. It is unnatural. It may even + happen that he shall be hanged through me. I shall thank Heaven for + giving me liberty. I shall go forth to seek you, Geoffrey, and to find + you, even if you be in the land of fables known as India. Yesterday I + chanced upon Mr. Price along the highway where the road branches to + Queensmore village; and when he stopped and spoke to me I was unable + to contain my tongue, and before I knew had told him concerning those + dark midnight rides. He heard me with amazement, and when I had done + placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and said, ‘Very well + indeed. We will see to this. A most notorious highwayman has long been + the terror of these roads. To-morrow I will myself ride to town and + place this information before the Sheriff, and promise that the Strath + shall be soon more closely watched than you are now. Do not forget, + child, that Kingsmore house stands open to give you shelter whensoever + you may require it.’ + + “I supposed that I had passed secure from observation during that + interview with worthy Mr. Price, but I was mistaken. Late last night + a step came upon my passage, the door gave, and the man Reed advanced + one step into my room. He was half-drunken, but I dared not order him + out, menial though he be, for he is master here. He told me that my + father had given orders I was to be confined in the garden, and if I + ventured to disobey I would be brought back and locked within my + chamber. I would not shame myself by showing weakness before him, but + when I was again alone my silly heart seemed to break, and I fell upon + my bed and wept a long hour. No more wanderings upon the solitary + hills. My home is now my prison and my grave. + + “I have not spoken to my father for more than a week. Last night, + after Reed left me, I heard loud oaths and the sounds of fighting; and + Deborah to-day told me she saw the squire standing in the hall, very + drunk, with blood dripping from his head. There will be violent death + in this house if these brawlings endure. Pray God I shall not see it. + Even the sight of a mouse’s body sets me a-shivering. And so, + Geoffrey, I have taken my last walk into the woods. There is a kind of + wild pleasure in even that thought. When I go forth again, if I do go + forth, you will be at my side, and there will be no winter any more, + but I will be your summer, and you shall be my spring, and we will + stand together once again where the daffodils grow. + + “If it be folly to write so, it is a joy to think it. There is a book + already written for each one, with the future set forth. Mine is + indeed a small record, a few pages of love, and then a tomb; but + yours, I like to think, is a long and noble tale, containing very much + that is glorious: victories, rewards, and honours on each page, and + then a sweet home and a loving wife--be very good to her for my + sake--and smiling old age such as Mr. Addison has portrayed. That is + how I read your future, beloved, without the aid of stars or omens. I + desire for you a full and perfect life, flowing steadily on gathering + strength and nobleness, like the river increasing as it nears the sea. + Mine is a little impress upon the sands, which the rising tide smooths + silently away.” + + +Dr. Berry moved suddenly forward, sweeping the book out of Conway’s +hand. Maude had fainted. + +Unaided the scholar carried her into the house. He placed his burden +upon a sofa and fanned the white face, until a sigh escaped its lips, +and the eyelids quivered. Another moment and Maude rose stiffly like a +sleep-walker, stared about her with wild eyes, and said in a cold hard +voice, as though in continuation of a tragic conversation which had +been interrupted by her loss of consciousness, “Then there is nothing +left, and I must drown myself.” + +He tried to hold her, but she shook him off with a tragic gesture and +moaned, “I see my fate before me. I must go to it. Do not touch me. +Keep away from me. You do not know what I have done.” + +She covered her face with her hands, and screamed, “I feel the eyes of +the dead.” + +“Dear lady,” the scholar interjected. “We are indeed surrounded by the +dead, but they are invisible. Let me lead you into the garden.” + +He took her hand, which was cold and lifeless, and she went with him +into the open air; and there sank down in the long grass, shuddering +and afraid, shrinking from his consoling touch. + +“I have a right to share your suffering,” he said. + +“You!” she exclaimed, beating her hands together. “What have you done? +I can only sink into the stream, and die, and be forgotten. Leave me +to myself. Why do you follow me? Why do you touch me? Look at your +hands and see how I have soiled them.” + +“Beloved sister,” spoke the tragedian. “I will never forsake you. +Remember how our souls were united at the birth of song. You and I, +poetess and poet, are joined together for all time by the double bond +of art and of love. Your sin is mine also. If punishment must fall, +let it fall on us together. It is happiness to suffer with those we +love.” + +“Let me show you,” she gasped, with a laugh, as unlike her own empty +sound of mirth as the storm wind differs from the whirring of a wing. +“Listen! I had a child, and a husband. One night I went into my +daughter’s room. The child slept, one little hand reaching out towards +me, her bright hair tumbling over the pillow, her little bosom rising +and falling gently. I seized the pillow, and pressed it over the +innocent face, and--and I stood looking down upon a little waxen face +which never moved again.” + +The choregus bent over her, and returned the philosophic answer which +the laws of the drama required: + +“It was the madness of jealousy. Under somewhat similar circumstances +Medea murdered her children. It is as destiny appoints. Nature is +exceedingly cruel. You were merely the instrument called upon to +remove the child.” + +“Hear me out,” she screamed. “I passed from that room to my husband’s +side. He was a good man, noble, unselfish, and kind, having one fault +only and that his love for me. I discovered him at work. He was always +working, that he might provide me with those luxuries which my soul +coveted. When I came near, he looked up and said, ‘Is our little girl +asleep?’ And I smiled at him and said, ‘I have just come from her, and +she is asleep.’” + +“For a parallel--” the spell-bound listener interposed; but before he +could say more she drowned his voice. + +“Then my husband said, ‘I have been working all night, and my head +pains me.’ So I took a handkerchief, and tied it round his head, and +went and brought him a cup of wine. He drank it, pressing my hand, and +I watched his head fall forward, and his hands shaking, and his +strength going from him. And then I helped him to his room and left +him, and in the night I heard him call me, but I put my fingers in my +ears and turned away, and left him to die of the poison which I had +given him.” + +“Surely,” said the actor, “these things happened long ago. The +poisoned cup and the suffocation of a sleeper are suggested to us +again and again as orthodox punishments of an enemy.” + +“I myself am guilty,” she raved. “With these hands I killed my husband +and my child. Look at them, and see how the shadow lies upon them. The +sun has not warmed them since.” + +He took her hands which she had frantically extended. He lifted them +and pressed first one and then the other to his lips with the +adoration of a monk for holy relics. She was staring above the trees +to where the vapoury hills were outlined. This was no longer the +silent country dividing two lonely hamlets, but the resounding hills +of despair rising above the hell of classical belief, and the autumnal +fog was steam escaping from the crater beneath. + +“Knowledge of the past comes without study,” the scholar proclaimed. +“Who teaches the new-born child its prehensile grip? We arrive in this +world well equipped. Mind is brought back from beyond, stored with +knowledge. The young see visions, but as time passes, and the cares of +the world enter, memory weakens, and finally there is nothing left but +a craving to learn the future. Yet the past speaks in us all our +lives. We return by the same way that we came. Could we look back we +should understand all things; but, lest we should grow too wise, we +are made to look forward, and so belief declines through half-belief +and superstition to unbelief, and we return less learned than when we +came. The deeds of others live on in us, and their sins are visited +upon our heads.” + +“You do not speak of hope,” she muttered. “You dare not.” + +“Even while you speak in despair I see the light of hope dawning in +your eyes,” he answered. “The husband and the child, for whom, in the +tenderness of your heart, you mourn, met their death a very great time +ago by other hands than these, perhaps in lofty Corinth, or amid the +sands of Heliopolis, or beside the stubborn walls of Troy. Can you +believe that to you alone appear these visions? There are sins upon +the souls of all, there are sins upon my soul, the sins of long ago. I +will speak of one. I was then, as now, a priest. It was my duty to +interpret signs, and the inspired words which proceeded from the +mouths of seers; but not as now to instruct the people respecting the +nature of religion. Religion then consisted in the performance of +certain mysteries, the secret of which was handed on from father to +son, and guarded jealously from the people. The ground allotted to me +was small, but beyond was a beautiful garden, wherein I would often +wander to weave poetic fancies. For many years this ground was mine, +but one day I came upon one who told me it was his, and that it was +his intention to cultivate the ground, tear up the flowers, and remove +the arbors. He was a rough unlearned man. When he closed the garden +against me I hated him, and planned how I might destroy him. Night and +day I pondered beside the oracle, watching the incense smoke. At +length I went forth. Moonlight was upon the garden. I saw my enemy and +crept upon him. I seized his neck, and strangled him. The garden was +mine again. Shall I suffer for this memory? Not so. These hands are +not guilty. My soul, less sentient than yours, is also less capable of +suffering.” + +“My friend,” she moaned. “Are you indeed my friend?” + +“Your more than friend,” he rapturously replied. + +“Then you will obey me. Leave me here.” + +“It is my duty to watch over you. Alone you may do yourself some +harm.” + +“You may watch me. I will go beneath the trees.” + +As the poet followed out her bidding he recited the second antistrophe +of the second stasimon of the Agamemnon, that magnificent song +concerning dreams and destiny in the house. Maude heard and trembled +when the new understanding interpreted for her the meaning of those +words. Genuine suffering was hers at last. She believed that her +husband and child were dead, murdered as she had described. She saw in +that enchanted atmosphere the lines of her fate written across the sky +in letters of fire, even as Alcephron had read his warning in the +flaming gardens of Osiris. No ray of hope lighted the way, and all +that came was the dark assurance of the implacable nature of that +destiny she had fought against. And the advice suggested by the +sinister influence was that she should destroy herself. + +Yet, in the very act of punishment, the didactic force brought out all +the moral strength and latent good which might be enshrined within its +victim. Thus Maude, when compelled to fight, manifested powers the +existence of which she had never suspected. She resolutely refused to +take the path of cowardice. She longed to live for better things. +Instead of a hindrance she would become a help. But whom should she +help? At that self-set question she shuddered again, knowing the +resolution to have come too late, because those who had loved her were +gone. Yet there were others who needed assistance, who might be led on +by one so worthless as herself. She would seek them out. She would +cover her pink dress with the sister’s robes of white and black, and +dispense charity for her soul’s sake. So comedy and tragedy went on +fighting over Maude; and the scholar looked on, chanting his lyric +Greek. + +Could she awake and find that horror only a dream, her husband and +child yet living, what a world of happiness might still be hers. How +joyously would she tread, though it were on the path of poverty, +towards the life which seeks no recompense beyond a smile. Could it be +that the choregus yonder had spoken the truth? Had the double crime +which wrenched her heart been committed in a past age, by hands long +vanished into earth? + +As such questions as these quivered like meteoric flashes across her +brain the heavily-charged atmosphere lifted, the mists dissolved, and +through a golden fissure in a fast-floating cloud a ray of sunlight +darted down the hills. A breath of wind followed, and as the influence +withdrew Maude beheld Drayton standing in the grass, throwing up an +apple, and catching it as it fell. It was the turn of the dramatic +tide. Burlesque was laughing down the tragic frown. + + + + + SCENE-SHIFTING + + Time, that sees everything, and hears everything, brings all things to + light.--_Sophocles_. + +The following letter, written by the proprietor of a curiosity shop in +central London, was handed in at the toy-shop of one Emmanuel Falk in +a by-way of the city of Nuremberg, and perused by the light of a +yellow candle:-- + + + “Dear Mr. Falk. I have pleasure in informing you that copies of the + masks which belonged to the Biron family have come as pledges into my + hands. They are genuine I have no doubt, because I find the name + Joseph Falk engraved upon their backs. Permit me to state the + incidents connected with this discovery. + + “Yesterday a middle-aged Englishman, well-dressed, but apparently + pressed for money, entered my shop and requested me to make him an + advance, offering as security the pair of masks. Let me tell you he + was well aware of their value. He asked for £5 and when I had handed + him that amount he left hurriedly. I called my boy Jacob, pointed the + man out, and bade him follow. Jacob went after the Englishman to his + home. Very soon the man came out with a bag, which Jacob was permitted + to carry for some coppers to the underground station. Jacob + accompanied the man to Paddington, and standing close behind heard him + ask for a ticket to a small town some distance from the metropolis. + Not having sufficient money upon him to follow the man to his + destination, Jacob returned. In the afternoon I called at the house, + which the Englishman had entered after leaving my shop, told the woman + who answered my ring that I was a tax-collector, and so managed to + discover the name of the man who pawned the masks. + + “You know where Mr. Biron can be found. Will you then write to him, + letting him know of my discovery, and telling him that I will grant + further information if he will communicate with me? The masks cannot + leave my shop, as I may be ordered to give them up any day, but if he + can visit me I will produce them for his inspection. I presume that + the reward which he has offered for so long still holds good, if the + information I am able to give may lead to the discovery of the + originals? If you will forward this letter I will pay you five per + cent upon the transaction, should the affair be brought to a + satisfactory conclusion, and to this effect I enclose my commission + note duly signed and stamped. If you are not content with my offer, + remember, I can certainly discover Mr. Biron through advertisements in + the Italian papers; but this would require time, and the masks may be + redeemed to-morrow. I must not fail to produce them, because the + English law is severe. + + “I am, my dear sir, your most obedient, humble servant, + + “Francesco Cerutti.” + + +The old toy-maker spluttered through his beard until the candle +guttered. + +“The thief! the rogue!” he shouted, “The son of a dog to offer me his +five per cent. I will not help him. Not for twenty. Let him give me my +fifty per cent, and I will do business. The vampire! How he would suck +my blood. The toad! the fox! Would that I might put him in the Iron +Virgin. Would that I might poison the Pegnitz and make him drink of +the water.” + +The candlelight fell with weird effect among stacks of toys, striking +a thousand glassy eyes into a semblance of life. There were legions of +dolls stuffed with mechanism; there were animals, birds, and realistic +reptiles, quivering and mouthing at their long-bearded Frankenstein. +Their eyes were so many points of light glinting all colours, +tawny-red, yellow, black, green, winking and leering and grinning. +These eyes appeared to the toy-maker to expand during the night and to +contract by day. When the sun entered the shop the eyes were small and +yellow, having each one a narrow line of black for pupil. Towards +evening these pupils were enlarged, and by night became round and +far-seeing. Here was a doll whose eyes by the candlelight were unduly +large; they might have been disfigured by the use of drugs. Here was +another with optic nerves shuddering; and there another with eyes +distorted, as it were by some external influence, the refracting +surfaces being marred by a shadow cast across the retina. Emmanuel +Falk loved those glinting glassy eyes. He felt a creator when he +looked at them. He settled himself between the candle and the eyes, +and indited a letter to Signore Eugene Biron, at the Strada Nuova di +Poggio Reale, Napoli. + +A fortnight passed without bringing any reply. A month followed, +during which time the Italian Jew and the citizen of Nuremberg +exchanged letters, which were impatient on the one side, and indignant +on the other. But one day a very thin man entered the crooked street, +stopped at the gabled toy-shop, and confronted the proprietor with the +intelligence that his name was Eugene Biron. + +The toy-maker thought at first that the Lord of all the Dolls had +taken life and come to haunt him. Mr. Biron did not appear to darken +the doorway as he entered, so hopelessly devoid was he of flesh. He +was so thin that the perfect outline of his skull could be traced +distinctly. For all that his face was pleasant, because it happened to +possess two singularly kind eyes. His head was as bald as an apple. He +had neither eyebrows nor beard. He might have been thirty, or he might +have been seventy. + +“By Gott!” whispered the toy-maker. “What a model! I will make a doll +like him by San. Nicholas’ Day. He will make the children scream.” + +Then he welcomed the visitor, and brought him into the sanctity of the +work-shop where the toy marvels were planned and composed. Bringing +forward a chair, which with a sweep of the hand he cleared of dolls in +embryo, he begged his guest to be seated, and floundering to a +cupboard produced a bottle of thin wine and two beautiful Venetian +glasses chased in blue. + +“I have been travelling lately, and while in this neighbourhood +happened to write to Italy for my letters,” the visitor explained in +fluent German. “Having just received your communication, I take the +earliest opportunity of visiting you, on the chance of your having +some information to add to that which your letter gave.” + +“But I have nothing,” wailed Emmanuel. “That Jew in London did write +last week and say that the masks were still in bond. I have used +already many postage-stamps upon the man. I did only meet him once, +and then he talked me into an arrangement by which I did lose and he +did gain--may Gott confound him! He calls himself my humble and +obedient servant every time, and next time I write I will sign myself +his lofty and unyielding master, by Gott I will. I will be even with +that Jew. I would give one hundred of my best dolls to choke him in +the Schöne Brunnen. I drink now to your long life, Mr. Biron, and to +the increased prosperity of the toy business.” + +“If you have nothing more to tell me I shall start for England +to-night,” said the man of no nationality. “I have been searching all +my life for these masks, and I may be now on the point of succeeding. +Your great-grandfather made, I believe, several copies from the +originals--” + +“And he did die of it,” interrupted the toy-maker excitedly. “Gott in +Heaven! They did kill him. Come up these stairs, and I will show you +at the top of the house a great iron hook where he did hang himself +and die.” + +“I am afraid the masks may have killed others besides old Joseph +Falk,” said the visitor solemnly. “That is why I want to discover +them.” + +The bearded toy-maker stared at his hairless guest with open mouth and +eyes like two full moons behind his glasses. “And then what you do +with them?” he demanded. + +“Cremate them,” came the reply. “Or give them Christian burial.” + +“Give to them Christian burial. Mine holy Gott!” + +“Surely you know their history?” + +“But I do not know,” shouted the toy-maker, snatching up a doll and +screwing off its head, unmindful of the sawdust which snowed upon his +slippers. “I know how Joseph Falk lost his brains and thought himself +an actor, and would stand on these stairs reciting poetry. I know this +old house was once the terror of all the strasse, and those who came +here would sometimes stand and laugh as though the very devil of +comedy was in them, and sometimes they would stamp and frown like +Faustus at the opera. When Joseph Falk hanged himself Mr. Biron came +and took the masks away. I know nothing more, except that these things +happened more than a hundred years ago. Bah! they could not make my +dolls in those days.” + +“Falk begged for the masks to be returned to him after he had sold +them,” said Biron slowly, “I believe he was compelled by his +extraordinary nature to love them. He must have been a remarkable man. +He called himself a toy-maker, but his toys were the products of a +diseased and morbid imagination. He made a clock which, instead of +ticking, groaned the seconds, and a candle with machinery attached +which caused the flame to burn blue at midnight. Finally he made the +masks.” + +“And they did kill him,” muttered the great-grandson. “But he did sell +them first to Mr. Biron.” + +“To my great-grandfather, a man whose mind had suffered through +intercourse with Joseph Falk. But is it possible that you, the present +head of the family, do not know how the masks were made?” + +“By Gott, I do know,” cried Emmanuel. “They were made of the skin of +animals, treated with human blood. Bah! I will not talk about it. The +thought gives me cold feelings here.” The toy-maker clapped his hand +upon his spine. + +“You are wrong,” said Biron. “They were made of skin certainly, but +not the skin of animals. We will not go closely into details, because, +as I have said, Joseph Falk’s mind was not a healthy one; but it was +the skin of human beings that was used in the making of the masks.” + +“That is one big lie,” roared the toy-maker; and as he uttered these +words all the clocks in the establishment, above, around, and below, +struck the hour together solemnly. + +“I am sorry to say it is true,” said Biron quietly. “My +great-grandfather’s notes leave no doubt on the matter. I will give +you a few details concerning the composition of the masks. The idea +was suggested to Joseph Falk one night at the opera. He was +exceedingly fond of the stage, and his visits were as frequent as +business would permit. One night he was attracted by a representation +of the masks of Tragedy and Comedy modelled upon the proscenium; and +straightway the idea entered his mind of creating two such masks, +which should be influential types of the respective branches of the +drama which they are supposed to represent. You know that he succeeded +in carrying out this project; and you shall now hear how he did so.” + +“Then he, my great-grandfather, was a devil,” cried the toy-maker. “I +will forget him. He is not worthy to lie within a stone’s cast of the +great Dürer. Bah! I will never again pray for him upon All Souls’ +Day, and I will go no more to the cemetery of St. John to put +immortelles upon his grave.” + +“This is a story of the eighteenth century,” went on the visitor. “One +of the institutions of this city was the College of Surgeons, which +was placed hard by the prison, and distinguished from the buildings +surrounding it by a gilded globe which satirists were fond of calling +a globule--the only form of medicine which physicians of that day +could, or would, dispense. Superstition ruled the art of healing to +such an extraordinary extent that astrology was one of the important +subjects for examination, and even barbers were required to pass in +surgery before being licensed to shave chins. Anyone could be a +surgeon in those days. It was in fact as easy as enlisting in the +army, or, as a wit has said, as difficult to avoid as the press-gang; +and knowing this you will not be surprised to hear that Joseph Falk +became enrolled a member of the College, not because he wished to +acquire the art of the physicians, but because his membership entitled +him to a place in the dissecting-theatre, which was kept well supplied +with material by the adjacent prison where executions were frequent.” + +“Is it not true what I say, that this Joseph Falk prostituted the +noble art of toy-making?” cried the great-grandson appealingly to his +creations. + +“Had he turned his talents in the right direction it is certain he +would have produced many useful models of mechanism,” Biron went on. +“Unfortunately his mind was bent towards the horrible. It happened +that fortune favoured him. I do not suppose you have heard of the +criminal Cagliari, who perpetrated his villainies in this and many +another country during the last half of the eighteenth century; but +according to my great-grandfather’s notes he seems to have been the +most inhuman murderer that has ever troubled the world. This man made +a living by decoying youths and young women into secret places, and +killing them for the sake of what money and jewellery they possessed. +It is said that he despatched some twenty victims in this manner, +burying the bodies in a lonely wood which he named the Cagliari +Cemetery. Strangely enough he was a well-educated man, of good +appearance and address, although entirely lacking in all moral sense. +It was however argued at the autopsy that the development of his head +showed that he was not a natural creature. Being at last convicted and +executed, his body was brought in due course to the dissecting-hall of +the College of Surgeons. Joseph Falk managed to secure the +malefactor’s abnormal head.” + +“Mine Gott, I do not yet understand these things,” muttered the +toy-maker. + +“From that head he extracted the materials for compounding his mask of +Tragedy.” + +The listener’s jaw dropped, and his tongue protruded, but no sound +proceeded therefrom. He stared along the vista of glass-eyed dolls, +and the orbs stared back and winked knowingly. + +“That same year the body of Quillebeuf came into the hands of old +Falk,” went on the visitor hurriedly. “This man was a little +mountebank of unusual talent, who roamed from country to country, +miming and jesting, and giving entertainments full of drollery by the +way-side. He had never an opportunity of appearing before the better +classes, indeed it is said that he rarely entered the large towns. He +loved the country, and wandered there with tabor and drum, an +itinerant maker of mirth, delighting the simple people by his artistic +foolery. Had he been given a chance of appearing upon the stage, he +must have made his mark as a comedian, but opportunity was not his, +and he died a failure. One day he was arrested on suspicion of theft +and sent to prison; there he was taken ill and died, wearing to the +end a laugh on his comic face. It was subsequently discovered that he +had been innocent of the theft, and to do what poor justice was then +possible a memorial was subscribed for, and set up in the place where +he was born, a memorial which could not have been of any permanent +nature, for when I went to see it a few years ago it had disappeared. +Quillebeuf’s body was sent from the prison to the dissecting-room; and +thus Joseph Falk obtained material for his mask of Comedy. There,” +Biron concluded, “you have the story, as I know it, of the two masks +which your great-grandfather made and mine bought.” + +“Find them, I do beseech you, Mr. Biron,” muttered the frightened +little toy-maker. “Bury them deep, and get a holy priest to exorcise +the evil spirits. Holy Gott! There are horrible things in this world. +I shall tremble when I make my dolls. I shall feel that they may go +from my hands with the power to work evil upon the minds of little +children. I will leave my business, Mr. Biron, and come with you. I do +not want my five per cent. I will give it to charity, and more +besides, when you have destroyed those awful things.” + +“I thank you for your offer of help,” said the visitor, as he rose +carefully from the rickety chair. “But I shall not require it. I am +upon the right track I believe. Unfortunately my great-grandfather’s +notes finish abruptly. There is indeed a tragedy suggested about that +termination, and it is curious that no authenticated record exists in +my family concerning how, when, or where the old man came to his end. +There is however a rumour, entirely unsupported by proof, to the +effect that Mr. Biron went to live for a time in a manor-house +situated in a lonely English valley, and there left the masks built up +inside a cellar, and the harmless copies made by Joseph Falk disposed +about the rooms. The latter point is of the greatest importance, for, +if there be any truth in the rumour, this pledging of the copies may +well lead to the discovery of the originals. England is not a large +country, but there are many lonely valleys about the island, and +thousands of manor-houses. My grandfather and father both searched in +vain for the masks, and bequeathed the duty to me. I have done what +little I could, but up to the present without success. Is it not +strange that they should now break through the long silence of more +than a hundred years?” + +“You will find them, Mr. Biron,” said the toy-maker with religious +confidence. “Cerutti the Jew knows more than he has told to me, and +his mouth will open when you show him money. He would not rest until +he had found out everything. By this time he has discovered that +house, and can point out to you the cellar where the masks are hidden, +and directly you go into his shop he will bring before you a receipt +for five hundred pounds English money, the reward which your father +offered, and you renewed, and will say to you, ‘I have the information +you require. Give me my money.’ Yes, by Gott, he will, and he will not +give me my five per cent unless I frighten him with the law.” + +The toy-maker of Nuremberg unfairly judged the London dealer in +curios, but he was prejudiced against the man who had once got the +better of him in trade. His estimation of the Jew’s shrewdness was, +how ever, not at fault. When, less than a week later, the shadowy +figure of Biron flitted across the threshold of the curiosity shop and +revealed its identity the shrewd Italian made no mention of the +reward, but merely bowed obsequiously, and in a business-like manner +produced from his pocket a slip of paper, which he handed to the +visitor with a second obeisance deeper than the first. Across this +piece of paper was written the three pregnant words, “Thorlund. The +Strath.” + + + + + ACT V. + + Scene I.--MORALITY + + Leave things so prostitute, + And take th’ Alcaic lute, + Or thine own Homer, or Anacreon’s lyre.--_Ben Jonson_. + +It was the day of the dance at the Strath. Early in the morning mist +rose before the sun, and a hollow silence prevailed upon the hills. +Windy sighs followed, and the trees began to shake, and dead leaves +scurried along the roads, and the cart-ridges were brimming with black +water. At noon dark clouds raced over the valley to the sound of an +anapaestic march. Then a deep haze settled, and the atmosphere was +heavy with odours of decaying vegetation. + +Never had the valley of Thorlund looked more lonely. Early in the +afternoon Maude came to the hamlet and found the rector conducting a +funeral. He saw her and with the solemn words of the office upon his +lips smiled dreamily. She passed on alone into the Strath, without +fear, for the place had lost its terror. She could not remember the +incidents connected with her first visit; she only understood that she +had suffered of late, but the cause of that suffering and its definite +nature she had yet to learn. She called herself the same, both +outwardly and inwardly, being unwilling to confess that she had +changed; although her glass revealed a face where the white +predominated over the pink, and her inner vision might have shown a +picture, had she cared to contemplate it, of a mind which had been +awakened. She went again, and willingly, to the Strath, not dreaming +that she too had fallen beneath the influence of the goat-song, to +suffer there as one may suffer when a frost-bitten limb is being +restored gradually to vitality; but whenever she left the house she +believed that this suffering was caused by the troublesome world, and +so longed for the Strath where she might be at peace. + +A few ordinary preparations had been made for the forthcoming party. +The young women had made ready certain delicacies which had been +brought from Kingsmore that morning; they had also been occupied over +their costumes, and had made themselves masks of silk and lace. + +But within the Strath all designs were brought to nothing. Not an +article of furniture had been removed from the saloon, the ragged +carpet still cumbered the floor, and the impossible harpsichord had +not been replaced by any modern instrument of music. Conway was +upstairs dreaming, Drayton sat and worked in the ante-room, Nancy Reed +sang her old ballads. + +Maude entered full of schemes, but when the house had received her she +forgot the world and the approaching festivities which she had +arranged, and seating herself before the pictures of Hogarth’s +Marriage _à la Mode_ wondered why destiny handled her victims so +roughly, so like a thoughtless child breaking her toys and flinging +them aside. + +She heard the moaning of wind, and dead leaves creeping upon the stone +floor of the hall. She passed into the room opposite, and stood +between the brown masks, which had watched the recluse Biron ruining +mind and body with morbid fancies, and the struggles of the unknown +family of Branscombe, before the solitude of a century had come to +fill their blank eyes with dust. + +The wind was strong on that side of the house. Gloom had already +settled. She began to long for a companion, not for Flora who lately +had drifted from her, but rather for a strong man who might protect +her against that terrible depression, or for a child whom she might +call her own, that she might show the spirit of the house how willing +she was to conform to the dramatic laws. She thought of Peggy vaguely. +As for the man whose name she bore, why he, the voice assured her, had +grown tired of her insincerity and had found consolation elsewhere. +She stood quite alone and a great fear fell upon her. When Dr. Berry +entered in his noiseless fashion he discovered her kneeling, white and +shivering. + +He came and lifted her by the hands. The dim light fell upon his +silvered head and invested each feature of his handsome face with a +rare softness: + +“The summer is over,” he said quietly. + +“The wind begins to bite. No more long days to walk and think. The +time of imagination has gone. The winter comes when we must work.” + +“That poem I read to you,” gasped Maude. + +“I told you it was my own, but that was a lie. I copied it, word for +word. You have been very much mistaken in me. I am a wicked worthless +woman, and have always deceived you.” + +The scholar shook his head with a wondering smile, and answered her, +“Are we not all foolish, dear sister? We are not the masters of +ourselves. He who is wisest among us is but a copyist. We poets sing +as the influence directs. The song is not our own, because nothing +that we have is ours. The tongue is a loan, and the mind itself but +the tenant of a short-lived body. There is truth therefore in your +sublime humility. Your verses are copies, and so are mine; but let us +console ourselves with the knowledge that to few is given even +sufficient power to repeat an old tale well. No, you shall not answer +me. No barrier of false humility should be raised between a brother +and sister of Mount Parnassus.” + +“You will not understand,” she cried. “I have no learning--none at +all. I could not even understand the meaning of those lines I read to +you.” + +“Still upon that strain,” he murmured. “Why then, I must answer you. +By your definition I too am false. I am unable to comprehend the great +realities which move around us and bend us to their will. I too have +no learning, because when I take up that which I have written the +finite mind, which has merely suggested the theme, refuses to add an +understanding of the meaning. We aim at the clear sky, and find we +have only struck the earth. The most inspired poet cannot soar higher +than the clouds.” + +As he spoke Drayton entered, and standing just within the door asked +in a scarcely intelligible voice, “What is the first stage of tragedy +according to the classical model?” + +“The prologue,” answered the scholar with his head down. “Why do you +ask?” + +“We propose to give a representation of Comedy in this house +to-night,” said Drayton in the same low voice. “I only desire to know +the various stages in which tragic destiny moves, so that I may know +what to expect. This is the prologue. Well?” + +“Followed by the entry of the chorus and the first continuous song,” +went on the scholar. “Then the first entry of a principal character +followed by the second song, and so on, the entry and song +alternating, until all the characters have been introduced. Later +comes the tragic dirge, sung between a principal and the chorus; +finally the solemn marching out.” + +Drayton bent his head, inclining his ear as though to listen for the +repetition of some distant sound, and withdrew, muttering to himself. +His voice died away into the house, and the wind and the rain made the +continuous song. + +“I have forgotten why I came,” said Maude, resting her white forehead +upon her hand. “I am miserable. I know I have done wrong, and I cannot +see how to make amends. I do not even know who it is that I have +wronged.” + +“You have wronged me a little,” said the voice of the poet. + +“I have deceived you. I have made you believe I am good and clever.” + +“Cease from this perversity,” he cried. “You have wronged me by not +confiding in me, by keeping me at a distance, and in withdrawing, as +you have done lately, the light of your learning from my work. Do you +not see how we suffer when separated, what peace we enjoy when +together? Souls are joined by a look of the eyes and the word +exchanged. For a week I have been idle, and you--confess now you too +have put aside the pen. See how unprofitable the parting has been.” + +“No, no,” she cried. “I have tried to think of my duty.” + +“Which is twofold,” he urged. “The duty of song and the duty of love. +By neglecting both you have wronged yourself and me. Do you not +remember our first meeting on the warm hillside? I worshipped you then +as you appeared before me in clinging white, with the fire of poetry +in your eyes. My heart sang to you and yours answered. Let our songs +be lyrics always. Let us not descend. Be to me now, as then, as you +stood in the sun on the side of the hill.” + +“What is this?” she murmured, half rising and sinking back. + +“It is spiritual love. Perfect love,” the poet whispered. + +“Tragic love,” she cried. + +The wind came moaning into the house and the dry leaves were whirled +about the hall, and after that a door closed with a hollow sound. Both +dreamers were awakened. Both saw themselves. What the man saw was a +cold empty life spent among books, with eyes on crabbed characters and +fingers upon pen, a life which had never tasted the heady wine of +passion nor sought after companionship, an unprofitable life of +body-starving, of brain-glutting, of groping after communion with +unseen powers. + +And the woman saw the wasted heartless career of a butterfly, flitting +from flower to flower, neglecting all things but pleasure, making no +provision for the future. She saw her husband, knowing that he was her +husband, bent by work and lined with care, starting from his +occupation of business when she spoke scoldingly, and answering with a +kindly word; she saw her little daughter playing alone, asking often +in the perplexing manner of childhood why her mother never came. This +was a part of her punishment. First the Strath had shown her what +might have occurred, had she allowed the evil in her to mature fully; +now it put before her the simple truth, shedding across it its own +sombre light. Still she saw the captured butterfly struggling to +escape, and as she looked all its bright plumage was rubbed away, and +there escaped a grey little creature, which somehow seemed a more +beautiful object than the pink and white beauty which had been held +and bruised. + +“It is the love of the soul,” a voice said into her ear; and the door +fluttered as though with the touch of the eager tragic wind. + +“Let me go,” she cried. “It is getting late, and it is dark.” + +“You cannot see the light which you shed around,” answered the scholar +in rapt tones. “And what is time with us? We are lovers, and for us +time and place are of no account. This shall become our brightest day, +in spite of the wind and the rain. Beloved, do not tell me you are +blind. You have seen in my eyes what I have seen in yours. Together we +shall tell the love-tales of the past. And now you shall hear my tale, +and I will listen to yours.” + +“Mine you know,” she said. + +“I would hear it from your lips.” + +“You shall,” Maude cried coldly and sternly, rising and standing in +the darkened room between the masks. “I know a man whose every action +is unselfish, whose only fault is that he loves me. That man has +permitted me to drive him as I would. He has repaid my scorn of him by +kindliness. When I rejected some plan which he made for my comfort he +has immediately taken the blame upon himself.” + +“You did not love this man?” he interrupted in his ringing voice. + +“I did not.” + +“Because his soul could never be in tune with yours. Destiny had never +ordained that you and he should meet. The same destiny brought you to +me.” + +“I have a husband,” she said. “And of him I was speaking.” + +“Have you not a soul also? That is mine. Day and night it has spoken +to me. You have joined your body to a husband, but your soul you shall +join with mine. There is no mystery in that union. The body wedded to +a body lives under the cypress. The soul united to its affinity soars +above the earth.” + +“Once I might have listened to you,” she said. + +“You have come out of the darkness, and the first glimpse of the day +bewilders you.” + +“I know myself,” she replied. “I have wronged you deeply. I have +flattered you and led you on with lies. I have made you believe I am a +poetess, while I am, as you see me, a very weak and ignorant woman +with nothing to my credit that is good. Pardon my wickedness. I will +go out of your life to-day, and face my duty, and you shall never be +troubled with me again.” + +A shudder went through the house as the lyres and flutes of the wind +and rain changed from strophe to final antistrophe. + +“You and I at discord,” the scholar muttered. “Would you throw your +life out of tune and mar the harmony of mine? You may go from me, but +you shall not forget me. You will come back to me when I call.” + +“You too have neglected your duty,” she said. “You have lived among +the dead and forgotten the living. By much study you have lost the +body. Wake as I awake, and know that you are still a man treading the +stage of life, not a disembodied spirit flying among the hills of +Athens or along the valley of Colonus.” + +These were strange words from ignorant Maude. + +He came and seized her hands. She was cold and he was burning, and +both were shivering. There was a light in his eyes which she had not +seen there before, and she shrank from the sight, because it seemed to +her that the man and the mind were drifting apart. She struggled a +little, and as her eyes groped into the gloom she saw the door opening +very slowly and noiselessly, and she heard the worm-eaten floor giving +beneath foot-steps. Then Juxon walked in, pale and bent, with his +hands clasped behind. + +How ill he looked, she thought. His clothes were hanging to him +loosely, and there was upon his face that grey expression which speaks +of midnight sleeplessness coupled with days of anxiety. His eyes +appeared to glance between them, passing from one mask to the other. +There was the knife, the emblem of tragedy, and this was not the time +to don the cap and bells. How, Maude wildly wondered, would the new +character play his part? There was no good reason for the doubt. Juxon +had maintained a high standard of living; he had not rebelled against +the dramatic laws; therefore the frown of the tragic mask was not for +him. + +Dr. Berry looked round when he beheld a hand upon his sleeve. From his +height he looked down upon the man, whom he recognised, neither as the +husband of the woman near him, nor as a principal character. “Who are +you?” he asked sharply. “What brings you here?” + +“A caprice,” said the stockbroker. “Fortune has been hard upon me of +late. While I have sat alone during the night a voice has been with +me, calling me to the Strath. Is not this the Strath?” + +“I do not know,” said the scholar querulously. “Let us have light that +I may see you.” + +Juxon stepped forward and lighted a candle. Maude saw his agitated +face and marked the trembling of his hands. She called him in a low +voice, but he did not appear to hear. He lifted his head and faced the +scholar who watched him with hard unreasoning eyes. + +“I must ask your forgiveness,” said Juxon. “You believe my wife has +done you wrong, but I assure you no blame is to be attached to her. +What she has done she did unwillingly, indeed upon compulsion. I am +the one who has injured you.” + +The scholar said nothing. There was vengeance on his face as he looked +round the walls for some weapon, with which he might strike the man +who stood between him and the desire of his soul. + +“You may ask why I should wrong one who has never sought to harm me,” +Juxon went on in a steady voice. “Attribute it to the evil which is in +all of us, to an inexplicable longing to make a fellow-creature +suffer. I have only to confess my sin and clear the character of my +wife.” + +While he spoke the man was battling with the horrible inclination, +which bade him fling himself upon his enemy. He steadied himself by a +great effort. All his determination and strength were required. Had he +spent in the past an evil life nothing could have saved him then. + +“My wife came here to recover her health,” he went on hoarsely. “In +her letters she told me of you, describing you as a clever poet, +completely enwrapped in yourself and your work. I was brutal enough to +ask her if she thought she could lure you sufficiently out of your +work to make you admire her, and she replied, yet only in jest you +must understand, that she believed it would be possible.” + +Maude comprehended her husband’s plan. It was correct. The drama +required it. He was sacrificing himself for her. + +“In an idle moment I made a wager with a friend, who knew my wife, to +the effect that she would succeed in making you believe she possessed +knowledge equal to yours. My friend, averring it to be impossible, +accepted the wager. I wrote to my wife and entreated her to make the +attempt, instructing her to flatter and admire you--in short to make a +fool of you--until she had attained my object. I need hardly say she +was horrified at the suggestion. She begged me not to press her. The +idea was utterly distasteful to her loyal mind. But I refused to spare +her. She yielded at last, with what results you know. I won my wager +at the cost of my wife’s reputation. I dare not ask you to forgive me. +I know it must be impossible for you to feel anything but hatred for +so mean a creature as he who stands before you. All that I ask is your +forgiveness for my wife.” + +Juxon broke off with a gasp. Dr. Berry towered above him, his face +malignant, and its features contorted into a horrid semblance of one +of the hanging masks. Suddenly he darted forward, and seizing a +candlestick hurled it at the stockbroker. Juxon started aside, and as +the missile clattered into a corner snatched his wife’s hand and +pulled her to the door. The scholar hurled himself against it and the +rotten panels shivered into fragments; but the Juxons were gone, into +the garden and the wind. + + + + + Scene II.--MASQUE + + And let the Masquers, or any other, that are to come down from the + Scene, have some motions, upon the Scene itself, before their comming + down: For it drawes the Eye strangely, and makes it with great + pleasure, to desire to see that, it cannot perfectly + discerne.--_Bacon_. + +The squire of Kingsmore and the rector of Thorlund stood in the +latter’s study. The clock pointed to forty minutes past seven. Mr. +Price looked more solemn than usual, while his companion was haggard +and agitated. + +“I know now you have spoken the truth,” the scholar was saying. “All +along you have maintained that the Strath was haunted by an unholy +influence, and I would not believe, because I could not feel it. What +has come to me now I do not know. I am afraid of the place.” + +He turned and striding across the room snatched a volume of old +English poetry from a shelf. “I was drawn there this afternoon. The +house fought against me,” he went on. “I was punished there. I was +warned that with the falling of the house I too must fall.” + +“Berry,” muttered the old squire. “During all the years of our +acquaintance you have strained your brain upon thankless work. I do +not know what to say about the Strath. One time I am certain it is +badly haunted. Another time I have my doubts. Nothing has frightened +me when I have been there, so far as I know, but--and this is the +point--after leaving the place it has been impossible to remember what +has happened there.” + +The scholar was not listening. He bent the book of poetry open, so +roughly that the binding broke, and cried, “‘Go, bid the world with +all its trash farewell.’ Do you hear that? She has deceived me, +laughed at me, mocked me. ‘Leave it, I say, and bid the world +farewell.’ I trusted her. Can you not tell me what happened in the +Strath this afternoon?” + +“I can tell you one thing,” said the squarson. “You are doing yourself +a lot of harm. Leave your poetry and get out into the air. Why, man, +you are shivering from head to foot.” + +“I am going to the Strath,” Dr. Berry muttered. + +“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Price. “I don’t want to go, and Flora does +not want to go either. My sister has the excuse of rheumatism, and she +is the best off. It’s a regular wild night, dark as pitch, with a +howling wind. If there are phantoms at the Strath they will show +themselves to-night. I’ll order the carriage and go home. Flora!” he +called, going to the door. “Here, Flora! We will go back.” + +The girl came out of the drawing-room with a mask dangling from her +gloved hand. + +“I want to go now, uncle,” she said firmly. “Besides we must. There +will be nobody there except ourselves, and Maude--and Dr. Berry.” She +added the scholar’s name as he revealed himself. + +“He must not go,” said Mr. Price decidedly. “He is going to bed. I’ll +tell Mr. Conway he is not well.” + +“I am coming,” said the poet. + +It was, as the old squire had said, a wild night, full of wind and +strange cries. They groped through the churchyard, found the door in +the wall, and entered the garden. A heavy beam of light fell from the +house and guided their steps. The bridge across the moat swayed +perceptibly. The hall door stood ajar. They passed in and saw candles +glowing in the saloon. Nance was kneeling in the great hall, warming +her hands by a fire of logs, and looking up met Flora’s eyes without +flinching. + +“The wind is rough,” said Mr. Price in a melodramatic voice, +responding as far as his simple nature allowed to the dominant +influence. + +As he spoke a tall figure crossed the hall, passing from one room to +another, clad in close-fitting black with ruffles of yellow lace at +its wrists and throat, its face hidden behind a brown mask. This +tragic figure went towards the saloon with a dejected step, casting +furtive glances to right and left as it disappeared. + +“Abandoned and accursed,” muttered Dr. Berry. He turned and strode +away into the silence of the house. + +“Come aside with me,” said Flora in a thrilling voice, seizing her +uncle and drawing him back. “Put on your mask,” she whispered. “They +must not suspect who we are. I can trust you? You are my relative. You +will not fail me?” + +“I will serve you as I can,” said the old gentleman, with a wild +shiver. “But let us be discreet, let us be watchful. Methinks our +plans may be overheard. We will go to some more secret place, but let +us carry ourselves boldly, so that no one may suspect we have anything +on hand.” He stepped away from her and bowed low. “Will it please you +to walk with me and study the pictures?” he said; and when she had +accepted his invitation they walked away into the gloom, two tragic +puppets, like all the other beings who were to cross, or had crossed, +the threshold of the house that night. + +Presently a little lady in Arcadian costume appeared, and beside her a +stout man closely muffled. They were the Juxons. They had been called +and could not refuse to come. Strange had been the feeling between +husband and wife during the drive homeward after that remarkable +meeting at the Strath. On Maude’s side there was a novel content; upon +Juxon’s a sense of happiness. He understood that his wife had changed. +While they rattled through the wind she talked, with none of the empty +vivaciousness of former days; and had never a scolding word, nor any +impatient frown. She inquired after his health with genuine +solicitude, and asked fondly after Peggy, stating her intention of +returning forthwith to devote herself to her child. And he, jealous of +this new-found happiness, did not venture to confess that he had no +home, that his business was almost ruined. + +She had gained in beauty, he thought, with that pale seriousness. As +he felt the wind sweeping in life-giving strength across the hills, he +made for the hundredth time the resolution of another effort for her +sake. His pretty little wife should have all that she had been +accustomed to. As for the scene which had so recently closed it was +gone from them both; but Maude knew that Dr. Berry would never +fascinate her again. Juxon was not aware that he had been put to the +ordeal, that his nature had triumphed, that his character had stood +firm for his wife’s defence. He only knew that he had gone to the +Strath, in obedience to the message, and that his wife had been +restored to him there. + +The group of tragic characters made a sombre party. The actors were +six in number, for the two wearers of the brown masks had ceased to be +human entities. They had become conflicting influences. The guests, +who had been led to the house under the pretext of a dance, found +themselves playing the part of conspirators. They instinctively +mistrusted one another. In the saloon Mr. Price was gambling with the +figure of tragedy. Upstairs Dr. Berry paced the corridors, biting his +fingers, and planning vengeance. Juxon, the object of his hatred, +stood with his dazed wife near the fireplace in the hall. + +He had told her everything, and to his story of defeat and failure +added the words: + +“I have played my last card. There is nothing left with which to start +afresh. I understand it all now,” he went on firmly. “No man can +struggle against destiny. It was never intended that I should be +wealthy, and though riches were for the time forced upon me it was +only that they might be taken away. I am a poor man now, with only +these hands, a clear conscience, and a strong head left to aid me in +the struggle for existence.” + +“And I have been a hindrance to you,” said Maude gently. + +“If we have failed to agree perfectly in the past it was the fault of +neither of us,” said Juxon. “Riches have been a curse, both to you and +to me. For the future there will be no barrier to hold us apart.” + +“Herbert,” she whispered, with a shudder. “You must go your way alone. +The warning comes to me now that I have not much longer to live. I am +to be punished for my heartlessness.” + +“Hush,” said the man, almost fiercely. + +“Only stay with me,” Maude entreated. “There is danger here for you, +as well as for me.” + +“There is horror in the very air,” Juxon shivered. “Let us go into the +light.” + +They crossed the hall with stealthy movements, and crept into the +saloon, there to discover Mr. Price upon his knees, playing his cards +madly, while the tragic figure opposite shook with laughter as it won +again and again. The squire of Kingsmore had never gambled in his life +before, and now he was losing everything he possessed, his invested +capital, house, farm, and lands. The perspiration stood upon his face. + +“I have an assignation which I must not fail to keep,” he cried. “But +I will beat you first.” + +Maude seated herself at the harpsichord, and drew from its loose keys +and clogged wires some fantastic sounds, while her husband leaned +beside her, watching and listening, all his faculties keenly alert. + +As Mr. Price sent up his defiant cry Flora rushed into the supper +room. Filling a glass with wine, she searched in all the cabinets, +then snatching up the glass turned to the door. A figure appeared +before her with a jingling of bells, a short figure clad in many +colours, with a cap like a cock’s comb upon its head, a flute in its +hand, and the leering mask of Comedy enveloping its face. + +“Let me pass,” she screamed. + +“What do you seek?” demanded the motley figure. + +“Poison,” she cried. + +With his flute he struck the glass from her hand. “You are one of my +enemies,” he laughed. “You have set before your mind unnatural ideas, +and sought to follow them. You have a friend who has been heartless, +but she has submitted of her own free-will and shall be happy. You +continue to resist and shall be broken. You shall harm no one while I +am near.” + +Flora could not recognise the voice of Drayton beneath the comic mask; +but when the figure turned, and the light of the candles fell across +the brown face, she shrank from the shape. Was that a mask? If so, it +was a mask controlled by muscles, trembling with life, heated by +blood: a mask that had grown upon the face like skin, moulding the +features that bore it into its own grinning shape. + +Dr. Berry was creeping cat-like about the house. He heard a sound of +music and the wild ejaculations of the man who believed himself +ruined. A smile crossed his face, and he murmured cunningly, “Extreme +circumspection is necessary. I will hide in the ante-room, and behold +what is taking place.” Stealthily descending the stairs he passed +through a side door. An antique lamp was burning low upon a table +which was littered with sheets of manuscript. The curtains which +divided this room from the saloon were closed. The poet halted on the +threshold. It seemed to him that he was standing upon the brink of an +open grave. + +Four of the rotten planks which comprised the flooring had been broken +away. Taking the lamp he went to his knees, and lowering the light +perceived a small cellar bricked in like a vault. The damp walls shone +when the light flashed across them. The lamp-bearer saw two iron hooks +driven into the crumbling cement; and to one of them clung a twisted +fragment of what might have been leather, or rope, or even muscle. + +“The grave is prepared,” he said craftily. “It remains with me to +supply an occupant.” + +He replaced the lamp, and sat in wild thought beside the table. Some +sheets of manuscript lay beneath his eyes. Recognising a portion of +Drayton’s Tragedy, he bent his head to read a fragment, which had been +marked by the author’s hand, “Written when Comedy was in the +ascendant, and therefore worthless.” The fragment ran thus:-- + + + _St. James’s. A room in the palace. Enter the King, led by a page, + singing, and beating time with a roll of music._ + + _King._ + They say I’m not the King. + Here, scapegrace! powder-head! let me hear truth! + Who is he whom you lead? + + _Page._ + His Gracious Majesty George the Third, by the Grace of God King of + Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith-- + + _King._ + Defender. Ha! Defender is my name. + Old George was not afraid. He mocked the Pope, + Witheld all justice from the Catholics, + Broke up their churches, chased the cunning priests + Back to their Roman cells. He beat them all. + Did he not, boy? + + _Page._ + Yes, your Majesty. + + _King._ + Bah! I do hate great men: + These politicians, with their quips and cranks; + These big-wigs, with their tape and rhetoric, + Brass trumpets of sedition. I stand + Free of the highwaymen, that Pitt, that Burke. + I’ll stand alone to fight. I will be king, + Though I lose Colonies. Shall a king kneel, + To beg a favour of his ministers? + A king bow down to seek his subjects’ will, + And crave their gracious leave to wear his crown? + Will he not rather drive the rabble forth, + And swear to all the rout he is the law? + Boy, how long have I reigned? + + _Page._ + ’Tis fifty-five years, your Majesty. + + _King._ + Has any King of England reigned so long? + + _Page._ + No, your Majesty. + + _King._ + Then get you out, + And call the guard, and bid them cheer the King. + + _Exit Page. King goes to a harpsichord and sings a hymn, accompanying + himself._ + + _The Queen enters, kneels at his side, and sings with him. A cheer + from the palace yard, and shouts, God save the King._ + + _King._ + Bid them be silent. They have spoilt my hymn. + I am no king. I am a tired old man, + Weighed down with grief. My darling is so quiet! + They snatched her from me. I can smell the flowers + They heaped upon her, and I feel the arms + Of those who drew me from her bed of earth. + That day I lost my crown. + He lifteth up the lowly, and casts down + The great ones to the dust. + _Another cheer._ + Hark, how they mock me there! Long live the King. + Now let me speak--God grant the King may die. + + _An uproar in the street. Loud cries of_ “_Victory_” _and_ + “_Wellington._” _Queen closes the window._ + + _King._ + ’Tis time to hold my court. See there the troops, + Who fought in Flanders, waiting for review; + A noble band. Soldiers, I’m proud of you. + Fine fellows are ye, disciplined and bold. + March past, my guards; march past, and sound your drums. + _Claps his hands as the ghosts pass._ + Right, Left! Right, Left! Aye, that’s the English swing, + The tread that startled Louis and his French, + The march that shook the Spaniards. Where are ye? + Gone past already. Soft! What have we here? + I know those faces and those powdered heads: + My House of Commons. I’ll see to them straight! + The stubborn knaves, who would have broke my will. + Oppose me if ye dare. I know the means + To break your party, to unseat each man, + And drive him cringing to his rural poll. + I’ll do it, if ye force me, and refuse + To aid my plans. Traitor is every man + Who power denies to kings. + Out, villains! Out from here! + What! Must I drive ye forth? + _Runs among the ghosts, beating at them._ + _Noise in the street continues._ + Away, place-seekers! Out of this my court. + I will not hear ye. Look now how they come! + Fawning and sighing, each to kiss my hand, + And seek a favour. Bishops sleek in lawn, + Clergy corrupt, and politicians smooth, + Two-faced, four-handed, Jacobite at night, + Cringing before the man in power by day. + They come on, more and more. + _Noise increases._ + And here we have bespangled generals, + Savage for titles. Here bold Whig-patched dames + Crowd on the stairs, and push some favourite up, + To pay his hollow vows to win a post. + Is this a Court? Call it a market-place, + And me a merchant. Hear those whispered words, + “Give me a Bishopric, and loyal I’ll be,” + Or, “Grant me office, and I’ll be your man,” + And there again, “Hand me authority, + And I will preach the justice of the king.” + Is there not here a man? Are these but masks, + Stamped with some semblance of humanity? + Are truth and honour dead and gone? Away, + Trumpets and heraldry, and power and pomp, + And find me here some loyal flesh and blood. + Away, ye mummers! Out, ye titled clowns! + And hide yourselves in graves. I’m still the King. + + _Bursts into tears and falls, fainting. The Queen bears him up. Enter + an officer noisily._ + + _Officer._ + Great news, Your Majesties! Napoleon + Has met defeat. His army is destroyed + By the allies, and he, a fugitive, + Must soon be taken. + + _Queen._ + Go with your tales of battle, + And shout to them that live. + + _Officer goes out sneering. Queen goes to window and opens it._ + + _Queen._ + They do not look this way. For fifty years + I’ve been the Queen of England. They forget. + The Prince goes on his way to Carlton House; + The crowds close round his carriage, crying out, + “God save the King,” and “Victory.” The King! + There lies the King. + + +The curtains were drawn apart. The reader started up to behold a +fearful face with drooping mouth, cruel and thin-lipped, narrow +forehead and sunken checks, quivering and palpitating with all the +passions of evil. It was the figure of Conway; but the face was the +face of Tragedy. + +“I have ruined the old man yonder,” he mouthed. “Hear him howl! I have +won everything that he possessed, and now all he asks for is a pistol +that he may shoot himself. Tell me, friend, where I may find that +young woman who lately entered this house. I would decoy her outside +to a lonely part of this garden, and there--nay, but I was ever too +free with my tongue.” + +“I need your assistance,” muttered the scholar. + +“It is yours,” came the answer. “I see you are a brave fellow, +accustomed to use the knife.” + +“See that man!” exclaimed the other, pointing out Juxon through a rent +in the curtain. “He has made me a laughing-stock.” + +“Trust in me, friend. We will despatch him together. Do you go into +the long corridor and conceal yourself, while I engage the man in +conversation. Presently I will bring him that way, and as we pass do +you leap out upon him. I will have him held. He shall not have time to +shout.” + +“I will procure a knife,” the poet chuckled. + +The garden of the Strath was plunged in total darkness outside the +shafts of light proceeding from the windows. There was no rain, but +the wind howled and worked havoc among the trees and shrubs. The few +labourers of the hamlet, safe inside their shuttered cottages, were +convinced that the Strath had never been so noisy before. + +October blasts had howled as fiercely over Thorlund; but the grim +influence of the house had never predominated as upon that night when +all the ways were shaded. + +The miserable squire of Kingsmore rushed into the hall, shouting the +one word, “Ruined!” He saw himself a dishonoured man, deprived of the +lands and house which his family had held for generations. He was +half-mad to know that he should have come to this in his old age. True +there were rumours in his family of an ancestor upon whose career the +gambling element had been plainly marked; but even he was never so +deeply dipped as to have forfeited the estate. He hung to Juxon and +implored him for a loan upon easy terms, and when refused sought Dr. +Berry with a like request. The scholar pushed him back with a curse. +When Flora came to him, the miserable old man snatched her hand and +tried to drag the bracelet from her wrist. She caught his hand and +whispered a fierce reminder into his ear. + +“Ha! I had forgotten,” he gasped. “Say, child, has she money? Let us +go in search of the trollop.” + +A sound of flute-playing entered their ears. They looked up to see +Comedy descending the stairs. Recognising an enemy they shrank back +against the draperies. He cast his grinning eyes upon them and cried, +“Do your will. Do your worst. You shall find me near.” + +That instant Tragedy came out and stopped, shivering with fear and +fury, when it saw the motley. During that moment, while the two masks +were glaring at each other, the hearts of the watchers seemed to +cease. Then the fiend slunk abjectly away, and the merry flute piped +onwards like a bird. + +The Juxons were alone in the saloon. Maude was clinging to her +husband, still haunted by the terrible prospect of death by violence. +Beside them the table was overturned and the cards were scattered +about the floor. While Juxon was attempting to calm her fears with +words of consolation Nance fled into the saloon pale with terror, and +screaming for help. Flora and Mr. Price pursued her with murder upon +their faces. They caught the girl as she reached the Juxons and bore +her to the floor; but as the old gentleman, whom his own sister could +not then have recognised, hissed out, “Strangle her!” a tinkling of +bells was heard, and Comedy jumped through the curtains with his +mocking laugh. The tragic characters fell back. The figure in motley +lifted the girl and led her away, leering upon the baulked couple and +saying, “Did I not promise I would follow you?” + +“We are foiled, child,” muttered the old gentleman with a ghastly +smile. “But no matter. We can bide our time.” + +The atmosphere of the Strath was charged like the thunder-cloud which +is about to break. The two forces, through which destiny works her +will, were fighting for supremacy. In the presence of Comedy, Tragedy +had so far been powerless. Wherever the spirit of destruction went +with its frown, the spirit of protection followed with its laugh. It +was a battle between despair and happiness. It did not occur to any of +the characters that safety might be found in flight. By the laws of +the drama, they were compelled to remain upon the scene, until the +entry of the final character and the exodic march. + +A dark figure glided into the saloon. Taking its stand beside the +Juxons, it engaged them in conversation with the subtility of +Mephistopheles. Its tongue was full of flattery, and they yielded to +it. There was a picture in the corridor above which deserved their +attention, and he, the soft speaker, sought the privilege of +conducting them there, having some poor knowledge of the arts, that he +might point out its merits and its beauty. They went with him, and as +the figure stopped in the dimly-lighted corridor and pointed with a +horrible laugh towards a dark copy of The Plague at Athens, Juxon was +held and a cry of exultation rang down the house. + +“Blunderer! The knife,” hissed Tragedy. + +But the bells again jingled. Through the gloom of the house danced +Comedy, to strike down their hands with his flute and to hunt his +enemy before him; and with the dark figure fled the scholar hand in +hand. + +For the greater part of another hour the struggle continued. Maude and +her husband were also absorbed into the maelstrom and sought to be +avenged. The Strath was occupied with conspiracies and stealthily +moving creatures filled with the lust of slaughter. The dark spirit of +tragedy hounded them on. And whenever the blow appeared certain to +fall the bells jingled. Amid the frowns and screams and muttered words +sounded the laugh of the flute-player. And the wind howled and beat +upon the house in a wild chorus heralding the approach of the final +character. + +Apart from that final entry the supremacy of one of the opposing +powers was inevitable. Although Tragedy feared its rival, the time +came when repeated defeats goaded it to fury; until it dared to attack +the motley figure, and the characters drew round to watch the fight. + +The wind fell and there was silence throughout the garden. The old +house seemed to be aware that its last hour had come. A stranger had +passed through the gates, one who was able for a time to resist the +influence, because he understood the secret of the power and his mind +was not open to receive impressions but resolutely set upon the +removal of the cause. This was the final character, who came in +ignorance as to what was taking place at the crucial moment ordained +by the dramatic laws. + +The spectators of the struggle between the rival powers marvelled at +the courage displayed by the last principal character of the drama +when he entered and drove them aside to pass and fling himself upon +the figure of Tragedy. The stranger’s body seemed to them a mere frame +of bones, and his arms were like wire-ropes for strength and +thickness. He held the dark shape upon the floor, one hand clutching +its throat, the fingers of the other tearing at the hot palpitating +mask, raising it by the edges where it adhered less powerfully to the +skin, dragging and peeling it away. Off came the limp horrible face; +and the stranger pressed it upon the fire and held it down, until the +room was full of odours and a nauseous soot, and all its occupants +shivered and grew sick, and the house seemed to thrill with groans. +Then came the turn of comedy; and with the consigning of that mask +also to the flames the power fled from the house, the influence came +to an end; and the two men who had been controlled that night by those +rival influences, which beat with fierce activity upon actors on and +off the stage, were lying unconscious upon the floor, their faces +blistered and their limbs rigid. + +Then the wind arose and with it came a noise of thunder. A portion of +the roof had fallen in. The Strath was a rotten carcase. It had lost +its power of evil and its power of good. Biron, for he it was who had +reached Thorlund at the time appointed, turned to the astounded +guests, introduced himself, and briefly explained why he was there, +and how he had served them. + +“Destroyed the masks!” exclaimed Mr. Price feebly. “What masks? God +bless my soul! what has been happening?” + + + + + PROSCENIUM + + Tragedy is an imitation, not only of a completed action, but also of + an action exciting pity and terror.--_Aristotle_. + +Drayton and Conway were carried into the hall where they could receive +the benefit of the cold wind. The little party abandoned the saloon in +silence, Flora being supported by her uncle. Biron, after bending once +more over the charred remains in the fire, joined them, closing and +fastening the door behind him. The late mummers regarded each other +with a curious suspicion, scarcely daring to speak, and feeling as +though they had awakened from a drugged sleep. Already one of the +company was missing. Dr. Berry had gone back to his solitude; and +after a short interval the Juxons followed. + +At last the survivors were able to regard the Strath with undistorted +judgment. It appeared to them an impossible residence, damp, windy, +and tottering. It had no more romance than an old barn filled with +curiosities; it was a tumbledown museum, filled with draughts and +dust, a place for owls and rats like the ruined parsonage house of +Queensmore. + +Drayton was the first to recover and stand upon his feet. Several more +minutes elapsed before Conway was restored to consciousness. Both were +depressed, troubled by nausea, and tormented by blistered faces. +Neither had the slightest recollection of what he had undergone. +Indeed the entire life of those past months remained a blank sheet +unwritten on by time. There were memories of a dream-like nature, +which could not be framed in words. + +Refreshments were placed in the dining-room, and there the company +betook itself, sane, human, and no longer theatrical. Presently Mr. +Biron gave the tale, as he knew it, of the masks, from their creation +by Joseph Falk, toy-maker of Nuremberg, to his own unexpected and +dramatic arrival that night. He told them how his great-grandfather +had entombed the horrible things in the vault--where, owing to decay +of the flooring in the ante-room, Drayton had discovered them--and +then had disappeared leaving the Strath to become impregnated with the +rival influences. “From certain records handed down to me,” Biron +proceeded, “I am convinced that these masks must have exerted a +fearful power. They would have influenced not only this house and +garden, but the surrounding country and its inhabitants also.” + +“You have told us a strange story. You must forgive me when I say it +is not easy to accept,” said Mr. Price in a bewildered voice. “I knew +there was something unnatural here, indeed everybody knew that, but +the curious part about it was that no one ever thought of organizing +any active crusade against the Strath. I do not know what has been +going on to-night. I am only painfully conscious of my aching limbs.” + +“Do you suggest that my friend and myself have been under the control +of these masks all the summer?” asked Conway. + +“I say also you may consider yourselves fortunate in having escaped,” +Biron answered. “Fine weather would have been favourable to you. +During the long dark nights of winter you might have lost your reason +and committed suicide. I speak from my small knowledge of the masks.” + +“What brought you here in time to save us?” + +“I can answer that,” said Drayton, coming forward, his face still +bearing the comedian’s leer. “I pawned the masks which used to hang in +your room in town. I wanted to tell you, but for some reason or other +could not. It was a mean thing to do, but I wanted to reach you, and +had no money.” + +“You could not have rendered your friend a better service,” said +Biron. “It is owing to your action I am here. I had offered a reward +for information which might lead to the discovery of the originals. It +was the least I could do to atone for my ancestor’s irresponsible +conduct--I do him the credit of believing it to have been so. +Unfortunately I was away from my home in Naples when the information +was sent, or I should have been here much earlier.” + +“You are right when you suggest that this neighbourhood has suffered,” +said Mr. Price thoughtfully. “Everyone has left it, except those who +are tied to the land. A little village yonder called Queensmore lies +in ruins. Sheep-farming has been a failure. As for this valley of +Thorlund, it has remained indifferent to everything. The villagers +could talk of nothing but the Strath.” + +Conway moved across to the wall and taking down the wooden copies of +the masks turned them thoughtfully between his hands. + +“They are harmless,” said Biron with his cadaverous smile. + +Conway made no reply. Removing one of the logs he placed the masks in +the hottest part of the fire and savagely watched the process of +immolation. + +“Flora, we must go,” said the old squire, lifting himself stiffly. +“Take your last look at the inside of the Strath, for I doubt if you +will ever see it again.” + +“Indeed you may not, Miss Neill,” said the owner. “The house is coming +down, and the wilderness outside shall be reclaimed.” + +As the uncle and niece were about to take their departure Biron bent +his bony figure to whisper into the squire’s ear, “If this young lady +has been much under the influence of the masks I should advise you to +send her away for a change of scene.” + +At that warning the old gentleman looked at his niece and noticed the +heaviness of her eyes. He dimly wondered what would have befallen her, +and himself, had the masks been permitted to live, but dismissed the +thought because it was not a pleasant one. He wished the men +good-night and turned to leave the house for ever. + +But Flora as she shook hands with Conway could not refrain from +confessing in a low voice, “I think I have learnt something here.” + +Biron, who was near, overheard and said, “I have always believed that +there was good as well as evil in the power--or shall I call it the +teaching?--of the masks. Unfortunately they could only impart that +teaching, or we could only receive it, in a manner that was full of +danger both to body and mind.” + +“And we never knew anything about it,” said Mr. Price solemnly. “That +is the strangest thing of all.” + +“We know nothing of the influence which controls us in the state +before birth or in the conditions after bodily death,” said Biron. “I +have discharged the duty of my life,” he went on. “The masks are +destroyed. Results must live after them, but I am content to know they +cannot claim any more victims. I rejoice with all my heart at your +escape.” + +When Mr. Price and Flora had gone the three men continued to speak +upon the subject which was uppermost in their minds; and presently it +was Biron’s turn to listen while Conway spoke upon his uncle’s fate. +When he had concluded, having indeed very little to state, the +attenuated man took up the matter with interest. + +“You tell me your uncle was found dead in this place, under conditions +which precluded the possibility of anyone having placed violent hands +upon him. You say also that the police, after making every effort to +discover a murderer, were forced to relinquish their search for lack +of material upon which to work. But surely the truth is obvious. Your +poor uncle came to Joseph Falk’s end. He destroyed himself.” + +“No,” cried both the listeners together, and Conway added, “it was +shown at the inquest he had been strangled.” + +“Not hanged?” + +“He was discovered lying across the threshold of the hall-door.” + +“Then here we have a mystery,” said Biron. “Some material influence +must have been brought into requisition that night. You must give me +time to think over it. And now with your permission, I will walk +through the house.” + +“We will go with you. It will be as new to us as to you,” said the +owner grimly. + +They made a tour of inspection throughout the Strath from cellars to +attics. Upstairs the walls were mildewed and gaping with cracks. Room +after room of the dead house they examined, scarcely venturing to +speak during that solemn survey; until they entered a bedroom which +contained an immense four-post bedstead hung about with a filthy +valance. Part of the wall had broken away, and the wind howled inward, +lashing the ivy against the loosening brickwork. Upon a table they saw +a floriated cross and near it a book in shagreen covers. Conway picked +up the book, and glanced through it idly, and pushed it into his +pocket. Biron drew back the draperies and looked into the bed which +was piled with clothes half-eaten by grubs. “My faith,” he muttered, +“There should be some remote influence haunting this house even now.” + +“I will tell you what I know of its history, if you will come +downstairs,” said the owner. Then he turned to his friend and asked, +“Drayton, do you think we have been living here without anyone to look +after us? You may remember, but I cannot.” + +“Wasn’t there a girl, or an old woman?” said the writer dubiously. “I +seem to remember a tall girl, with a very serious brown face and +quantity of black hair, and an old woman who was always grumbling.” + +Upon going downstairs part of the mystery was solved; for they found +in the kitchen the rachitic dame, who had served them, fast asleep in +a crazy chair. Nancy Reed had gone, and at that time was running with +the wind back to her late home at Kingsmore, a wild girl again, and +her mind in borderland. + +Venturing to re-enter the saloon the men found that the atmosphere had +cleared. The fire which had destroyed the last remains of the criminal +and the mountebank was burning low. More logs were piled upon the +rotten irons, and then Conway gave his visitor a true account of the +history of the Strath down to the end of the eighteenth century, +mentioning what he knew of Sir John Hooper’s villainous career and +punishment, and the story of his daughter’s misery. “This book, which +I picked up in the bedroom above, seems to be Winifred Hooper’s +journal,” he concluded. + +The guest reached out his arm and having taken the tragic record +passed his eyes hurriedly across its pages. Presently he began to read +extracts aloud. Their interest increased. Biron lingered over a page, +and from that point read on continuously, wherever the writing was +legible. The two men drew closer and leaning forward listened +intently, while the candles guttered down to their sockets, and the +fire burnt to an angry red. + +It was midnight, and the wild wind was at its height, rushing overhead +and howling down the passages. Still the three men sat motionless, and +Biron’s voice, enriched by its foreign accent, read on, lifting as it +neared the last pages because of the noises in the house. Occasionally +Conway started, or Drayton averted his eyes hurriedly from the black +window. For the first time the Strath appeared to them haunted indeed. +The shadowy visitor’s voice faltered once, then sounded strongly as it +read: + + + “And now I am alone with the God who called me upon this scene. My dog + is dead. He has been ailing for many days, and this evening, when I + went to care for him as my poor skill permitted, he lifted his head + and licked my hand, shivered and moaned and died. The body lies beside + me. No longer will he spring up and growl when a footfall sounds along + my passage. No longer will he stand before me to protect me from my + father, snarling and showing his white teeth when he beholds the whip + which is not for him. Dear faithful friend, good-night. + + “It is strange that while we cannot by any means foretell the future + we may yet feel the approach of calamity. During this last week, when + listening in the silence of this room, I have felt the nearness of + disaster. Will the omen fail? It matters so little. I am able to bear + misfortune because accustomed to it, but any unexpected happiness + might stop my heart for ever. Were Geoffrey to stand before me now I + should neither laugh nor speak. Like my poor dog I could only kiss his + hand and die. I would embrace a phantom were it his. I am a + philosopher, and my crucible is filled with adversity out of which I + strive all night to win knowledge, not of the world, nor of its hidden + forces, nor of the stars which shine above, but an answer to my heart + which goes on asking, ‘What is love?’ Is it a morning cloud melted by + the sun, or a flower scattered by the breeze, or is it a rock which + defies the storm? Is it made of dreams, loose-clinging stuff, falling + from the body at a touch? Or is it an immortal essence, imbruing the + soul through time and space and change? + + “None can answer me, and indeed I care not. I doubt whether + to-morrow’s sun will rise upon the hills. I fail when I try to trust + in life eternal. I resign my confidence in ministering spirits and my + hope in Heaven. I am not even assured of my own existence. I pass to + and fro, without sound, with so little substance, haunting this house + like some unhappy ghost. Have I indeed ceased to be material? Is there + anything that I may believe in? Yes, there is one thing. I believe in + the reality of fear. + + “Geoffrey is but the memory of a long past time. I must speak to that + I see and feel and hear, to the indifferent and unresponsive objects + of this daily prison, to the drifting clouds and the whirling wind. + There is life in the wind and strength. It passes on, the same, yet + not the same, changing its cry, now howling, now falling to a sob, now + rushing like a madman, now crawling snake-like. And I can hear the + trees roaring like the sea. So I address the wind, and the trees, and + my poor friend’s body, and all else that I can see and hear, because + faith can do no more. + + “It must be hard on midnight. I dare not think what may be taking + place outside. The house is filled with shadows. It is like a cave + beaten by the waves. Walking in the garden to-day I heard voices + beyond the wall, and three strange men rode beside the gates, cloaked + and long-booted, and one had a deep scar along his cheek, and all were + armed. One muttered, as he nodded to this garden, ‘We may trap the old + fox to-night.’ They passed on, along the high road in the direction of + Kingsmore, and I knew it was I who had brought them. The villagers + will not warn my father, because they hate him. His fate rests with + me, his only child, and he is condemned for Geoffrey’s sake. + + “I have been to the head of the stairs because I thought I heard a + disturbance. Old Deborah is walking about the hall, beating her hands + together. Deborah loves my father, because she nursed him as a boy. + She saw me, and frowned, and began to snuff the candles that she might + persuade me she was not anxious. She muttered, ‘’Tis a mighty wind, + and bad luck to him who’s caught in it.’ Then she went to the door and + I heard her say, ‘That’s the coach. And that’s the noise of--get you + to your room,’ she cried, starting back and shaking her hand at me. + ‘Get you away.’ So I came back, and am now straining my ears at every + sound. + + “Now I could hear were I stone deaf. The end has come. The terrible + night! First the noise of furious galloping. There was the clang of + the iron gate, the galloping again, and voices shouting; and after + that a lantern flashed its light upon the side of the house. One horse + crossed this light, my father’s mare flecked with foam, then another + and that was Reed’s big grey, and then a third. What have they done? + There has been murder upon the highway. The third horse carried a body + slung across the saddle. They passed, were gone, and then a voice I + know too well shouted, ‘Rub the mare dry, unsaddle her, and turn her + into the field. Here, fool, you have dropped your mask. Burn it, and + throw these pistols into the moat, and clean that sword. Then come + into the house, for you and I must have a word together.’ + + “I can hear the beating of my heart. The awful night! Why did I not + escape. Better the cold plantation than my father’s fury. All is + silent now, apart from the wind--but there! It is the door. A wild + voice shouts, ‘Deborah, bring brandy-wine and plenty of hot water.’ + God grant he may forget me. + + “Again I have listened in the passage. The hall-door was pushed open + and the man Reed entered--I knew him by his oaths. He was breathing + thickly and struggling with some burden, which he let down upon the + floor, or dropped it rather, for I heard it roll and settle with + dreadful heaviness.” + + +As Biron spoke that last word, there came from above the sound of a +body, falling heavily, so as to shake the house. Without lifting his +eyes, or moving in his seat, he read calmly on: + + + “Then a brawling began between the man and the master. Their words I + could not often catch, but I heard my father’s voice, shaking with + fear and rage. ‘Burn it,’ he shouted. ‘Or, if there be not time, hide + it away in the girl’s bedroom.’ What Reed replied I could not hear, + but I imagine he told my father there could be no cause for hurry, as + he is a dense besotted creature, with a mind set upon strong liquors, + a man too incapable of feeling to know fear. Their voices became + hoarse mutterings, and now I hear the clinking of glasses and the + rattling of flasks. I can write almost unmoved, and yet that horrible + feeling of calamity impending remains, and when I look upon my bed I + seem to see a cold sheet, and a shape, and a solemn candle burning at + the head. Is that the shape of the poor wretch they have murdered + to-night? No, it is too thin and small, and I think I discover a lock + of fair hair upon the pillow. Well, there is but one more page + remaining to this book. + + “Again I hear the note of disagreement. They have always been violent + in their cups. The voices are raised higher. There is none here they + need fear. Still no sound from without. They have been favoured by the + wind and the darkness of the night, and thus have again escaped. But + there--a blow. Surely a blow, and now, ‘Traitor! Spy! Informer!’ There + is death in that voice. The clash of swords! Oh God! they are fighting + like beasts. Let me not be the cause of any man’s death, be he + highwayman or murderer. Now I understand the reason of that fight + which must end in death. My father knows that his guilt has been + discovered. His return was a flight. Those cloaked long-booted men are + perhaps even now upon his track, and he believes that his companion + has betrayed him, and, half-drunk, half-mad, cannot listen to denial. + And I am the informer. And I dare not go down, dare not face him as he + is, dare not tell him that his accomplice is innocent, dare not tell + him it was I. Oh, the clamour, the ringing, the clashing of those + swords! The shrieks of the wind, and that awful breathing! Silence, + but the whole house seems to be shuddering. There is a hollow sound in + the hall, rising and swelling along the passage, louder every moment, + and now, ‘Open, in the King’s name.’ + + “Torches are flaring in the garden. The house is surrounded. That + beating upon the door continues, or is it the beating of my heart? But + the same stern voice demands admission, and my wretched father shouts + in terror, as he feels the shadow of the gallows creeping across his + head, and blunders about the saloon, and now into the hall, past the + rebounding door, and now he is upon the stairs, and I can hear a + dragging and a heaving and two dead heels rattling from step to step. + Oh, merciful God! He is coming here to hide the body, and I cannot + bear it, I cannot look upon it. They are breaking down the door, + battering it in with a heavy log, and won it gives with a noise of + thunder, and the avengers rush in shouting at their loudest, + ‘Surrender, in the King’s name!’” + + +The three men started fearfully, but not a sound escaped their lips, +when there rose above the wind a terrific noise in the neighbourhood +of the hall-door, a crashing thunderous riot, as though that door had +indeed been crushed inwards and the human hounds were hunting in the +house. The reader’s thin face quivered, as his tongue concluded the +last wild words upon the final page: + + + “Let them seize him upon the stairs. He has reached the corridor, + gasping in his terror. He is dragging no longer, but carrying. He + enters this passage, shouting my name. They hear him. The house rocks + as they rush up the stairs. ‘I have brought him. Take him. Hide him + away.’ What does he mean? Will he reach the roof and fling himself + down? He is here, panting outside my door. Again he is dragging the + dreadful thing, and now I must look upon that, and upon him. He flings + himself against the door…” + + +As the record ended with that blotted word, a fearful crash shook the +ground, the house tottered, and suddenly the saloon wall opened +peacefully, and men caught glimpses of a wild watery moon between two +lack shuddering fringes of ivy. + +“Run!” shouted Biron, dropping his hands and the time-worn book. “The +house is falling upon us.” + + + + + EXODE + + He had no brains for the Royal Diadem to cover; and if Zeus should + give him his Lightning and Thunder, he would be no more Zeus for + that.--_Plutarch_. + +The vacarme had ceased and the Strath was abandoned to its decay. The +influence had done its work upon the minds of those brought beneath +its sway. Punishment, sharp and summary, had been meted out upon Henry +Reed with the cruelty for which Nature is notorious. A like punishment +was to fall upon Dr. Berry. Both were weak men, although in other +respects eminently dissimilar; the one a dull material creature, the +other a sensitive spiritual being. The former attempted to arrest the +working of the influence, while the latter essayed the equally +impossible task of establishing himself as an active principle of that +power. The active and hostile scepticism of the one was no whit more +dangerous than the complete resignation of the other. + +Mr. Price, a man of very simple nature who clung to his belief, never +adding to it nor subtracting from it, emerged from the ordeal +unchanged. Juxon found himself equipped with a knowledge which had +come unsought. He was further rewarded by the affection and constancy +of his wife. Even when wealth came to him, and he was pointed out with +some awe as a man endowed with uncanny gifts, little Maude kept her +head and her resolutions. The Strath had been kind to her, because her +faults had sprung from weakness and vanity, not, as in Flora’s case, +from a malignant growth. The latter was punished by being compelled to +know herself; and that punishment endured. + +Conway had been shown that idleness and debauchery are serious +infringements of the laws of nature. He carried away with him from the +ruined Strath a bitter hatred of his former life. As for Drayton, when +his inheritance came, late in life, he knew he had not himself to +thank. He had always done his best, but the parrot-like nature of his +former labours had stunted his mind, and poverty had sapped his +physical powers. He acknowledged to himself, when his fame as a +dramatic writer became fully established, that those ideas which +enriched his brain had been born in him during the weeks of dream and +languor spent in the garden of the Strath. + +After those days of the change Conway found for Lone Nance a congenial +home and a kindly guardianship. In that condition her wild beauty +increased and her face softened, although her mind never recovered the +even balance to which it had attained during her stay in the Strath. + +It was Maude’s last day in the country, and she walked--donkeys, cart, +and silver bells having been consigned to the auctioneer--to +Kingsmore, that she might say good-bye to Mr. Price, also to Flora and +her mother who were about to leave. The little lady had sobered down +her exuberance of colour; she wore a grey skirt with coat to match, +and a black hat, where a trace of the old Eve survived in the shape of +a small pink bow nestling as though ashamed beneath the brim. Her +husband had gone away, full of confidence, by reason of the new +strength which had been vouchsafed to him at the Strath; and Maude was +about to follow, having a wild desire to live in two rooms, and cook +her husband’s dinner with her own ignorant hands, and be nurse to +Peggy, and lady of work generally. “For I am going to be a wife now, +Herbert,” she had declared. “And not a caricature. I am very stupid +and shall have to learn everything. If you will just be as good to me +as you have always been, I don’t mind getting old and I won’t be +afraid to lose my looks.” Such was Maude’s new and liberal doctrine. + +The squire came riding in from the farm as the little lady entered the +drive and seeing her lowered himself stiffly from his horse. She +noticed for the first time that he was looking old and fragile; his +legs, crooked by years of riding, were weak and unsteady, his +shoulders were bending, his cheeks were growing hollow, and the fringe +of hair above the nape of his neck was as white as wool. She ran +forward and offered him her arm with a pretty smile. + +“Why, young lady!” he cried in his hearty manner. “I did not recognise +you at first. So you have come to say good-bye. Well, I am sorry to +hear that, because at my age it is a serious matter to say farewell. +Do you mean to say you have walked all the way? Come into the house +and rest yourself. Flora is not well, I’m afraid. She will be glad to +see you, and you may cheer her up. There is something on her mind, but +she won’t tell me what it is. I hope and pray she is not going into +religious mania, like my poor eldest sister who went and made a +useless nun of herself. In my young days girls were not allowed to +have opinions. They were given their religion, just as they were given +their husbands, and very much happier and more useful they were.” + +“Flora wants a change,” said Maude. “Autumn is so depressing.” + +“You don’t look particularly downcast,” said the old gentleman. “The +autumn seems to agree with you.” + +“That is because I have made a heap of resolutions, and I am going to +stick to them,” said the little lady. “I have done nothing all my +life, except dress and laugh, and now it’s time to work.” + +The squire was about to chaff her, but one glance at her face +convinced him that she meant what she had said. + +“There is nothing like work,” he said, with more feeling than was +usual with him. “There is no happiness in life without work. The +preacher, who advised his fellow-creatures to follow the example of +the ant, knew what he was talking about, even if he hadn’t the sense +to put his teaching into practice. I lose money every year over my +farm, but it gives me plenty of healthy work, and it affords a living +to the people of my village. I hope to go on working to the day of my +death and to pass from the saddle to the grave. That is how my +grandfather went. He came in from the hunt at six o’clock, and was +dead by dinner-time.” + +“Don’t,” said Maude gently. + +“Ah, you think we are here for ever,” said the squire. “We all think +so when we are young. But when past seventy we feel the ravages of +time and lose our roast-beef stomachs, as somebody once said. Fill in +your years unselfishly, child. Fill them in with work and laughter, +help those who are in trouble, and do your duty elsewhere, and you +will be happy when you’re old.” + +The old man tramped away, gave his horse to a boy, then went round the +yard, ferreting out eggs from the hen-houses, poking his riding-crop +into the sides of fattening porkers, an replacing the hay which +wasteful cows had tugged from their rack and were trampling underfoot. +As he stood in the raw autumn afternoon, with his dogs jumping round +him, and the pigeons fluttering down for a portion of the grain he +always carried in his pockets, he looked what he was, the last of the +plain old squires. + +Flora was alone in the drawing-room, lying on a sofa, reading a book, +which she tried to smuggle away when her friend was announced; but +Maude jumped upon the volume and secured it. She merely opened her +eyes a trifle wider when she read the title, “Plato’s education of the +young,” and dropped the book without a word. + +“I thought you would come, Maude,” said Flora in a heavy voice. “I am +going to Italy with mother next week. I may very likely never see you +again.” + +“My girl!” cried Maude. “What do you mean? Why, of course we shall +meet again. Do you know I am going to learn housekeeping--yes, it is +rather late in the day--and when I am proficient you shall come and +stay with me, and I will give you lessons. Herbert is fearfully hard +up just now, but he is going to make heaps of money presently.” + +“I may stop in Italy,” said Flora, in the same dull voice. + +“Then I shall come and worry you,” said Maude with decision. “But, my +dear, you won’t. You will come back in the spring, and marry a nice +husband, and be a nice wife. And then you will be as happy as I am.” + +“Are you happy?” said Flora. “Really happy?” + +“Happy enough to whistle on a foggy day,” said the grey lady. + +“You have changed, Maude.” + +“I have found out Herbert’s good points, and some of my bad ones,” +said Maude. “And you have changed since that day when we sat in the +punt on the river, and you tried to persuade me you were horrid and +unnatural. You have changed all that, haven’t you, girl?” + +Flora flushed a little, and by way of reply introduced a fresh topic. + +“I have received a letter since I last saw you,” she said hurriedly. +“It is from--well, I need only say that I led him on, he proposed, and +I refused. He must be fond of me if he wants me still.” + +“You will say yes?” said Maude softly. + +“I have said no.” + +“You shall, you must, change your mind. Write the letter now. Or let +me send a telegram as I go back through the village. You would be +happy if you were married. And if you had a little girl like my Peggy, +you would be so proud of yourself you would turn up your nose if you +met all the queens in the world at a street-corner.” + +Flora had never been demonstrative, therefore when she suddenly flung +her arm round Maude’s neck the little lady was considerably +astonished; but this was nothing compared to her consternation when +she heard the communication which the fair-haired girl proceeded to +whisper into her ear. + +“Flora!” she exclaimed. “It is not true. You have always been +imaginative. That is your idea because you are not well. When you get +away from here you will soon change all that.” + +“Don’t you know that the neglected faculty dies for want of use?” came +the answer. “I cannot love now. The power is not in me. And without +love I will not marry. I am as cold as any stone and my heart will not +respond. When I read that letter not a pulse in me stirred. I have +repelled the blind boy too long, and now he has left me for ever.” + +“He will come back,” said Maude earnestly. “He will come back in the +spring and shoot a sharp arrow right through your poor little heart, +and then you will forget all that has passed, and be a good wife--a +much better one than I have ever been.” + +“I called myself an asymptote and tried to live up to the part,” went +on the girl. “Now I am the curve, and Cupid plays the asymptote. And +yet it really matters very little,” she added firmly. “Love and +marriage are, after all, only incidents in life. There is so much +besides.” + +“Oh, my dear! Take away love, and life is a tragedy. But I don’t know +how to preach,” said the little lady with a laugh. “I will just hand +you over to the mercies of time. Only promise that you will come and +stay with me when you return.” + +“If I return I will,” replied Flora; and with that delphic utterance +Maude had to be content. + +She never saw her friend again. The following year Flora offered her +services to a missionary society, was accepted, and sent to Ceylon to +work among the natives. There she became a Buddhist, accepting the +religion she had gone out to fight against, an action which was +typical of her. Maude gasped with horror when she heard, through Mr. +Price, the news, for Buddhism and cannibalism were with her synonymous +terms. She wrote several frantic letters to Flora, entreating her to +leave the savage state and return to civilization. No answer came. +Mrs. Neill lapsed ungrammatically to the grave; Mr. Price, with tears +in his simple eyes, altered his will; and Flora, the original and +strong-minded, was never heard of again. + +Two characters remained upon the scene, the former leader of the +dramatic mysteries, and he who had entered last. Biron would not leave +until the whole of his duty had been accomplished. He conceived it +incumbent upon himself to unravel the mystery of Reed’s end, that he +might atone as completely as possible for the trouble brought upon the +place by his great-grandfather’s actions. The day after Conway’s +departure he drove to Thorlund and entered the dripping garden. There, +hard by the sundial, he encountered the rector, closely muffled, and +walking slowly with the aid of a stick. They greeted one another and +fell into a conversation, which Biron quickly turned towards the +subject he had at heart. + +“This is a mournful sight,” he said, indicating what had been the +house. + +“And this a hateful wilderness,” replied the scholar weakly, waving +his stick across the garden. “Once, I believe, I loved it.” + +There was little remaining to inspire affection. The Strath had +fallen. All that was left of the standing ruins were two blank walls, +one gable, and a mass of ivy. Beyond were heaps of bricks, torn +draperies smeared with mud, and shattered furniture. The unsupported +walls appeared to sway gently, waiting for the blast which should +level them with the ground; and the saloon window, still bearing the +unbroken escutcheon of the Hooper family, stared vacantly across the +unromantic tangle of garden. Illusion had left that haunted ground for +ever. + +“I can tell you nothing,” said the scholar, in answer to his +companion’s question concerning Reed’s death. “Perhaps there are +circumstances which later on I may recall, but at this present time my +mind refuses to work. I have been very ill. There is a pain in my head +as though my brain was wounded. It is strange to know that I was once +so happy here. Now the whole place repels me.” + +“It is certain that Reed came to a violent end,” urged Biron. “It is +equally certain that no one was suspected of the crime of murder. I +imagined that you, being in this garden so often, might have formed +some theory.” + +“He afforded an instance of a man whose folly brought its own +punishment,” answered the rector. “I warned him that it would so +happen, but he laughed at me. I do not believe that any man had a hand +in his death. His life was removed by supernatural powers.” + +“Those powers of which you speak can only work their will through +human agency,” said Biron. “The masks might have supplied the +influence, but the act could only have been consummated by material +hands.” + +“Come back with me,” said the scholar restlessly. “This damp wind cuts +through my head.” + +The fire was burning low when they entered the study where the scholar +had dreamed his life away. So soon as Biron had seated himself his +host emptied two drawers of a quantity of manuscript, and this mass he +piled upon the glowing cinders, laughing foolishly when the flames +blazed up. “Draw your chair near,” he cried to his guest. “That log of +dry wood will soon warm the room.” + +“Log of wood!” Biron muttered, with a quick glance at the scholar’s +white face. “Do you call that paper wood?” + +“Paper or wood, the chemical constituents of the two are alike,” came +the answer. “Fire reduces each to carbon. I have finished my work,” he +went on, with a touch of the old dreaminess. “I have nothing more to +do. It is a false heat we find in poetry after all.” + +“You have burnt your work?” suggested the other, his eyes fixed upon +the stooping figure. + +“It is wood that is burning there,” said the poet irritably. “Dry, +rotten wood. Let me show you my books. I have some rare books here.” + +The short autumnal day drew on, but the visitor did not rise to go. +His host was talking wildly, yet never mentioning the Strath, nor its +owners, nor his own griefs. Psychology was the subject he dilated +upon. So great was his tongue’s activity that Biron was given no +opportunity for replying to the distorted theories which tumbled one +upon the other from the scholar’s mind. He conjured up all manner of +phantasies, delighting himself with them as the child happy with new +toys, diving far into abstruse beliefs, passing from one problem to +another, his mind never seeking after cause, never pausing to grope +for a solution, but glancing off lightly and speeding into fresh +whirlpools of theory. The accumulated learning of a life burst from +his brain, deluging the ears of his listener, who sat amid a library +of books which had been piled around him. + +At length Biron was given a chance of speaking. Seizing the +opportunity he opened his lips hastily to put the question, “What are +your theories regarding involuntary action and the secondary +personality?” + +Straightway the scholar was started upon fresh roads leading into +stranger realms; but as he talked unceasingly the words “bodily +insensibility” detached themselves from the general outpour and struck +Biron’s ears with a sinister sound. Also the word “sleep” became +bracketed constantly with the phrase “unconscious action,” and the +word “premeditated,” came with an ominous ring in conjunction with +such expressions as “natural fear” and “subliminal self.” + +As darkness crept into the room and the firelight grew more pronounced +Dr. Berry’s eloquence failed and he sank back exhausted in his chair. +Then Biron began to talk, but his mood was neither argumentative nor +controversial; he spoke gently and soothingly, avoiding the subject of +the Strath, merely describing certain of the places he had visited in +the course of a life mainly devoted to travel, Venice, the Campagna, +the secret ways of mediæval cities, the ancient castles of the Rhine; +and when he saw that his purpose was likely to be fulfilled his +musical voice went on to picture Athens, the calm Aegean, and the +tombs of Grecian heroes. His voice sank into a whisper when he +understood that the poet had succumbed. + +Fifteen minutes passed--thirty, but the sleeper made no sign. Biron +watched the white face with its sealed eyes until a mist formed before +his own. Outside, darkness had settled. Within a long flame darted +from the midst of the burnt paper flashing across that set face and +brightening the silvered hair. Forty-five minutes, and no movement, +although the bony watcher still exercised the hypnotic power. When the +hour was proclaimed by a little marble clock some sense of shame +entered Biron’s mind. The knowledge that he was grievously abusing the +laws of hospitality forced itself upon him. Half rising he called +gently, “Doctor Berry,” then sank back with a thrill. The poet was +standing upright before him, his hands swaying loosely at his sides, +his eyes wide open. + +“Show me what took place upon that night when Reed died,” said the +hypnotist firmly. + +Dr. Berry moved to the writing table, and his fingers rustled among +some papers. Then he turned to the window, put out his arms, and at +once evinced what might have been surprise or annoyance when he found +it closed. Biron approached the casements and flung them open. They +passed out, one after the other, the scholar taking the well-trodden +path through the churchyard which led to the Strath, walking quickly +and without hesitation, while Biron groped and blundered behind. + +The ragged wall streaming with ivy lifted before them. They reached +the muddy moat, choked with dead leaves and rotting branches, but as +they neared the edge Biron saw that the bridge had disappeared. The +sleeper was walking on. The hypnotist sprang forward and seized him; +there was a slight struggle, and Dr. Berry awoke. + +He did not show any surprise at finding himself in that place. He had +in the past awakened beside the sun-dial, or in the orchard, without +any remembrance of having left his study; but he was clearly dismayed +to see the ruins looming out of the gloom, and he was irritated at +discovering Biron close to him, pointing to the handkerchief which he +had twisted like a rope. He laughed unpleasantly when Biron addressed +him, and turned away still laughing; but the traveller stood before +him whichever way he would have gone. + +“What would you do with that handkerchief?” he demanded. “Why have you +twisted it?” + +“To beat back those who follow me,” the scholar shouted, with a sudden +burst of anger, stepping out and flicking Biron across the face. “Why +are you with me now?” Then he laughed again, and said quietly, “Go +your own way, my friend, and I will go mine. The Strath has fallen. I +had resolved never to come here again.” + +Biron seized the speaker’s wrists in his bony fingers. “You have much +to forgive my family,” he muttered. “Had my great-grandfather not +lived those masks would never have been here. Had you only been strong +enough to abstain from this garden your mind would not have suffered. +Had Reed not incurred your ill-will he might have been alive to-day.” + +“Folly,” cried Dr. Berry angrily. “That Reed was a monster, who wanted +to turn this place into a farm and keep pigs and poultry. But the +Strath was well able to take care of itself.” + +Biron gulped down the answer which was ready on his tongue. “I entreat +you,” he said loudly, “I implore you to leave Thorlund, and that +quickly, and try to forget all that has taken place here.” + +Dr. Berry’s laughter ceased. Taking a match from his pocket he struck +it, and held it above his head without moving, until the flame burnt +his fingers. Then he dropped the glowing fragments, and said in a +choking voice, “Go away! You have frightened me.” + +Biron made one step back, then hesitated. Again he advanced and +muttered, “After all there may be nothing to forget. You have been all +these years under the influence of the masks. You are not guilty. It +was the eighteenth century monster Cagliari who controlled your body +and made use of your hands. He alone is guilty, and no man can call +him to account.” + +“Go!” shouted the scholar. “You white-faced shivering creature, you +bone-faced ghost!” + +He stumbled forward with threatening motions, and Biron backed away, +his feet ploughing through the leaves. That moment the dark clouds +parted and a glimpse of moonlight passed, revealing the wild features +of the one man and the bony face of the other. Suddenly Biron started +round and ran towards the road, alive to the knowledge that alone he +would be unable to restrain the scholar, who began then to comprehend +how that garden and fallen house had used his mind and brain. + +Many minutes passed before the rector presented himself at the iron +gates, and passed from that scene for ever. The moon had vanished; the +muddy road wound away like a black river; there was not any creature +in sight, nor within hearing of his mumbled complaint; and upon the +hills all was silent. He walked out. From the gates, beside the +lichened wall, and so round to his home, was a distance of three +hundred yards, past some ruined barns, a deserted farmyard, a standing +pool, and the worn patchwork of turf and mud known as the green; and +so to the churchyard and the mossy little Bethel which was his +official, but had never been his spiritual, charge. + +He paced along the centre of this road, his fingers knotted together. +And as he went there flickered across his vision a fantastic object, +something which resembled a small white tassel, shaken violently at +the corner of his eye. When he turned it was gone, but only that it +might appear upon the other side. And opposite the pool his foot trod +upon and snapped a rotten stick, which cried out to him as though in +pain. And when near the churchyard a phantasm started from the wall of +the Strath, and walked beside him. At the lich-gate this apparition +vanished, and the ghostly tassel quivered wildly between his eyes. + +Later the old housekeeper of the rectory heard strange noises in the +house and a voice which she could not recognise. Lifting the lamp, she +left the kitchen. The study was unoccupied. The sounds proceeded from +the dining-room. And there she discovered her master. He had placed a +chair upon the table, and was seated upon it, with a paper crown on +his head and a ruler in his hand. And as she stood and trembled before +him he bade her have no fear, because he was Zeus, king of gods and of +men, sitting in judgment upon the world. + +“Open that door which leads down to the world and you shall hear the +din of cries ascending to me,” he cried. “All are asking for riches, +honour, or long life. Not a single voice supplicates me for wisdom or +for charity. Do you not wonder how I restrain my anger and allow my +thunderbolts to lie idle?” + + +In the grey of the morning, when the wet hills were wrapped in mist +and the valley was full of gossamers, a closed carriage entered +Thorlund, Biron accompanying it, and presently rolled away, removing +Dr. Berry from his charge. The scholar was seated between two grave +black-coated men, who held their hands upon his wrists and only spoke +to humour him. The poet’s mind, which had always sought to soar above +the world, had left it altogether. He was equal with the gods. He was +destiny, able to use men and women according to his will. He had been +lifted to the stars. “I will teach you,” he murmured from time to +time, as the carriage wheels jolted through the mud. “I will lead you +into the ways of happiness. I will be merciful, for I know how weak +you are. I was once a man myself.” + + Exeunt Omnes + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. countryfolk/country-folk, +herb-garden/herb garden, etc.) have been preserved. + +Alterations to the text: + +Add ToC. + +Punctuation: quotation mark pairings/nestings, missing periods and +commas, sentences that ended in commas, etc. + +[Interlude] + +Change “intended originally to be in _comunication_ with bells” to +_communication_. + +[Act II./Scene I.] + +“because he resented any allusion to his _pecularities_” to +_peculiarities_. + +[Act II./Scene II.] + +“shall open at the one hundred and _nintieth_ page” to _ninetieth_. + +[Act II./Scene III.] + +“The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared _starlingly_” to +_startlingly_. + +[Act III./Scene II.] + +“for the delectation of a fat _kittten_” to _kitten_. + +[Act III. /Scene III.] + +“voice still sounding in _hid_ ears. When he came near the +grass-_filles_ road” to _his_ and _filled_, respectively. + +[Act III./Scene IV.] + +“and saying atrocious things about your _nieghbours_” to +_neighbours_. + +[Act III./Scene V.] + +“while wiseacres nodded heads of clay _an_ recalled predictions” to +_and_. + +[Act III. /Scene VI.] + +“I have _ask_ him to come and visit us” to _asked_. + +[Act III./Scene VII.] + +“delighted in consuming _her-baceous_ plants” to _herbaceous_. + +“One great poet _fo_ the past heard a gentle fluttering” to _of_. + +“Dear sister, put your hands for one moment upon _mnie_” to _mine_. + +[Act IV./Scene I.] + +“He dropped _he_ pen and rose, opening and closing” to _the_. + +[Act IV./Scene II.] + +“The ground _alloted_ to me was small, but beyond” to _allotted_. + +[Act V./Scene II.] + +“as far as his simple nature allowed to the _dominan_ influence” to +_dominant_. + +[Exode] + +“The masks might have supplied the _influeuce_, but the act could” to +_influence_. + + [End of text] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78162 *** diff --git a/78162-h/78162-h.htm b/78162-h/78162-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d93fc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78162-h/78162-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12260 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The feast of Bacchus | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +/* Headers and Divisions */ + h1, h2, h3, h4 {margin:4em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + +/* General */ + + body {margin:0% 5% 0% 5%;} + + .nobreak {margin:2em auto 1em auto; page-break-before:avoid;} + + p {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em;} + .center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + .noindent {text-indent:0em;} + + .toc_l0 {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + .toc_l2 {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 4em; text-indent:-2em;} + + .rt1 {margin:0em 1em 0em 0em; text-align:right; text-indent:0em;} + + .font80 {font-size:80%;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + +/* special formatting */ + + .stanza {margin:1em 0em 0em 0em; text-indent:0em;} + .i0 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + .i1 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 3em; text-indent:-2em;} + .i2 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 4em; text-indent:-2em;} + .i5 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 7em; text-indent:-2em;} + .p1 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 1em; text-indent:0em;} + + blockquote {margin:1em 2em 1em 2em;} + + .mt1 {margin-top:1em;} + .mt4 {margin-top:4em;} + + /* chapter epigraph */ + .ch_ep {font-size:90%; margin:auto auto 1em auto;} + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78162 ***</div> + +<h1> +THE FEAST OF<br> +BACCHUS +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +A Study in Dramatic Atmosphere +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<span class="font80">BY</span><br> +ERNEST G. HENHAM +</p> + +<p class="center mt4"> +BROWN, LANGHAM & CO., LTD.,<br> +<span class="font80">78, New Bond Street, London, W.<br> +1907</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#prelude">Prelude</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#overture">Overture</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#a1">Act I.</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a1s1">Scene I. Satiric</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a1s2">Scene II. Sketch</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a1s3">Scene III. Tragedy</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#interlude">Interlude</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#a2">Act II.</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a2s1">Scene I. Comedy</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a2s2">Scene II. Mystery</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a2s3">Scene III. Musical Comedy</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#entracte">Entr’acte</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#a3">Act III.</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s1">Scene I. Heroic</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s2">Scene II. Pastoral</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s3">Scene III. Extravaganza</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s4">Scene IV. Sentimental Comedy</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s5">Scene V. Pageant</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s6">Scene VI. Melodrama</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a3s7">Scene VII. Idyll</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#incidental">Incidental</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#a4">Act IV.</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a4s1">Scene I. Puppenspiele</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a4s2">Scene II. Lyrical Dithyramb</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#scene-shifting">Scene-Shifting</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#a5">Act V.</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a5s1">Scene I. Morality</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l2"> +<a href="#a5s2">Scene II. Masque</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#proscenium">Proscenium</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l0"> +<a href="#exode">Exode</a> +</p> + + +<h2> +The Feast of Bacchus +</h2> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="prelude"> +PRELUDE +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +When an unnatural idea possesses a woman bitterness flows from her +tongue.—<i>Euripides</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The silence upon the river was broken by a vivacious voice,— +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, out of the depths of your wisdom define for me the word +asymptote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spell it,” murmured beauty in laziness, from a heap of pink cushions. +</p> + +<p> +The vivacious voice did so, inaccurately. +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard of the thing,” said indolence. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I must search in the dictionary,” answered vivacity. +</p> + +<p> +A moment later the punt lurched violently, there was a splash of water +under the bank, a nodding of tall rushes; and beauty in pink closed +her pretty eyes and tried to forget she was Maude Juxon, wife of a +rich stockbroker, and mother of a three year old child whom she had +not seen for more than six months. +</p> + +<p> +Some evening clouds were reflected in the smooth river. Swallows +darted to and fro, and fish were splashing after ambrosial gnats. The +atmosphere was languorous. A single jarring note, necessary to make +the surroundings earthly, was supplied by an impatient owl hooting +from an elm before its time. Down to the river sloped the garden of +widowed Mrs. Neill, burning with the flowers of June. The sleepy +occupant of the punt heard far-away the snip of the gardener’s iron +scissors. This, the only, sound of human labour made her more +contented with the lot which had fallen to her in an easy ground. +</p> + +<p> +The punt lurched still more violently and Mrs. Juxon was again +awakened to the troublesome world. Flora Neill, the widow’s only +child, and bosom friend of the little lady in pink, settled herself, +at the other end of the boat, and balanced a drab volume upon her +knees. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be pleased to refrain from sleep for a few minutes, my +lady?” she asked. “Because I have a desire to talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t call me my lady,” said Mrs. Juxon irritably. “If you do I will +go to sleep at once. Have you found out what that thing is?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am just going to,” said Flora, who was a tall fair-haired girl, +endowed with more than average good looks, but unmistakably “narrow +atween the eyen,” and possessing a chin which her bluff old uncle, the +vicar of Kingsmore, had described as a walnut-cracker. “Before I begin +you may look into this letter which has just come. And, Maude, I found +mother reading an incoherent epistle from uncle. It appears I am +expected to make my annual appearance at Kingsmore, the week after +next, to criticise pigs and bring the scent of the footlights over the +hay for the benefit of my reverend relative who is about as much at +home in London as you or I would be in Timbuctoo. Here! catch your +letter.” Flora tossed the missive across the punt, and her indolent +friend was sufficiently curious to lift her head and glance at the +handwriting. +</p> + +<p> +“Only from Herbert,” she sighed disappointedly. “What a ridiculous +thing it is to have a husband who writes to you every day! I know +exactly what he says,” she droned, pulling the envelope open. +</p> + +<p> +“When are you coming home? I find the evenings very dull without you. +Couldn’t you have Peggy at home now? I don’t like the idea of her +being farmed out. She isn’t farmed out,” cried Mrs. Juxon indignantly. +“What a nasty objectionable phrase to use! Peggy is with a very good +nurse, who will bring her up much better than I ever should. What is +the good of being a rich woman if you are to be bothered with your +baby? And as for going home—well, I’m quite happy here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would rush into matrimony and motherhood, my child,” said the +fair-haired girl, who was not more than four years Maude’s junior. “I +warned you, and now—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m driving my husband to drink, prophetess,” laughed the pink lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Or to some other woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Juxon tore the letter into fragments which she snowed daintily +over the water with a tiny white hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t have worked for my living,” she said. “And nice men are +poor. What’s that you are reading?” +</p> + +<p> +“An asymptote,” read Flora, “is a line which approaches nearer and +nearer to a given curve, but does not meet it within a finite +distance. It is an astronomical phrase. Now do you know what an +asymptote is, Maude?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a line,” recited the pink lady, in her frivolous way, +“which—which does something or other to a curve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t worry that little head,” said the maiden. “I won’t ask you to +repeat the definition. I wanted to see if you would be personal. My +dear, I have been called an asymptote, and no longer ago than +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think out things,” said Maude pettishly. “It makes my head +ache. Who ever called you that thing? I can’t pronounce it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I overheard the compliment,” Flora answered. “So I went up to the +culprit, a wicked old clergyman who dabbles in astronomy, and demanded +an explanation. He laughed, and said, ‘It is a mathematical way of +calling a lady a flirt.’ ” +</p> + +<p> +“Do explain,” said a voice which suggested slumber. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, if you listen,” said Flora. “Are you awake, Maude?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be, if it is not going to be too hard,” said the pink lady. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite easy,” said Flora. Then she began to read,— +</p> + +<p> +“The asymptote is more than a mere scientific expression. It is a term +which may be applied to many of Eve’s daughters. The human asymptote +has her being amongst us both in country and in town. The observer is +made to feel her presence, as she may be seen approaching nearer and +nearer the man who is her given curve for the time being, he prepared +to respond to the influence, and she equally determined never to meet +him until they reach infinity together. She is no beautiful figure, +despite all her surface charms. Her blood never responds to the +natural call of sex. But admiration is to her as the breath of life, +and she will beguile as wantonly as any of the Sirens of old. Equipped +with a ready brain, which has never been dulled by the mastery of +love, her power of seduction is complete. She throws down a cold heart +and a scheming brain to challenge a true nature and real affection. +But so soon as the human curve leaps out of hyperbola to meet his +asymptote repulsion assuredly must follow. +</p> + +<p> +“Our asymptote may be graceless, but she is never a fool. She knows +indeed all that a girl can know. She has opened all the books of +dangerous knowledge and loves to indulge in unrestrained speech. She +will discuss the tenderest relations flippantly, because they are +nothing to her. She will converse upon matrimonial matters with the +carelessness of the child blowing soap bubbles. She passes through +life lonely, though to an outsider she may appear the centre of a +crowd. She is happy enough to all outward seeming, and finds a vast +deal to interest her. She is not often dangerous, because when all is +said she remains little more than a rattle, and if she marries at all +it is late in life, and then not because she has met her curve—for +that is scientifically impossible—but rather because she finds she +must have a man of her own to plague. When thus settled she may still, +if the fates be kind, happen upon some foolish youth ready to play the +curve to her asymptote. One does not pity her; but a sigh may well be +spared for her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora gazed thoughtfully along the river, her mouth determined, and a +strong light in her eyes. Her companion, who was by this time wide +awake, had no imagination; but she could not help feeling that behind +that face there was a will which might carry its owner rather too far. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you really like that?” Maude demanded, nodding in the direction +of the book of knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +Flora nodded seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think you are a wicked person,” said Mrs. Juxon virtuously. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear little Maude! Do you really believe what I have just read?” +laughed the fair-haired girl. “It is rubbish. It’s a fairy-tale +written, as a warning for very young men, by some snuffy old +philosopher who never found a woman with whom he could agree. You +needn’t stare at me with those big blue baby eyes. I am a far better +girl than you will ever be. I don’t meet my curves, but you have +become hopelessly entangled in yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not an—I can’t pronounce it,” protested the pink lady. “It’s +nonsense to rail against matrimony. A girl without money must either +earn her own living, which is altogether disgusting and impossible, or +she must marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose she shrinks from the idea, as you would from a cold bath on a +winter’s morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Flora, a girl must marry if she wants comfort and liberty. Of course +it’s silly to marry for love. That doesn’t last long after marriage +anyhow. You may say what you like, but matrimony will always be a +girl’s one aim in life, besides it is nice and proper. Really,” little +Mrs. Juxon concluded, “I am quite clever this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your wisdom has not supplied you with an answer to my question,” +Flora went on. “It’s true I shrink from the thought of matrimony, but +I won’t be called an incomplete woman, though I have my one little +antipathy. I cannot touch or smell a rose. But that’s a matter of +temperament. In other things I am as complete as you are. I love +admiration, but what girl does not? Perhaps my blood is a little bit +cold, but then men and women no longer meet only on the ground of sex. +Thank Heaven for that. I really think that in time I might love—in a +spiritual sense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men don’t appreciate that kind of love,” said Mrs. Juxon decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“Because they have never been properly educated. We shall train them +to higher things in time. Why, Maude, the spiritual union is the +perfect state. We are not animals, to increase and multiply, at this +stage of the world’s history. We are nervous sympathetic beings, and +love properly developed should be a reaching out of the soul for +larger and wider sympathies. And a man will hold and squeeze a girl, +and call her idiotic names, if she will let him. Call that spiritual +love! The state of the man and woman in the garden was the sympathy I +crave for.” +</p> + +<p> +“And they fell from it at once,” cried the other joyously. +</p> + +<p> +“Because they were ignorant. The world is older now and we are wiser. +We shall advance to platonic marriage. Matrimony, as it exists to-day, +deadens the sympathies. The state of the soul which demands a perfect +union cannot under present circumstances be attained. In your case, my +dear, nature, after attaining her end, has snatched away the veil +which hid the coarse reality, and you know you don’t love your +husband. As a matter of fact you never did love him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Herbert has always been good to me,” argued the pink lady. “And he is +so well off that I should have been very silly if I had refused him. +Mother assured me love would come after marriage. It didn’t, but that +is not my fault. I am quite a model wife; I don’t quarrel with my +husband, I let him kiss me sometimes, and I never interfere with his +business. When he gives a dinner he shows me off with ridiculous +pride. And when he is unreasonable I come away and visit my friends, +while he writes every day for me to go back. You see it is not a bad +marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has the soul got to do with it?” demanded Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” Mrs. Juxon laughed lazily. “This little body is quite +enough for me. I don’t worry about souls or sympathies.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sympathies will not be ignored,” the fair-haired girl threatened. +“If you are married without love some state of the soul will assert +itself. That is always the punishment for a marriage of convenience.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t sit here and be persecuted,” said Mrs. Juxon with some +spirit. But, while she rebelled, her face became sad and her eyes full +of thought; because she could not help recalling the memory of one in +particular with whom she had once experienced, as she thought, that +state of the soul, and in whose arms she had cried to say farewell. +“Why have you such a rooted objection to matrimony?” she went on +quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is abominable and tyrannic,” said Flora. “Because the +wretched girl becomes completely absorbed by her husband, if she gives +herself up to him entirely as she is supposed to do. She has not even +her identity left. She is compelled to think as the inferior half of +somebody else’s mind. She actually grows to resemble her husband in +face and manner. The man takes everything from her, not only her name +and her individuality, but her health and her beauty—” +</p> + +<p> +“Flora, I won’t listen. You are horrid and coarse. You’ll be saying it +is wicked to have children next.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is sometimes,” the out-spoken young woman retorted. “You remember +what a beauty Gertrude Norton was, and how everyone used to rave over +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” admitted the stockbroker’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been married only three years, but who would rave over her +now? Nobody would call her even nice-looking. Only a few seasons ago +she won a tennis championship, or something equally good, and she +would think nothing of cycling fifty miles or more in one day. Now she +is the mother of twins, and a confirmed invalid. She is a model wife, +I daresay, and a perfect pattern of motherhood, but her dancing days +and her tennis playing are over. And she is not twenty-five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband is very fond of her,” said Mrs. Juxon pathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“I know a man who says he is very fond of me,” replied the fair-haired +girl. “But I do not intend to spoil my life while I retain my senses.” +</p> + +<p> +“He wouldn’t be fond of you if he could hear you now. I declare,” +shivered the little lady, “I’m getting quite afraid of you. I wonder +what you really think of me. Am I falling off at all, Flora?” +</p> + +<p> +“Horribly,” said the girl, rising and swaying the punt. “It is nearly +dinner time and it is getting chilly. Let us go in.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am beginning to feel not only cold but old,” said the pink lady, as +she gathered in her skirts to step ashore. “But I cannot be ugly. +Whatever may happen I cannot be ugly. It is heavenly to feel upon +coming into a drawing-room that men cannot take their eyes off you. +What is the secret of preserving beauty, Flora?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be spiritual,” said Miss Neill. +</p> + +<p> +“I have Peggy,” murmured Mrs. Juxon, as she stepped upon the bank with +her studied daintiness of motion. “I really have done my duty as a +wife and a mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear the owl?” exclaimed Flora, as they walked away from the +lazy river. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the beast!” replied Maude spitefully. “I am always superstitious +when I hear owls!” +</p> + + +<h2 id="overture"> +OVERTURE +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Inasmuch as Nature tells us there are Gods, and we know, by reason, +what they must be like, so, with the consent of all rational beings, +we believe souls to endure everlastingly; where, however, these +spirits exist, and what they are like, we must discover by +investigation.—<i>Cicero</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The reverend Doctor Berry concluded to his satisfaction the single +paragraph which was the result of a morning’s thought, wiped his pen, +fingered the sheet of manuscript tenderly, and placed it carefully in +a drawer of his desk, then rose and walked across to the open window. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was setting upon beech woods, and a deep haze flecked with +dust and white butterflies shimmered across a strip of garden, bright +with poppies and cornflowers, which divided the rectory from the +churchyard; the main portion of the garden stretched away behind the +house, down a slope which ended in an orchard where a stream ran +bounding the glebe in that direction. A crumbling wall, completely +covered with ivy, marked the line where the consecrated ground ended; +on the rectory side grew docks and nettles and red sorrels among the +altar-tombs and mossy slabs, with here and there a black yew striking +its roots deeply into the resting places of the dead. An unfrequented +road passed beside the church, to become a mere cart-track upon the +downs, where the white-thorn was being shed like snow and the shadows +of the beech wood were lengthening fast. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a glorious evening,” the rector whispered, “I will go and walk +in the garden of the Strath.” +</p> + +<p> +Taking a great key from an oak bracket he walked out of his study, +placed a straw hat upon his silvered hair, and stepped into the +glories of the failing day. +</p> + +<p> +The ecclesiastical parish of Thorlund, scarcely worthy of being +dignified by the title of hamlet, consisted of a wooded valley watered +by a stream. Far down and buried amid elms were tiny church and +parsonage; and hard by rose the inexplicable house, its garden +surrounded by a time-worn wall, known to all as the Strath. A few +cottages upon the Kingsmore road were passing into an advanced stage +of decay. A few in a more habitable state were dotted singly, or in +pairs, beside the grass by-paths or upon the lower ridges of the +downs. The entire parish was moribund. Nothing flourished except the +trees and strong-scented wayside weeds. No dignitary of the church had +entered the valley for hard upon a century. A deadening influence +prevailed over the church, pastor, and people. There were not thirty +adults in the parish all told, and the nearest school was at Kingsmore +four miles distant across the downs. A few peasant farmers clung to +the chalky slopes because they lacked the means to go. The labourers +were agricultural machines; the wives went out to work afield beside +their husbands; and by day the sun smote across an altogether deserted +prospect, where a lone cat slept on the dusty green, and a caged +blackbird listened sadly and silently to its free brethren singing in +the weird garden of the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +Thorlund had in common with the world the sun which warmed it, the +moon which ruled its night, the rain which coursed in milky rivulets +down its stony roads, and the storm which broke its beeches and its +elms—but nothing more. It was a peaceful, but not a happy valley. Its +sleep was not a healthy one. Once, no doubt, Thorlund had lived, and +in a sense flourished, then death came, but a spark of vital element +had crept back to the body, diffusing itself throughout its entire +system, and lending to it a semblance of life. It was from the long +abandoned house known as the Strath that this vital and dramatic +element proceeded. Dr. Berry served as the intermediary between the +incomprehensible spirit of the Strath and those human beings who had +their habitations near. He had remained untouched by the noise and +trouble of the world. His life had moved smoothly from the cradle, and +promised so to continue down to the grave. He had always been happier +apart from others, living his own life which consisted in striving to +materialize rather than dispel that atmosphere of mysticism which +gathers around a scholar’s solitary existence. At Oxford he had worked +for classical honours, not for the sake of reputation, but for the +pure love of knowledge; and when at the age of twenty-five he had been +offered the living of Thorlund, which nobody else could be induced to +accept, he had merely asked, “What is the population of the parish?” +The answer, “Fifty at the last census,” which had frightened away +every one else, satisfied him. The stipend of forty-five pounds per +annum was not a serious consideration, as he possessed means of his +own. After passing through the divinity school with his customary +display of polished scholarship, he accepted the “benefice”; and +thirty years had passed him there, as so many uneventful weeks, while +he built up slowly the work which it was his intention to bequeath to +posterity as a justification for his existence, an analysis of the +lyrical poetry of the Aeolians. +</p> + +<p> +A drowsy rustling of foliage was blown with the chalk dust across the +unused road to the parish church, as the scholar made his way through +the churchyard towards an old oak door set into the grey wall, nearly +twenty feet in height, with a coping of tiles the majority of which +time and storm had worked awry. Pushing the key into the antique lock +he opened the door communicating with the churchyard, and immediately +found himself standing in the shadows of the old garden of the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +Neither building nor grounds had been touched by the hand of man for +more than a century. The romantic house, which bore the date 1670 +above the arms of an extinct family graven upon a stone let into the +masonry above the hall door, was of no great size; high rather than +wide, and completely enveloped in ivy and other creepers from cellars +to chimney stacks. The garden and orchard comprised six acres, bound +by that great wall which had in no place fallen completely out of +repair. The grass waved like corn along what had once been the drive, +and the iron gates leading from the Kingsmore road were red and glued +together with rust. Through these gates children often peered to catch +glimpses of the sad house through the tangled growths; to watch the +birds and insects sporting as in another and a stranger and more +restless world. No one ever entered there except the rector. That wall +could not be climbed. The old people of the hamlet would stare through +the forbidding gates, and observe to each other that the flowers were +extraordinary that season in the Strath—there were blooms in those +jungles such as they had never seen elsewhere—or that the odour of +the garden was wonderful, or that the Strath was noisy; and when the +latter statement was in their mouths they realised dimly they were +hinting at what they could not understand. +</p> + +<p> +Yet the place had no evil reputation; the reverse rather. Mothers +would quiet fractious children by promising that they should enter the +mysterious garden some day, or threaten that if they were not good +they could never hope to go to the Strath when they died. No wild +stories dealing with phantasms or spirit lights were passed upon the +village green. Not a tongue had ever been so bold as to suggest that +the spiritual world had acquired a perpetual tenancy of the wild old +place. The Strath had simply remained unentered and unused for over a +century. The flowers and weeds fought together, the trees increased, +the bushes spread, fruit formed, ripened, and dropped to rot year +after year. And yet there was something about the place which made it +unlike other deserted houses; something which did not appear to have +its origin in the weedy circlet of water—for the Strath was a moated +grange—nor in the jungle-like garden, nor in the damp and darkened +house itself; but which had its being in the air, and in the clouds +above, and in the wind around. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir,” said Simcox the sexton, when Dr. Berry questioned him many +years ago. “There ain’t nothing what you wight call gruesome about the +old place that I’ve heard tell on. But it seems to me, Sir, that +sometimes when the sun is bright ’tis wonderful happy in there, and +when the wind is noisy ’tis awful solemn-like. I’ve been cutting that +nettle patch along churchyard wall in summer, and had to stop and +laugh out loud, and all for nought, Sir. And I’ve been sweeping leaves +in autumn under the wall, and felt that miserable I could almost have +cut my throat, or maybe somebody else’s throat, begging your +reverence’s pardon for saying it.” +</p> + +<p> +The young rector nodded his head gravely, and because he had a strong +desire to obtain entrance into the mysterious garden, instituted a +search for its owner. He succeeded in part. A firm of land agents in +the neighbouring town supplied him with the address of a London +lawyer; and when next in the metropolis Mr. Berry, as he then was, +found his way into a stuffy office hard by Goldsmith’s memorial, where +he was received by an old fashioned attorney, who replied in the +affirmative when the rector of Thorlund asked whether he represented +the owner of the Strath. As a result of that interview the rector was +granted permission to enter the garden by the gate from the +churchyard, on the condition that he would not lend the key, which was +given him for that purpose, to others. He also received the +information that the owner was abroad, and that the house was neither +to be sold nor let. +</p> + +<p> +“I will write to the owner, informing him that I have given you +permission to use the garden,” the lawyer had said, as he accompanied +his visitor to the door, “and if he objects you shall hear from me.” +</p> + +<p> +Years went by, but the lawyer never wrote; and Dr. Berry walked in the +garden every day, until the glamour of the place made him its slave; +and after walking there, as along the unknown ways of another world, +his work on Aeolian poetry escaped from the trammels of prose and +became itself poetry, pierced through and through by the strange +lights of romance; and he became still more a recluse; and the present +world went away from him and was shrouded in the mists of unreality. +</p> + +<p> +On many a bright day, when nature was revealed at her best, the poet +would laugh and applaud, and even dance grotesquely along the paths of +the Strath, his feet in time to a music which was in his brain but not +in his ears. Was this mere animal enjoyment of life, or was it +influence? Decidedly the latter. The odour of flowers and the giddy +dance of insects were also controlled by that vital and dramatic +element, to which the scholar could only give the name of comedy, a +happiness tinged slightly with the knowledge of mortality. And when +the day was sad with wind, the opposing note of tragedy was struck +throughout the garden; and that fatality which dominated the Attic +drama, the struggle of terrible human passions in the wind and rain, +the falling of life before unpitying destiny, controlled his sensitive +mind. Dr. Berry had suffered when the elements fought above his head, +blending with the influence, which bade him seek out the man hated by +the immortals and slay him without shame. Then was the knowledge swept +upon the poet that he was an intermediary between seen and unseen, and +thus an agent for the effectual working out of the tragedy of justice. +</p> + +<p> +The influence at work within the high wall which fastened about the +Strath was therefore twofold, that of the sun, and that of the storm; +the former a comedy, elevating if bizarre, tempered by a sentiment +suggesting the presence of melancholy beneath the motley; the latter a +tragedy, wild and extravagant as the passions of a Lear, yet redeemed +from absolute despair by the thread of hope chased through the scheme. +Comedy was in the air that evening, a riotous happiness which +inebriated like wine. Singing noisily, although unconscious of it, Dr. +Berry gambolled towards the house, under the rose bowers, along the +track which his own feet had worn into the semblance of a path, beside +the acacias with their grape-like bunches of bloom bursting into pink +or white. He passed below the sun-dial, which rose altar-like above a +mass of tottering masonry coloured with flowers, through the herb +garden, and on until the jasmine and the honeysuckle wafted their +fragrance at him from the worm-eaten porch. A blackbird flew past +screaming. He looked up, annoyed at the interruption, and straightway +shivered, because he saw the figure of a man standing among the high +grass near the front of the house. Indignation possessed the dreamer’s +mind when he beheld a material presence in his garden. His life had +become so intimately connected with that of the Strath that he was +unable to think of the garden as another man’s property. So, he +reflected, the iron gates had been forced apart at last, and a master +was visiting the bewildered place after the silence of a hundred +years—for the thinker was convinced that the elderly man, standing in +the ripening grass, was the owner—and now the garden was to be his no +longer, and his dreams were to be brought to an end. The stranger +lifted his hat and bowed grotesquely. The rector returned this +compliment, after a more dignified manner, and they approached, making +old-fashioned salutes at every step. +</p> + +<p> +“The learned and distinguished Doctor Berry?” said the stranger, +holding out his hand, and laughing with what beyond the wall might +have appeared to be unreasonable mirth. +</p> + +<p> +The scholar laughed also as he replied, shaking the hand offered him +in conscious tune to the persistent music in his brain. +</p> + +<p> +“My lawyer has told me about you. I am Henry Reed, the owner and +master of the Strath. It pleases me that you should have used my +garden. I trust that the inspiration of the place has benefited you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the first occasion on which Dr. Berry had spoken to a +fellow-being in the garden. He could not rid himself of the fantastic +idea that he and the man before him were characters of a comedy +playing the parts which had been assigned to them. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you I have found this place a veritable wonder-world,” he +replied. “It has made another man of me—” +</p> + +<p> +“The Strath has made you a dreamer,” broke in the owner sharply. “Men +who dream perform nothing. What an overpowering atmosphere is here!” +he went on, removing his hat and laughing again. “I can scarcely +breathe. Only a few minutes ago I entered upon this property of mine, +a tired and solemn man, and now I am as merry as a clown. Do the bees +always buzz so musically? Are the flowers always sending forth this +fragrance? Ah, you laugh at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I laughed in spite of myself,” the rector answered. “No, the music is +not always soft, as it is this evening. When the wind changes, and the +sky becomes dark, and the clouds fall low, you shall perceive a +difference.” +</p> + +<p> +“The place is haunted,” the owner shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so,” said the rector happily. “There is nothing here which could +terrify a child. Like us the Strath has its moods. Sometimes it is +happy, and often it is sorrowful. It must either laugh or groan. And +now you will change it all,” he went on bitterly. “You will restore +the house, dig up the garden, prune the orchard, mow the lawns, gravel +the paths, and lay the Strath out like a dead body.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the owner laughed. “Let me set your mind at ease,” he cried, +turning himself as though he would address the house. “Even if I +desired to destroy this picture I could not, for I am a poor man, and +the expense of restoration is beyond my means. I have come to live +here, but I beg you to use my garden as you have done in the past. And +now shall we enter the house?” +</p> + +<p> +Very gladly the rector accepted the invitation. He had often pushed +aside the creepers, to stare at the windows, heavily obscured with +dirt and blinded by close-fastened shutters, longing to visit the +rooms which were in darkness beyond. He passed with the owner of the +Strath towards the bridge which spanned the black water; and as they +walked they went on laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Will the bridge bear us?” questioned the master, testing the damp +green wood with a nervous foot. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me cross first to convince you,” said the scholar. +</p> + +<p> +Reed’s mood changed when they stood beside the door; and it was with +signs of fear he produced a key, a feather, and a small bottle of oil. +“The light is fading rapidly,” he muttered as he lubricated the lock. +“And I have brought no lamp.” +</p> + +<p> +“There may be candles inside the house,” the rector murmured, although +he had no good reason for saying so. +</p> + +<p> +The bolt crawled back with a scream, and wood dust rained upon their +heads as the door creaked open. They passed side by side into the +dampness of the hall, while the master muttered, “This house has not +been entered for a hundred years.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it is furnished, as I have seen it in my dreams,” the rector +murmured. +</p> + +<p> +Their feet sank into the dust, which in places had drifted to a depth +of several inches. Stairs, carpets, and pictures were coated and +muffled; a mildewed growth shewed in patches on the walls; a stunted +nightshade struggled around a quaint eight-legged table, its roots +sucking nutriment from the damp rottenness of the wood. A circle of +fungi occupied the centre of the hall, and some bats flickered up and +down the stairway. +</p> + +<p> +“My inheritance,” said Reed, shivering as he ploughed his fingers +through the silky dust. +</p> + +<p> +“The garden is your inheritance,” replied his companion. “That is the +soul of the Strath. This is the dry body.” +</p> + +<p> +Walking as he spoke to a door, before which a moth-eaten curtain hung +in shreds, he sought for the handle and pushed inward. The door gave +unwillingly, pressing the dust into a high ridge, and the rector +groped forward holding a lighted match above his head. Their eyes +encountered no repulsive sight; and yet they hesitated before making +an entry, because the past was brought before them, and it is the +custom of men to waver when they open a tomb. +</p> + +<p> +They looked into a dining-room and saw a long table, decked out with +plate and glass, with what had been flowers and fruit, and decanters +caked with wine; around the table chairs were grouped, or pushed +aside, as their former occupants had left them. They beheld the +concluding course of a dinner one hundred years old, as the long dead +diners had left it, interrupted and startled by the arrival of ill +news. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go in and open the shutters,” said the rector firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear nothing?” muttered the owner. “Nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing to hear, except the chirping of the birds.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I heard footsteps, and a woman’s voice.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the scholar. “There will be no tragedy while this weather +lasts.” He went on hurriedly, feeling Reed’s eyes upon him, “Your +imagination is playing with you. You think you hear voices of the men +and women who have dined. They are not here. Their bodies are as the +dust which lies upon their table and their chairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Lighting another match he passed in, and leaning over the table dug +out the wicks of the candles and lighted one after another, until he +had converted each of the seven-branched candlesticks into a row of +stars. Then he turned and beheld Reed at his side, staring up and +down, sweeping the cloth with his great beard. +</p> + +<p> +“You are my guest,” he laughed with a hollow note. “In the face of +your knowledge of this place I had almost forgotten that I am master +here. Will you sit down at my table and taste my old wine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us have air,” said the rector. +</p> + +<p> +Unfastening the shutters he drew them back, and immediately a tawny +glow mingled with the candle-light. The windows were encrusted with +dirt, and black ivy stems were matted against the glass. The iron +window catch was rotten and snapped when the rector tried to force it +back. He strained at the casement, but the hinge remained immovable. +</p> + +<p> +Reed stood beside the table, fingering one article after another. That +heap of dust had been once a flower, that was an orange shrivelled to +the size of a walnut; here was a snuff-box standing open, there a +half-smoked pipe leaning against a box which still contained bon-bons. +Near him a glass had been overturned in the days when it was the +custom of men to drink hard, and when he cleared away the dust with +the flat of his hand he could distinguish the stain of wine upon the +yellow cloth. He picked up a lady’s glove, black and full of holes, +and bringing it to his face detected the faint fragrance of her who +had dropped it. Another pile of dust resolved itself into a powder +puff, and yet another became a scrap of paper. These had presumably +been dropped together. Reed unfolded the paper, shook it, and holding +it near the candles read as much as he could decipher aloud:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“I will wait near the sun-dial until you come. Do not wear a mask. +Dear, do not tempt fate by even thinking of a mask here.… to father, +if there be a storm this night… Thomas flogging a horse, and I felt no +pity… This atmosphere is… to rejoin my ship… Nelson against the +French. I shall not be at dinner.… later on.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +“What does it mean?” cried the rector, as he stumbled towards the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot trace the signature,” muttered Reed. “It means, doctor,” he +went on, “that the Strath is controlled by some unholy influence which +has kept it empty all these years.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” cried Dr. Berry fervently. “That is not true. Consider how safe, +and happy we are. Neither you nor I suffer the slightest sense of +fear. Hardly a day has passed and not found me in the garden during +these past thirty years, and I am a wiser man than when I came. It is +true I have felt at times the influence which that dead hand suggests. +But it has done me no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has aged and saddened you,” said Reed curtly. “It has caused you +to forget how a man should live.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Strath has been my happiness, my pleasure, as well as my +inspiration,” said the scholar, clutching the back of a chair, and +scarcely noticing when it broke away in his hands. “You will admit as +much when you read my translations and restorations of Sappho. No +unholy influence could have prompted me to that work. Knowledge has +come to me while walking through the garden, amid the fragrance of the +flowers, the song of the insects, the music in the air—” +</p> + +<p> +The master of the Strath interrupted with a shout of discovery. +Following the guidance of his hand the rector saw a dark face grinning +at them from the opposite wall, over the glow of candles and the tawny +light from the half sealed window, through the grime that a hundred +years had placed upon it. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry hurried forward, mounted a chair, and removed from the wall +what proved to be merely a grotesque ornament, a brown mask, with the +leering mouth, great nose, grinning eye-sockets, and arched brows of +comedy. The mask was made of wood, stained a deep brown, and inside +cut upon the surface appeared the words, “Copied at Nuremberg by Jos. +Falk.” +</p> + +<p> +An impulse, which could not be controlled, seized both men, and they +laughed until the old house rang. +</p> + + +<h2 id="a1"> +ACT I. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="a1s1"> +Scene I.—SATIRIC +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Bah! I do hate bainting and boetry.—<i>King George II</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The influence changed, as was usual at the approach of darkness. The +power compelling them forth became irresistible. It was a new +sensation for the scholar, but his sensitive nature suggested that the +resentful force was directed against his companion, and not against +himself. He extinguished the candles and walked lingeringly to the +hall door, following Reed who had escaped into the twilight of the +garden, having no desire to explore further that night. Nor had the +owner any intention then of sleeping in the house. He had indeed when +proposing it to himself forgotten that every room would be buried deep +in dirt. When the scholar joined him with a hospitable invitation to +the rectory he accepted gladly. They passed together towards the iron +gates. +</p> + +<p> +A few country folk had assembled upon the road, to discuss that great +event the opening of the gates of the Strath. One man stood leaning +upon an iron bar, which he had used at Reed’s request to force those +gates apart. Their voices ceased when the rector was seen wading +through the grass, and gnarled hands went up to pull gravely at the +brims of dilapidated and picturesque headgear. +</p> + +<p> +After having engaged two men for the next day, to wrench open doors +and windows, to cut away the creepers, and to clear the interior from +its accumulated dirt, Reed secured the chain, locked the padlock with +his own hands, and giving a good night to the rustics turned away. For +a hundred yards not a word was spoken, then Reed pulled himself +upright, and brushed the dust from his heavy beard. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all nonsense,” he said roughly, and his companion shrank at the +change in the stranger’s voice and manner. “It’s sheer folly to +suppose that the Strath is different from any other old place, apart, +of course, from the fact that it has not been inhabited within the +recollection of living man. I’m just thinking I may have made a fool +of myself when we were in that garden, Professor. I don’t know what +possessed me. I’m a practical man, level-headed as the best of ’em +ordinarily, but in there I felt—well, I’m not much of a talker, and +hang me if I can explain it, but I felt as if I had taken a little +more drink than I could manage. I might have been playing a part. Ah, +that’s it! I might have been an actor, spouting words that some other +fellow had written down for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not explain,” said the rector gently. “I can enter into your +feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m going to change all that,” went on Reed. “I’ll clean the +place out from cellar to attic, sell off the old stuff, get in some +decent furniture, tear down the creepers, cut the garden up, sell the +hay for what it is worth, and get the place into as good shape as I +can afford. I mean to start a small poultry farm and make a bit that +way. I come from America, Professor, and I’m not afraid of work. Lucky +I’m not, for I reckon it will take all my time to get that garden into +anything like order this summer.” +</p> + +<p> +The rector shuddered. The stranger had chanced indeed now that the +influence of the Strath had loosened its hold upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“You said you would not alter the place,” he reminded him quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I say so?” Reed answered with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I must have +been crazy. I’m not in a position to spend money, but I’ll soon show +you what one pair of hands can do. Before autumn you won’t recognise +the rotten old property. I shall start with the house to-morrow, and +when that is clean I’ll root up the bushes, drain the moat, and go for +in fruit and poultry.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Strath will not let you,” the rector cried. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said Reed. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not strong enough to fight the place,” replied the rector +boldly. +</p> + +<p> +Reed regarded his companion with open-mouthed astonishment, and +presently his beard began to wag with laughter. “ ’Scuse me, +Professor,” he said. “Hope you haven’t got the idea into your head +that it is not legal for a man to make his own house habitable? I tell +you what it is,” he went on in his blunt fashion. “You have lived out +of the world too long, and have roamed around that old wilderness of +mine until you have picked up some queer notions. Wait until I show +you how to breed turkeys.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Dr. Berry realised that he hated this little bearded man who had +come to destroy his happiness. He wished with all his heart he had met +him in the first instance outside the Strath and there discovered his +true character. Had that happened he would assuredly never have +invited him to the rectory. Gazing ahead at the wooden spire of his +little church he said quickly: +</p> + +<p> +“There is the rectory. You see I am a very near neighbour. I have +always been accustomed to enter your garden by the churchyard, through +that gate which you see yonder in the wall.” +</p> + +<p> +Reed shrugged his shoulders, and, muttering into his beard, followed +his host into the cool house. +</p> + +<p> +A very plain supper was the evening meal at Thorlund rectory; and +afterwards the poet sat in his garden to dream upon matters which were +too great for him. That evening he brought two chairs upon the lawn. +When they were seated Reed plunged at once into business and asked the +rector if he could recommend a suitable housekeeper and a man with +some knowledge of poultry. “Poultry and poetry sound a bit alike, eh, +Professor?” he said jocosely. “But there’s a heap more money in my +line than in yours.” +</p> + +<p> +The rector shrank from the jest as from a blow. He answered the +questions of his thick-skinned guest as fully as he could. Then, +prompted by curiosity, he asked Reed how long the Strath had been in +his family, and why it had remained desolate for so long. +</p> + +<p> +The other pulled at his pipe with a frown, as though resenting the +other’s natural desire for information. At last he put up his hand, +stroked his beard, expectorated—again Dr. Berry shrank from him—and +said: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know much about yonder place. The Strath was owned in the +first place by a family called Hooper. You can see their arms carved +upon a stone over the entrance. They held the property until the +middle of the eighteenth century. The owner was then a baronet who +lived there alone. He was a pretty bad lot, I’ve been told, and was +hanged at last for murdering his servant.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was another and more serious charge against him, according to +the opinion of a time when gentlemen were permitted to use their +servants like dogs,” the rector interposed. “Sir John was certainly +hanged, but it was for highway robbery. Local tradition declares that +the rope which was used for his execution is now used for ringing the +single bell of Thorlund church. If this statement were to be proved I +should certainly have the rope removed. But I do not consider that it +has been proved.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know more about the Strath than I do. Perhaps you can tell me how +it came by its queer-sounding name?” said Reed; and he raised his pipe +to his mouth as a hint that the rector might proceed. +</p> + +<p> +“About the name there is nothing remarkable,” came the answer. “Strath +is a gaelic word signifying a broad valley. For a time, I have no +doubt, the whole of this neighbourhood was known as the Strath; though +glen, also a gaelic word and meaning a narrow valley, would have been +more accurate nomenclature, as you may see for yourself by ascending +one of the hills and looking down. There is an ancient, although +undated, document among the parish records which alludes to the +village of Strath hard by King’s Moor. The name of Thorlund, which +means the sacred grove of Thor or the Thunder God, was at some later +date attached to the hamlet, the name of Strath being retained by the +manor house alone. But to return to the Hoopers. According to oral +tradition, which I have generally found reliable, Sir John became a +notorious highwayman after his wife’s death. It is said he had one +child, a daughter who lived with him at the Strath, but whose name is +not mentioned in the register of deaths. It is also said that he +treated her most cruelly. Indeed, if report concerning him be true, +Sir John was altogether bad, a robber and a drunkard in his country +life, and when in town a habitual frequenter of the gaming houses +which at that time were plentiful in the neighbourhood of St. James’s. +Probably his midnight escapades upon the road were instituted to +obtain money for the payment of debts thus contracted. One night Sir +John was tracked to his house after a more daring venture than usual; +his reeking mare was found in the stable; his body servant, one Thomas +Reed, was discovered in the saloon mortally wounded, the baronet +believing, it is supposed, that the man had informed upon him. The old +fox had fled, having escaped by crawling out of an attic window and +letting himself down the side of the house by means of the creepers, +but he was found that same night hiding in a hollow tree. In due +course he was hanged. What happened to the daughter I have never been +able to discover.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you want to know how we came into the property. You will +have guessed I am a descendant of the murdered servant,” said Reed. +“Well, I’ll tell you. The Strath doesn’t legally belong to me. It is, +or it was, Crown property. But as by some oversight, the Crown never +seized it, the Reeds did. They were on the spot, you see, and when +they saw the place was abandoned they thought they would have +compensation for Thomas’s murder, and so they stepped in. They were +never turned out, and no questions were asked. But the Reeds were only +village folk, and couldn’t afford to occupy the place. So they let it +to a man named Biron who had spent most of his life in Germany. When +he gave it up the Strath was taken by a family called Branscombe who +for some reason left suddenly. It would be the last dinner party of +the Branscombes that is still set out in that dining-room. Since their +time not a soul—” he paused, then added with a grin, “I should say +not a body, has entered the place until this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what have the Reeds been doing all these years?” asked the +rector. +</p> + +<p> +“They emigrated. My grandfather took no interest in the place. My +father sent over enough money every year to satisfy the local rates, +always hoping he would make enough to enable him to retire and come +back and play the gentleman. The old man died twelve years ago at the +age of eighty, and I went on with the business until it was ruined by +a trust. Then I realised, and shipped back with the notion of spending +the rest of my life at the Strath.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were there no attempts made to let the property?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for the last fifty years,” Reed answered. “After the Branscombes +left, and why they did so before their time I can’t tell you, the +place had a bad reputation, and no one would go near it. But I have +come at last,” he went on in his coarse voice which sounded +unpleasantly through the garden. “I’ll soon clear away all that +unhealthy nonsense. We Americans don’t hold with the conservatism of +this old country, which makes everybody tumble into a trade error or a +crazy belief one after the other, like sheep following the bell-wether +through a hole in the fence. I’m not a gentleman in your sense, and I +don’t pretend to be. I’m a practical man, the great-grandson of a farm +labourer, and a free-thinker from my youth. I don’t believe in what +you call occult influences, and if I can’t take up my quarters at the +Strath and do what I like with the place I’ll eat my hat. And now, +Professor,” Reed concluded in his familiar manner, “what do you say to +a small glass of whisky?” +</p> + +<p> +The rector rose without a word, and went into the house to find the +bottle of spirits which he kept for use in an emergency; but while he +groped in the cupboard there was a mist upon his eyes, and his usually +gentle spirit was shaken with disgust and anger as he murmured, “He +shall not lay a hand upon that garden. I hate the man. He has +inherited my Paradise, and would take it from me and make it a +desert.” +</p> + +<p> +Early in the morning the visitor left for the Strath, entering the +grounds by the gate in the churchyard, and the rector did not see him +again until evening. He did not receive any invitation to accompany +the master in these explorations; and the key, his property for the +past thirty years, had been taken away. During the afternoon he walked +along the front, noticed that the iron gates were ajar, and breathed +more easily when he saw the long grass still waving in the wind. +Returning, he fell in with one of the men in Reed’s employ, who +touched his hat and would have walked on; but the rector stopped him +and enquired what he had done. +</p> + +<p> +“Opened the doors and windows in yonder, Sir,” said the man. “Some of +they frames were that rotten they broke like paper. I scraped the dirt +from the panes, and cut off nigh a truck-load of ivy to let in the +light. But I ain’t going in there again, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The rector asked for an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir, it’s what they’ve always said about the Strath,” the man +went on, “It ain’t healthy in there. I don’t know whether ’tis because +such a powerful lot of strong-smelling plants grow there, or what it +is, Sir, but I do know a man can’t help making a fool of hisself when +he’s there. I was a-laughing and a-singing while I worked, and feeling +just as though I was tipsy, though, as you know, I’m a sober man, Sir, +and when I looked inside there was this Mr. Reed laughing at summat +like to hurt hisself, and I don’t know if you’ll believe me, Sir, but +I saw him join ’ands with Bill Vyner, and them two danced round the +room, kicking up the dust awful. They seemed to be fair enjoying of +themselves, Sir, but now I come to think quiet-like it was a horrid +kind of sight, though I liked it well enough at the time, and stood in +the door whistling a tune for them to dance to. You see, Sir, it ain’t +proper for a gentleman like Mr. Reed to be so familiar with such as me +and Bill. And Bill says he ain’t going there no more neither.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry resumed his walk with a dreamy smile upon his handsome face. +His sensitive mouth quivered as he repeated the famous satire of +Archilochus addressed to his own soul. “Nature does not change,” he +murmured. “The lampoons of Archilochus caused the daughters of +Lycambes to hang themselves for shame. How will the influence of the +Strath use Henry Reed?” +</p> + +<p> +It was twilight when the man came to the rectory, sullen and +discontented. He had little information to give, and when the doctor +enquired whether the work of restoration had begun he curtly replied, +“Not yet,” and went on to ask whether he might spend another night +under the parsonage roof. +</p> + +<p> +“I will try him,” said the rector to himself when they had supped; and +going to his study he extracted from a drawer his little manuscript +book of translations. “I will see if this man has a soul which can +respond to the unseen world. If so there is a chance for him; if not +the Strath must conquer.” +</p> + +<p> +He came out upon the lawn where his guest was chewing the stem of his +pipe restlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me to read you a translation of mine,” he said; then seating +himself a little behind his guest he read the description of peaceful +night written by Alcman the Lydian slave and poet, who lived and sang +a hundred years before Daniel interpreted the writing on the wall for +the lord of Babylon. +</p> + +<p> +As the poet concluded, dropping his musical voice to a whisper over +the last iambic, he drew forward, watching and excited, his own spirit +thrilled by the magic of those lines. Reed appeared to be abstracted; +with wild hope the scholar put out his hand and touched him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, done?” muttered the bearded man. “Queer, fellows should waste +their time writing that stuff, ain’t it? Suppose they’re good for +nothing else though. I was thinking while you were talking that what +my place wants is better air. It’s too much shut in, you see, and no +one can live without lots of fresh air. I shall cut down the elms +along the road. It will be all profit to me, as the timber is big, and +ought to sell at a good price. Have you any idea what figure elm is +fetching now?” +</p> + +<p> +The rector groaned as he pushed the book of treasures into his pocket. +He had been prepared to follow up any success he might have gained by +reciting a song of Arion, who, the legends say, was brought into +Taenarum on the backs of dolphins. But his test had failed. The man +beside him was base earth, with a mind impervious to the world’s +music. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you permit me to say something?” he asked nervously. +</p> + +<p> +Reed swung his head round, and his small eyes twinkled maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever you like, Professor. I can guess what it is. You want me to +spare those trees. Well, I tell you right now they must go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not ask you to spare the trees,” said Dr. Berry earnestly. “The +genius of the place can take care of them. I am going to entreat you +to save yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” ejaculated Reed. He frowned and crumpled his beard. “What +foolery in this?” he muttered testily. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not understand me,” the scholar went on. “You laugh at my +warnings. Remember I have studied the Strath for thirty years. It has +been kind to me, and more than kind, because there is sympathy between +us. We are both dreamers. I have been the sole character of its drama +all these years. I have tried to be its friend, and it has regarded me +as such. But you—you are opposing it. You are its enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +Reed dropped his pipe and planted each hand firmly upon his knees. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m an ignorant man from your point of view,” he said in a grating +voice. “I can’t write or talk about busy bees forgetting their daily +toil and feathered tribes hanging their drooping wings, and I’ll be +hanged if I want to. I can go better than that, Professor. Put you and +me down in the world to live by wits, and I would build up a business, +while you would sink to the poor-house. Ignorance? Well, maybe. Have +you ever heard of a millionaire who could read Greek? I don’t follow +you in your talk about dreams and warnings, and if you will excuse my +saying so I don’t intend to listen to any more of it. If you have any +suggestion to make about the property I’ll be glad to listen. But when +you say that a man can’t live on his own place because it has taken a +dislike to him—well, Professor. It’s moonshine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain to me one thing,” Dr. Berry urged. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me how it was when I came upon you in the garden yesterday +evening you were as different from your present self as my house is +different from the Strath?” +</p> + +<p> +Reed stirred uncomfortably. That question rankled. +</p> + +<p> +“If we were sitting in that garden now,” impressed the rector, taking +his mild revenge, “and I were to read you those lines of Alcman, which +you despise, you would listen eagerly. Explain why your mood should be +different there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe it is you that change,” suggested the other unamiably. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into the garden with me now.” +</p> + +<p> +But Reed declined emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +“You and I have got to be friends, Professor,” he went on with +attempted heartiness. “You’re the parson and I’m the squire, and it +seems there is no one handy to act as peacemaker. We had better not +quarrel, and if we are not going to quarrel we must agree to differ.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done my duty,” said the rector quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I had to warn you that if you insist upon opposing the Strath you +will be made to suffer. If you refuse to be persuaded I cannot help +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Reed stretched out for the bottle and helped himself generously. +</p> + +<p> +“How in the name of common sense can I be made to suffer?” he +muttered; but there was in his voice for the first time a definite +note of awe. +</p> + +<p> +“There will come upon you the last punishment which can befall any +man,” Dr. Berry answered. +</p> + +<p> +“The Strath will destroy you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he removed his hat and wiped his forehead; and walked slowly into +the house. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a1s2"> +Scene II.—SKETCH +</h3> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza ch_ep"> +<span class="i0">He sette not his benefice to hire,</span><br> +<span class="i0">And lette his shepe acombred in the mire,</span><br> +<span class="i0">And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules,</span><br> +<span class="i0">To seken him a chanterie for soules,</span><br> +<span class="i0">Or with a brotherhede to be withold;</span><br> +<span class="i0">But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold.—<i>Chaucer</i>.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Dr. Berry never learnt whether any phenomena occurred within or around +the Manor of Thorlund immediately subsequent to that evening when he +had been constrained to issue his warnings, because Reed came no more +to the rectory. The scholar reasoned that it was not any feeling of +indignation which kept the so called master of the Strath away; nor +was it fear lest he might be compelled to listen to more ominous +forebodings; it was, more probably, shame at defeat. +</p> + +<p> +The gate which admitted from the churchyard was open to the rector no +longer; but every day he passed along the front, both at morning and +evening, anxious to see if the work of demolition had been commenced, +and from each of these walks he returned with the same triumphant +smile. Not a tuft of grass had been mown, nor had the axe been laid at +the root of any of the elms; not a bush had been removed, not a flower +or weed uprooted. The garden remained unaltered in all outward +essentials, except that a pathway had become beaten out from the iron +gates to the bridge across the moat. +</p> + +<p> +When the rector questioned sexton or shepherd he learnt what he might +have guessed, namely that the owner hardly ever left the place; that +he had given up searching for men to work there; that he lived alone, +attending to his own requirements in colonial fashion; that his +baggage had been brought from the distant station across the hills and +taken by the carrier into the house; and the tradesmen of the small +market town seven miles away had been instructed to call for orders +not more than once a week. +</p> + +<p> +“Will he also become a dreamer?” the scholar wondered, as he gazed +longingly upon the old grey wall. “Can it be possible for the Strath +to give him a soul and take him to itself as it received me? Will his +poultry farming become poetry making after all?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed sleepily at the quaint idea and approaching the oak door +turned the handle and pushed timidly. He had done so every evening +since Reed had left him, hoping rather than expecting to feel the +barrier yield. It was the same then as upon other nights; the door was +locked. +</p> + +<p> +During the tension of that long week, when the garden was closed to +him, Dr. Berry for the first time realised the loneliness of the +Thorlund valley. +</p> + +<p> +His single churchwarden, a peasant farmer who signed his name with +difficulty and without legibility, had his dwelling place almost a +mile from the church. The nearest gentlefolk lived four miles away at +Kingsmore across the white road of the downs. The only houses in the +valley were the rectory and the Strath. Half ruined barns, standing in +a disused yard which sloped towards a pond where sheep were sometimes +scoured, hedges, grass-roads, and a triangular green where a +whipping-post was preserved, comprised the remainder of the hamlet. In +such a place the talented Greek scholar had been content to pass his +time upon earth. +</p> + +<p> +The rector found himself using that past tense unconsciously while he +mourned for his lost Eden. After thirty years of a strange sleep he +felt stirring within him a desire for more breadth and motion and some +human sympathy. The small voice of the world was calling him; the +natural human passions, long latent and drugged by the influence which +had dominated his life, struggled to reach the surface. The sluggish +calm had been disturbed by expulsion from the garden. He had entered +there to dream; and now that the gate was closed he became conscious +of the thorns and thistles of the world. +</p> + +<p> +This restless mood grew upon the scholar as the days passed, the long +dry days of midsummer when the spirit of comedy prevailed around him. +His belief in the ultimate triumph of destiny was as deeply-rooted as +that of any ancient Greek. The Strath had long ago suggested to him +the theatre with its rites and mysteries and the open stage where +characters came and went, speaking their messages through either the +comic or the tragic mask. He himself represented the chorus, and had +merely played his part of exarchus in warning Reed. He did not require +to turn to his Aeschylus, or to his Sophocles, to learn the fate of +that man who thinks himself strong enough to fight destiny. Reed’s +fate was fixed, as assuredly as Agamemnon was doomed to death when he +returned to his palace in Argos. But destiny must strike with mortal +weapons; and it was impossible to believe that any human instrument in +the neighbourhood of sleepy Thorlund could be so wrought upon as to +strike the fatal blow. +</p> + +<p> +Although the scholar had never been a sociable being, he felt it a +relief when Mr. Price, vicar and squire of Kingsmore, rode over on the +Saturday and invited himself to lunch. This reverend neighbour was a +simple-minded man of seventy, bow-legged with much riding, hearty in +manner, an excellent judge of beasts, and somewhat of a connoisseur in +wine. He would shout a jest at every rustic, and touch his +disreputable hat to every dame in his village, address his labourers +as equals, and throw coppers to the children who passed him as he +rode. He had long ago forgotten what little learning he had acquired; +and it was to be feared that, good man though he was, his farming +interests were not infrequently placed in front of his spiritual +duties. He could indicate all the good points in a horse at a glance; +but it might be doubted whether he could have quoted verbatim any one +of the thirty-nine articles. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day to you, Berry,” he shouted in his hearty manner, as he +crossed the rectory lawn while his dogs hunted the scholar’s cat into +the shrubberies. “I was saying to myself this morning that it was a +long time since I had eaten roast beef at your table, and as I know +you have a sirloin on Saturdays I thought I would ride over and help +with the under-cut. So the owner of the manor has turned up at last. +My village is full of families with his name. The place was a swamp +originally, I’m told, and they say the name came into existence on +account of the number of reeds which grew there. Any truth in that, do +you think? I believe in tradition. It’s the only thing I do believe in +nowadays. If your squire turns out to be connected with our Reeds, as +they say he is, I’m afraid he won’t be much of an acquisition.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is connected,” said Dr. Berry. “However you may be able to agree +with him better than I can ever hope to do,” he went on with +unintentional maladroitness. “He has actually proposed to me a plan +for altering the Strath and breeding poultry there.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul,” exclaimed his brother cleric, pushing an end of +his soiled white tie beneath his collar. “There’s no money to be made +out of poultry in this part of the world. I can’t dispose of mine so +as to cover expenses. He should go in for pigs. I’ll call on him after +luncheon, and tell him there’s money to be made in pigs. I have some +good sows for sale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pigs!” murmured Dr. Berry in anguish. “Pigs at the Strath!” +</p> + +<p> +“They ought to do well,” said the farmer-vicar of Kingsmore. “There’s +plenty of grass at the manor, and pigs do well on grass. Ah, you’re +afraid of the smell. But pigs don’t smell, if they are properly kept. +We will call on Mr. Reed this afternoon. I am very anxious to see the +inside of the place.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot accompany you,” said the rector of Thorlund a trifle coldly. +“Mr. Reed and I have not made any considerable advance towards +friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“That won’t do,” said the other, shaking his head seriously. “You must +pull it off with your squire, even if you do have to lower yourself a +bit. You and he are alone here, and when two men are cast upon a +desert island they can’t afford to quarrel. Now I’m quite prepared to +call on Mr. Reed, and be friendly, though he is distantly connected, I +suspect, with my head-carter. Every man is a vote, as my dear uncle, +who was member for this division under Lord Derby’s administration, +used to say; by which he meant, I fancy, that every man can do you +either good or harm, and you may as well earn the good at the +sacrifice of a little pride. But look here, Berry. For the hundredth +time I want to know whether things are as they should be at the +manor?” +</p> + +<p> +The scholar smiled somewhat feebly as he replied, “Is it possible that +everything should be in order with a house that has stood deserted for +a century?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know what I mean,” said Mr. Price. “I have asked you many a time +if the place is haunted, and I have never been satisfied with your +answers. I believe in haunted houses, because I once owned a farm +which was troubled by a tiresome old woman in a plaid shawl and a poke +bonnet, and I had to pull the house down to get rid of her. You have +always declared that the manor is free from anything of that sort; but +I think there must be something you have kept from me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come indoors,” said the doctor. “It is hot out here, and dinner will +soon be ready. I will tell you what I know about the Strath.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman followed his reverend brother into the study, and +seating himself beside the window listened to what he had to say, his +white head on one side, and his eyes blinking incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Berry,” he said gravely, when his mind had been sufficiently +perplexed. “If this is what our progress has brought us to I am glad I +am nearly seventy-one. I have always said that the world is going +ahead too fast. When I was a boy we lived very much the same as they +did a couple of thousand years before, and then in just fifty years +the whole world changed. First came steam, and after it the telegraph +and electricity, and now we have reached a stage when we can send a +message from one end of the earth to the other in about the time it +takes to write it, and hear the voices of dead men speaking out of +phonographs, and we are talking of travelling a hundred miles in the +hour, and there is no hell and very little fear of death nowadays, +and—God bless my soul! we can’t even have a respectable ghost, but +our old houses are to be haunted for the future by this electricity +and magnetism; and they say messages are coming from people who are +dead and ought to be decently at rest, and we are learning something +about the next stage of existence, and a future state can be proved, +we are told, not through the Bible, which was good enough for everyone +in my young days, but by certain phases of human consciousness which +I refuse to believe in and don’t profess to understand, and—I’m very +glad I shan’t live much longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is surely nothing much older than the idea of a house permeated +with some essence of mystery,” the scholar continued quietly. “Read +again your Greek drama, and refresh your memory by the references of +Aeschylus to the palace of Argos, whence odours issued like the breath +of graves. There you have a house, haunted, to use your word, like the +Strath by an inexplicable and invisible presence working its influence +upon the affairs of men.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go beyond me,” said Mr. Price perplexedly. “I never could +translate Aeschylus, and the only way I got through at Oxford was by +learning the crib by heart and getting the selection right by luck. I +always thought it a waste of time to learn Greek, and I think so +still. Give a boy a good commercial education. Teach him French and +German, and elementary science, and American methods. Give him a +chance to make his way in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“And deprive him of the finest literature of all time, and the +knowledge of human nature as it is revealed to us through the +classics,” added the scholar quietly. “Is that fair?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah,” said Mr. Price. “There are always translations if they are +wanted, and there are Shakspere and our grand old Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shakspere could only model his tragedies upon the Greek drama,” the +scholar protested. “All that he could do was to clothe the old +thoughts with his own unrivalled speech and introduce additional +characters and scenic effects. The dark thread of influence runs +through all his tragedies. We know from the outset that Lear must die, +that Hamlet must fail, that Othello must fall through his frightful +error. As for the Bible permit me, with all reverence, to say that +much of its early lore is apocryphal, and much more of later date +derived from the thinkers and writers of ancient Greece. You talk of +sustaining your student with stagnant water taken far from the +fountain head.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never could argue with you,” said Mr. Price sadly. “You swim right +away, while I sink like a stone. Though I am an old-fashioned +Englishman I do my best to be modern. I have recently bought a +mechanical foster-mother to rear my poultry, I have stocked my farm +with American implements, and now I’m seriously thinking of employing +gramaphones to frighten the pigeons from my peas. It’s no use trying +to fight progress, as the savage who charged a locomotive discovered, +and destiny, or whatever you call the thing that is haunting the +manor, will find that out. This Reed comes from America. If I were a +betting man, I would lay you what you like that he will improve the +place according to his plans, and clear away that atmosphere which you +say has settled over it. The Strath wants a thunderstorm to freshen +its air, and I wouldn’t mind wagering that the American will play the +part of thunderstorm to perfection.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were a betting man, to borrow your expression, I would take +you,” rejoined Dr. Berry with a strained smile. “But now let us go and +eat our beef.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking of thunder-storms,” said the squarson of Kingsmore, as he +followed his host into the dining-room. “I am reminded that the glass +was falling very rapidly when I left home, so I shall pay my call upon +friend Reed and get away as quickly as possible.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="a1s3"> +Scene III.—TRAGEDY +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal +right-lined circle must conclude and shut up all.—<i>Sir. T. Browne</i>. +</p> + +<p> +While the two clergymen were in the dining-room the expected change in +the weather occurred. When Mr. Price rode away, having decided to +postpone his visit to the Strath, the sun was wrapped up in dense +clouds, there was no sky, and the light was fading rapidly. +</p> + +<p> +For some time Dr. Berry sat with a book in his study. Then he ventured +upon the lawn to observe the heaving clouds, which each moment +threatened to burst into lightning. There was not a breath of wind. +The trees in the garden beyond were entirely without motion; the walls +appeared to have no substance, and the very house seemed to float away +into unreality. Afar the watcher sighted the chalk-pits on the downs, +their white sides glowing fiercely against a sombre background. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the hour of tragedy,” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +Here, as in the ancient drama, the actors played their parts in the +open air, in order that their passions might blend with the fury of +the elements. The proscenium, as in old time, was made by nature. The +wall of the Strath formed the back-scene; the theatre was the garden; +the orchestra that mound on which the sun-dial stood. Already the +storm-cocks were chattering there, and their notes came into the +doctor’s ears like the piping of flute-players. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go,” said the dreamer with a slight shiver. +</p> + +<p> +Passing back to the house he quickly reappeared carrying a small +wooden box. He crossed the churchyard, where the sexton was digging a +grave, singing hoarsely as he shovelled up the dirt. The man touched +his hat and said, “Looks like a storm coming up yonder, sir. But the +sun shines above Kingsmore.” +</p> + +<p> +The rector hesitated, and asked absently, “Whose grave is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Tis for old Jim Reeve, sir. Him as died a Tuesday, and is to be +buried to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah yes,” the doctor murmured, adding to himself as he passed on, “I +thought it might be the grave of Henry Reed.” +</p> + +<p> +The door in the wall was unlocked. Dr. Berry had felt assured that it +would be so. He entered and stood within the influence of the garden. +</p> + +<p> +The air no longer thrilled with the note of mirth, the intoxicating +happiness and the exuberant laughter were gone. Instead of the +sunshine sorrow brooded, and the flowers were shut, and a moaning came +from the rotten gables of the house. The tragic note was dominant, and +all the grotesque sounds of mirth were stilled. +</p> + +<p> +Fully possessed by the influence, the priest ascended the mound and +extended his white hands over the dial, which represented to him no +longer a recorder of the flight of time, but an altar sacred to +Bacchus. He opened his box, scattered its contents upon the metal +slab, and applied a light. Then, as a filmy cloud of incense rose in a +long thread into the gloom, he tramped slowly round the knoll reciting +an Argive song. +</p> + +<p> +No sane voice spoke from his inner consciousness to remind him that +this was worse than folly; that he was offering sacrifice to a +mythical deity. He was merely playing the part which had been allotted +him, and reciting those words which were suitable to the occasion as +they presented themselves to his memory. The impending storm was, he +believed, about to break upon the house; and it was not to be +dispelled until the last words had been spoken, the tragedy +accomplished, and the stage abandoned. +</p> + +<p> +The rain came, and the lightning, and then strong wind which sent +leaves whirling across the knoll. But there came no sound from the +house. Through the rain and the thunder and the wind moved the old +atmosphere of fate and despair and the conquest of unbending human +will. The Thymele streamed and smoked no more; but the elements fought +on as the accompaniment of the drama, and the piping of the invisible +storm-cocks became shriller and more stern. +</p> + +<p> +Again the mood changed, and Dr. Berry was driven forth like a villain +to the hisses of the wind. Instead of returning home he took the field +path which led beside the beech wood; and ascended until he reached +the summit of a grass hill where larches were odorous in the hot +sunshine. Pausing there he looked out, and saw the growth of sable +cloud above Thorlund and the lightning crossing it and the white steam +of the rain ascending. +</p> + +<p> +A rabbit bounded among the larches into the open, and after it came a +female figure, young and lithe, her face tanned by exposure to the +weather, her great eyes unashamed. At first sight she was beautiful; +at the second pathetic, because the light in her eyes lacked reason. +She bounded up to the rector, flung herself at his knees, and burst +into a noisy incoherent prayer. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up, girl,” cried the scholar, dragging her almost roughly from +the grass. “How often must I tell you this is wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here are flowers for you,” cried the girl, pressing a quantity of +pale-blue and white harebells, warm and withering, into his hand. +“They are always ringing, and I am tired of their noise. Take them and +curse them. They will stop that wild nodding of their heads for you. +Why will you not let me touch you? There is force coming out of your +fingers, and when I hold your hand I see no longer the strange things +in the wind. I have been among the larches, and in the white +chalk-pits, and down by the stream, and in the cold churchyard, but I +still see the strange things coming down the wind. And you too walk +alone. Do you see figures? Have you seen the masked man running, and +the white woman crying into the lilies? Do you see them in the garden +in the valley?” +</p> + +<p> +This girl, a well-known character of the neighbourhood, lived at +Kingsmore with her grandparents, but was seldom to be found within the +cottage of her relatives. Her real home was upon the grass hills, or +in the dry beech wood, or down in the valley. Nancy Reed, Lone Nance +as the villagers called her, passed about the country like a will o’ +the wisp, talking to the birds and the creatures of her imagination, +revelling in wind and shouting through storm. Yet for all her wild +speech she was as gentle as a child, although perfect reason had been +witheld from her all the twenty-four years of her life. She was sane +enough to know that she was not as others, and her one desire was to +become perfect and womanly; but relentless nature continued to bear +her from place to place against her will, flinging her body about the +hills like drift wood tossed upon the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“You go into that garden with a book in your hand,” she cried, +pointing into the vapours. “I watched you come out, your lips moving, +and your face as white as that chalk. You saw and heard a great deal +in that garden, and you were wondering what you had missed. If I had +been nearer I would have told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have never been in that garden,” said Dr. Berry sternly. “And you +must never go.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl laughed noisily into his face. +</p> + +<p> +“That house is filled with sounds which you cannot understand. But if +you go there much more, and sit under its shadow a few more years, you +will begin to understand. And then you will come out and call for me, +and we shall chase the sunbeams into the valley.” +</p> + +<p> +The rector drew away from her. The note of inspiration was there and +he had recognised it. It was true he had felt a slow unloosening of +mind from body, an exaltation of the brain, and a tingling of each +sense, while he had tarried in that garden. He had called this the +birth of higher knowledge and the stirring of genius; but when the +girl spoke he remembered that the bridge which separates the inspired +from the diseased mind is perilously narrow and frail. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot keep away from the place,” he muttered, forgetful that Lone +Nance was his listener. “I cannot stop my ears. I must go there, to +sink into sleep and dream. It is good for me. The Aeolian poets walk +at my side. I can describe their land, their speech, and their +manners, as though I had lived in that far off time. Their language is +as familiar to me as my own. I can enter into their moods. I can see +where history has erred. I can make the crooked places straight. I can +see the outlines of their figures and describe the very texture of +their raiment. I can even detect the odour of Sappho’s anointed hair +as she passes along the road to Mytilene.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, remembering the status of the wild girl. She was looking +beyond him into vacancy, her hands locked behind her back. The dark +clouds were lifting from Thorlund, but the vapour still ascended like +the mist of the genie from the fisherman’s vessel. +</p> + +<p> +Twilight was trailing over the land as Dr. Berry descended, and the +beech wood became a black sea, tossing and moaning with the voices of +life. A labourer cutting hay stopped from his work and leaning upon +his two-handled knife pulled at the brim of his hat as he peered down +from the strong-smelling rick. +</p> + +<p> +The rector looked closely at the man, until his sluggish memory awoke +and suggested a name. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it not your father who was taken ill? How is he now?” he asked, +with a dim feeling that he had neglected his very inconsiderable +parochial duties of late. +</p> + +<p> +“Broke,” said the hay-cutter, abruptly and hoarsely. “Broke a week ago +and been took. Sixty-one he wur, a good age for the likes of we.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not remember burying him. When was it?” Dr. Berry asked. +</p> + +<p> +“ ’E didn’t not ’xactly die,” the man explained. “ ’E was took to the +’ouse, and so ’e be done to we. Us all get broke, some sooner, some +later. Us can’t last for always. Father broke quick when ’e started, +but ’is brother, my Uncle Tom as was, ’e took a terrible time. Us all +said every fall, ‘ ’e’ll get broke this time for sure,’ but ’e’d pull +through and laugh at us. ’E went sudden at the last. ’E’d been +threshing all day, and ’bout evening ’e couldn’t carry. Tried time and +time ’e did, but couldn’t carry. ’E walked ’ome, and sat down ’e did +aside the fire, and ’e said, ‘I be broke.’ ’E was took that month.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he still alive?” the rector asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sir. I saw ’im one day walkin’ the yard, when I druve the waggon +by, but I didn’t want ’im to see I. When they gets broke they don’t +come back no more. Some on ’em lasts a powerful time yonder too. But +they ain’t of no account, and us don’t talk on ’em. Us ain’t got +nothing to do wi’ they. I’ll get broke in my time. Us don’t think on’t +till it comes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would it not have been possible for you to have kept your father out +of the workhouse?” protested Dr. Berry. “You are in regular work with +good wages, and an old man does not cost much to keep.” +</p> + +<p> +The hay-cutter looked perplexed, and a trifle puzzled, at the +scholar’s lack of very ordinary knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +“Father wur broke, sir. ’E couldn’t earn no wages,” he explained. +</p> + +<p> +“So I understand,” said Dr. Berry. “But did it never occur to you that +you might maintain him? It should surely be the son’s duty to support +the father in his old age.” +</p> + +<p> +The labourer smiled more and more at the rector’s ignorance. +</p> + +<p> +“They that be broke be took, sir,” he said heavily. “When I be broke +I’ll be took, and my son will say, ‘Good-bye, father,’ and wait for +’is turn. Wife and me ’ave six children, and another comin’ ’fore +harvest. I gets twelve shillun, and pays ’alf-a-crown rent and +sixpence club money, and my wife and me live clear of charity. There +ain’t no room for old folk along wi’ a big fambly. ’Sides, sir, it +ain’t proper. Them that be broke, be took. And them that works get +wages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Dr. Berry abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-e’en, sir,” replied the hay-cutter gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Broken in pieces like a potter’s vessel,” the scholar muttered as he +walked away. “As we cast the sherds of shattered utensils from our +houses, so are these men cast forth from their homes when their +strength breaks and their utility as machines passes. There is matter +for the thinker here, but it is colourless and cold. It lacks the +warmth and glamour of the past.” +</p> + +<p> +One last sunbeam passed over the hills and slanted across the Strath. +From a point, where the grass road swung round, a side of the old +house became visible, and a single window blinking in the middle of +the light. Dr. Berry watched with shaded eyes, and suddenly came to a +stop. There was a white figure bending across the window, and as he +saw it the question of the wild girl flashed back: “Have you seen the +white woman crying into the lilies?” +</p> + +<p> +The same minute he was smiling, because a breath of wind had passed, +shaking the foliage, and the white figure rocked in unison and +vanished, as the sunlight died away. The shape had been caused by the +ivy and a certain arrangement of the boughs of an elm acted upon by +the white ray. The rector breathed more easily when the window became +blank. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he knew that the people of the hamlet would be saying that +evening, “It is noisy in the Strath.” They who behold a tragedy see +only the outward passions of the actors; of the influence which is +behind they can see nothing. So one may watch the tree tormented by +the wind, but not see the wind. +</p> + +<p> +Supper was awaiting the poet, and he ate and drank mechanically. Then +entering his study he spread his translations before him, and +straightway became an Athenian, floating delicately through most +pellucid air. +</p> + +<p> +The poetic mountains breathed their influence into him over the deeps +of time. Fragrant odours were in his nostrils, and in his ears the +murmur of bees upon Hymettus. He passed restlessly to Olympus where +the Gods were in council, and saw the Father aiming his thunderbolt, +and like Menippus sat at the door whence issued the supplications of +the world, and heard the petitions for wealth, honour, and long life +repeated in shameless monotony. He heard also the prayer of Reed +entreating that the terrible atmosphere might be dispelled, and he +felt no sorrow when the frown on the thunderer’s brow remained +unrelaxed. Through all the shifting figures he dimly perceived the +table before him and the passionate iambics of Archilochus spread upon +paper by his hand, and aloud he read, “My soul, my soul care-worn, +bereft of rest.” And at that his head sank forward upon his breast. +</p> + +<p> +The study window remained open, and moths and beetles blundered +through to bombard the globe of the scholar’s lamp. +</p> + +<p> +It was ten o’clock when the housekeeper knocked as usual at the door, +and receiving no answer entered softly with her master’s bedroom +candle and a cup of cocoa. Dr. Berry was leaning forward over the +table, his face hidden upon his folded arms, a disabled ghost-moth +floundering across his left hand. The woman noticed that the muscles +of her master’s hands were standing out like cords. +</p> + +<p> +“Your reverence,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The rector did not stir, and after repeating her call she muttered +gently, “He’s been and tired himself again.” Then she turned down the +flame of the lamp, drew it further from the sleeper, and retired +softly, leaving the door ajar. +</p> + +<p> +The tragedy was over; and the tired exarchus slept. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning it became known about Thorlund and its neighbourhood +that the owner of the Strath was dead. The woman who supplied him with +milk had discovered the body lying across the threshold, its head +towards the garden. Henry Reed had pitted his strength against the +Strath; and the influence of the house had triumphed. +</p> + + +<h2 id="interlude"> +INTERLUDE +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +He was nothing better than a consumer of the fruits of the earth. +“Dost thou then,” quoth I, “imply that we should name such a creature +as this—as we do the drone in the bee-hive—a blot upon the +community, a mere drone at home, and abroad a disgrace to the state?” +“Even so, Socrates,” said he.—<i>Plato</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The houses, which compose a street at no great distance from the trees +of Gray’s Inn, are for the most part occupied by authors, artists, +actors, and architects engaged, like Icarus, in making wings. +</p> + +<p> +The first letter of our alphabet originated it is said from the +hieroglyphic picture of an eagle. Followers of the four professions +beginning with that letter are, strictly speaking, not wanted. +Everybody must need letter B as represented by baker and butcher. But +letter A suggests luxuries. The picture of the eagle is therefore +appropriate. Authors, artists, actors, and architects must learn first +to fly, and then to soar well above smaller birds, before they can win +success. +</p> + +<p> +The side posts of each door are studded with an amazing number of +brass knobs, intended originally to be in communication with bells +upon every floor, but at present restricted seemingly to the duty of +exposing lilliputian milk-cans to the public view. These great houses, +which in the time of the Georges were occupied by people of title, +have become brick-and-mortar masks, hiding the sunken eye and hollow +cheek of poverty, in addition to the shame of rake and harlot, from +the view of the town. On the ground floor of Number 15 a middle-aged +man was brushing a long-haired terrier beside the open window of a +wide room panelled with oak. It was close upon ten o’clock, but +breakfast was still waiting. The interior was moderately well +furnished, although with the typical middle-class disregard for art. +The pictures were for the most part prints depicting scenes of sport. +There were also a few German photographs in doubtful taste, and one or +two engravings of river scenery in blurred and fly-spotted frames. +There was not a book to be seen, except one which was open upon the +sofa, and that to judge by its broken back was in continual use. Its +title was Ruff’s Guide to the Turf. +</p> + +<p> +A well-built man of not more than thirty years, unbecomingly attired +in a yellow dressing-gown and scarlet slippers entered the room. His +haggard face, listless attitude, and general appearance of disgust +with himself and his surroundings, suggested that he had been in the +habit of guiding his life according to the traditions of the house. As +the middle-aged man turned to welcome him, the profligate yawned +profoundly and lowering himself into a chair pushed the hair off his +forehead with an irritated gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“So you’re here again,” he muttered. “Drayton, you’re a regular +vampire, always after money or food. I suppose you would suck my blood +literally, if you weren’t afraid of poisoning yourself. What is it +this morning? Breakfast I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +The other—he was a poor scribbler, who made a precarious livelihood +by contributing paragraphs to popular penny weeklies—stroked his +stubbly chin, laughed, and removed the dog from the chair as carefully +as through the animal had been made of precious porcelain. +</p> + +<p> +“As a simple statement of fact I have slept upon your premises,” he +said, indicating the sofa. “Have you forgotten who guided your weary +footsteps homeward during the early hours of the morning?” +</p> + +<p> +The profligate bent over the table and picked up a letter which was +addressed to “Charles Conway, Esquire,” in copper-plate handwriting. +He tore open the envelope, yawned again, and inquired of his companion +whether at the time specified he, the questioner, had been very +grossly drunk. +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman of private means never gets drunk,” said the parasite. +“We apply that term to costermongers and coal-heavers. But you were, I +fancy, rapidly approximating towards that Bacchic state which in +classical language is described as <i>vino gravatus</i>. Even the policeman +at the corner of the street, whom for some reason best known to +yourself you insisted upon greeting most fraternally, would never, I +am sure, admit that you were more than foot-sore; but then you +presented him with a shilling, thereby obtaining your commission as +captain. You wasted that shilling. I would have installed you as a +Field Marshal for half the amount.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eat the breakfast,” said Conway, as he transferred himself wearily to +the sofa and unfolded his letter. “And don’t talk so much. My head is +tender.” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton hurried to the table and surrounded himself with victuals; but +before beginning he looked across and suggested, “Better have +something. Try a kidney and a piece of toast?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can get me a bottle of beer and an apple,” said Conway in his +jaded manner. +</p> + +<p> +Drayton bustled to a cupboard, bent his rheumatic knees, and after an +interval approached the sofa in the capacity of waiter, bearing the +desired refreshment. +</p> + +<p> +“A glass of milk would be more appropriate, considering the time of +day, only you might insist upon having whiskey in it,” he said. “You +will soon resemble Lord John Hervey, who, in this neighbourhood, and +perhaps in this very room, breakfasted on an emetic, dined on a +biscuit, and regaled himself once a week with an apple. Here is your +ale—all white and yellow! You can imagine it is a poached egg.” +</p> + +<p> +The younger man gave no heed to the parasite’s chatter. He was +studying his letter with a frown. When it was finished he leaned back, +drank his refreshment, looked at his watch, then read the letter +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring me the newspaper,” he commanded. +</p> + +<p> +The scribbler was making famine in the land. He believed in eating +well, entirely mistrusting the French proverb, which associates a good +stomach with a bad heart, and pinning his faith rather upon the creed +which teaches that virtuous folk have hearty appetites. His own poor +line of business rarely afforded him the means for more than one +substantial meal in the course of the day, and too often not that; so +when opportunity was given to kill a hearty appetite without +lightening his pocket he was never wont to be backward. +</p> + +<p> +Rising obediently Drayton opened the newspaper, folded it with the +sporting intelligence outward, and so handed it to his patron with the +remark, “There is no change in the betting.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway did not even glance at the sheet, which had been presented as a +matter of course; but turning to the general news searched each column +carefully. For several minutes there was silence, while the scribbler +made ruin of the breakfast. Then Conway threw the paper down and +resumed his former attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a cigarette,” he ordered. +</p> + +<p> +The other briskly left the table, complied with the demand, and as +briskly returned. A coal cart rumbled by, and the Stentor in charge +announced his business by a long ear-shattering yell. +</p> + +<p> +The noise seemed to stir Conway into life. He paced across the room +and set his back against the door. “Drayton,” he said, “I have heard +some extraordinary news this morning. My uncle has been murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the writer, his jaws ceasing from their +labours. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t worry your brain to find condolences,” said the other coolly. +“I have never to my knowledge seen this particular relative, so I am +in no need of sympathy, especially since I benefit by his death. But I +want to know whether you have read anything of the murder of a Henry +Reed? I see there is no mention in to-day’s paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sympathy apart, it’s an awful business,” said Drayton, pouring +himself out another cup of tea. “No, I don’t remember to have heard +anything. How did it happen?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems, from the bare narrative here, to have been a remarkable +affair altogether,” Conway answered. “My uncle returned from America +only a few weeks ago, to take up his residence in an old house +belonging to him which had not been occupied for ages. Last Sunday +morning he was discovered by the milk-woman, lying dead across the +threshold of the hall-door. It appears that the house has a queer sort +of reputation, and it was at first supposed he had died of fright. But +at the inquest it was shown that he had been strangled. And the +curious part of it is that no stranger had been seen in the place, and +it is impossible to suspect any of the inhabitants of the village.” +</p> + +<p> +“The mystery of the haunted house,” muttered Drayton professionally. +“Perhaps there will be a chance for me to do something here. Where is +the place, Mr. Conway?” +</p> + +<p> +The younger man came away from the door without answering and walked +up and down, swinging the tassels of his dressing-gown. Suddenly he +sat down at the table and poured himself out some tea. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said the scribbler approvingly. “Nothing half so +stimulating as tea. I hope I have left enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway filled a cup and drank off the contents. While doing so he kept +his eyes fixed upon two grotesque objects above the chimney-piece, one +on either side of a picture which depicted Isinglass winning the +Derby; and when he set the cup down he remained in the same posture, +staring at a pair of brown masks representing Comedy and Tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +“My head is full of wheels,” he muttered. “Come and hit me, Drayton, +that I may be sure I am alive. I must have played the fool badly last +night. I remember coming back from Sandown, and driving to some +restaurant in the Strand. The next thing I can recall is groping round +my room for a drink of water. My body aches and pricks, and my head +feels as heavy as lead, and my eyes—Great Heavens! are those faces +laughing at me?” +</p> + +<p> +The elder man had finished eating at last. He came round the table and +placed his hand soothingly upon the profligate’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Come over to the window and get some air,” he said quietly. “You have +been making a hot pace these last few months. You’ll be breaking if +you don’t hold up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” muttered Conway, pointing at the masks. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn your back on them,” said the scribbler. “What are you going to +do about your uncle’s death?” +</p> + +<p> +Again Conway disregarded the question. Turning from the wall to the +furrowed features of his poverty-stricken companion, he exclaimed +thickly, “Sit down, Drayton, and don’t bother me. Do you know why I +have those masks hanging there? They are family heirlooms, copies I +have been told of a pair made in Nuremburg, during the eighteenth +century, by a crazy toy-seller. These belonged to my mother before her +marriage, and her father had a pair like them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are the originals?” inquired the listener. +</p> + +<p> +“They have been destroyed. There was something uncanny about them, but +beyond that I know nothing. This is the crest of the Reeds.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway drew a ring from his little finger and held it out with an +unsteady hand. The other took it and saw a white cameo, showing two +masks, leaning together, a cap and bells over the forehead of the one, +a dagger over the other. He returned the ring, with the grave remark, +“But you are not a Reed.” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother was. The family emigrated to America, and there my mother +married into the Conway family, and returned with her husband to +England. My uncle leaves his property to me, not because he could have +loved me, but I suppose there was no one else to whom he could leave +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go down and see the place. The change will pick you up,” suggested +the elder man. “It isn’t probable you will live there?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, give up London to rot away in a lonely country house?” said +Conway contemptuously. “Is it likely? If I cannot let the place I +shall try to sell it. What are you doing with yourself to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“The usual thing,” replied the man who lived by his poor wits. “The +British Museum reading-room, in chase of a guinea. I have earned +nothing this week.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have a guinea, if you will pack my bag and take it to +Paddington. I am going to see my late uncle’s lawyer, and will meet +you at the station about noon. You can occupy these rooms until I come +back.” +</p> + +<p> +The literary adventurer closed with this offer promptly; and a few +minutes after mid-day a train drew out of London, carrying the +profligate Conway towards the influence of the Strath. +</p> + + +<h2 id="a2"> +ACT II. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="a2s1"> +Scene I.—COMEDY +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Drink, be merry! Life is mortal, short is the time on earth.—<i>Amphis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that the exit of Henry Reed made no stir beyond being +the wonder of a week in the neighbourhood of Kingsmore. An inquest was +held at the Load of Mischief, a wayside beer-house standing before an +unworked chalk-pit at the entrance to Thorlund parish; the customary +verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown had +been returned; and there the matter appeared to end, so far as the +inhabitants were concerned. Officials whose duty it became to detect +the criminal made a thorough investigation. They searched the house +and grounds—the Strath being in its sunniest mood—and the entire +district for material upon which to work, but not a particle of +success crowned their efforts. The medical evidence clearly showed +that the unfortunate man had been strangled by a strong pair of hands; +the locals testified that no stranger had entered the valley; the +principal witness, Dr. Berry, declared that he was the only resident +who had been in the habit of using the garden. He admitted, in answer +to a question by the foreman, that he had spent very much of his time +beside the lonely house; and so soon as he had spoken the coroner +inquired whether he had been upon good terms with the deceased. +</p> + +<p> +“When in his garden we had no difficulty in agreeing,” the scholar +replied. “When in mine we differed, but without quarrelling.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you account for that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I attribute it to the influence of the Strath.” +</p> + +<p> +“The influence of your garden is then less elevating?” +</p> + +<p> +“My garden is in the commonplace world,” said Dr. Berry, speaking what +was in his mind, and shrinking when he perceived the half-pitying +smile with which his answer was received. +</p> + +<p> +It was not until his housekeeper had given evidence that her master +had not left the rectory during the evening that Dr. Berry realised, +with a thrill of horror, that distrust had certainly rested, if only +for a few moments, upon himself. And yet he was the only man upon whom +suspicion could fall. The sensitive scholar was exceedingly pained +that he should have been questioned at all. He could not remember ever +having purposely deprived a living thing of life; he had refrained +from digging in his garden after having inadvertently severed a worm +with his spade; and he had passed a troubled week deciding how he +might act without cruelty when a lazy cuckoo had deposited her egg in +a favourite hedge-sparrow’s nest. +</p> + +<p> +Days passed, and already grass was flourishing upon a fresh mound +beside the churchyard wall where rested the shell of the stubborn +little man who had fought against the Strath and had died in the +attempt. The master of the manor had quitted the scene unmourned. The +sun went on shining in the valley, the old house settled back into a +triumphant silence, the church bell jangled its summons on Sunday, and +the incumbent soared in rhetorical flights above the souls of his tiny +congregation. There was no change. Yet it seemed to the rector that +his step was not so firm as formerly; and when he glanced into his +bedroom glass he detected a whiteness above his brow which had not +been obvious before the coming of Henry Reed. +</p> + +<p> +One evening a young man, with dissipation signed upon an otherwise +good-looking face, called and introduced himself as the dead man’s +heir. He went on to ask for the keys, which his agent had instructed +him were deposited for convenience at the rectory. Dr. Berry +surrendered his charge with a nervous glance at the new-comer, and +after begging to be excused from accompanying him went on to ask +permission to retain, as he had always done, the key of the gate in +the churchyard wall. The young man’s hearty consent thrilled him +gratefully; and though, after his late experience, he dared not invite +any relative of Reed to take up his quarters at the rectory, he +remarked in his courteous manner that he would be pleased to make the +further acquaintance of his new squire. Conway in boisterous slang +replied that he would be delighted to have someone to speak to during +his visit, and after promising to look in later that evening retired +to glance over his property and to engage a room at the Load of +Mischief. +</p> + +<p> +That day was made notable by other arrivals. Flora Neill came from her +riverside home to pay her annual visit upon her reverend uncle the +squire of Kingsmore; and as dusk was settling upon the hills a line of +dingy caravans proceeded at a walking pace along the bending road, +accompanied by swarthy gipsies and the paraphernalia of the pleasure +fair. These nomads invaded Kingsmore that night, and the following day +all the village folk were making holiday; it being Mr. Price’s kindly +custom to follow a precedent established by his ancestors, and to free +his farm hands from their usual duties upon that particular day. +</p> + +<p> +Shooting-booths, swings, and trial of strength machines occupied waste +spaces by the roadside, while a merry-go-round discoursed blatant +music upon a triangular patch of turf where the parish stocks were +still religiously preserved. The Kingsmore fair was as degenerate as +it was harmless. There was neither dancing-horse, elephants playing at +ball, Italian marionette, nor booth of classical play. But +posturising, grinning through horse-collars, eating of hot puddings +were to be witnessed, besides such natural monstrosities as a calf +with five legs and a lady of prodigious adiposity. +</p> + +<p> +During the afternoon the squarson himself drove into the midst of the +animated scene, accompanied by his niece, with a view to discovering +whether the pleasures of his people were as innocent as stated, or +whether this was to be positively the last occasion on which he could +allow the fair to take place. The rustics, who were compelled to give +him their allegiance, were not in the least afraid of the old man, +whose nature was very nearly as simple as their own. Mr. Price was one +of the last of the plain country squires. He permitted his servants to +address him with familiarity. From his position in the chancel he +would scan his congregation and record the number of heads before +commencing service. Should a grey beard nod in the course of his +sermon, the vicar would break off his discourse and order that the +sinner should be awakened. The tramp on the road he would greet as a +worthless rascal and soften the charge with a shilling; and at +Christmas he took care that no cottage should be without its beef and +beer. As he then glanced at the swarthy faces of the proprietors of +booths and stalls he felt certainly “in some doubt whether he should +not exert the justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless +vagabonds.” But when it came to the test his heart was too kind to +deprive anyone of his livelihood, or his own people of their pleasure. +He was no new man, anxious to assert himself. Mr. Price knew his +power, and therefore had little temptation to use it. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle!” Flora exclaimed. “Who is that man throwing at the cocoa-nuts? +He was my travelling companion yesterday from the junction.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price fumbled in the deep pockets of his disreputable driving coat +for his spectacles; and when they were produced, together with a +sample of wool and a bunch of twine, he pushed them on his nose. +“Where?” he asked. “Do you mean that elderly man in the brown gaiters? +He is a sheep-farmer from the other side of Queensmore.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—the young man to his left. There! He’s just going to throw.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that is Mr. Conway, the new owner of the Strath, I do declare,” +exclaimed Mr. Price, who having been called out on duty the previous +evening had looked in at Thorlund rectory on his way home, to condole +with his reverend brother upon his recent ordeal at the inquest, and +there had made the acquaintance of the young man from town. “I am +surprised to find him here, so soon after that terrible affair too. +The squire of Thorlund throwing for cocoa-nuts! And not a stitch of +mourning for his uncle—and smoking—and shouting! God bless my soul, +Flora, the man’s no gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +“He is young,” said Flora indulgently. +</p> + +<p> +“All the more reason why I should show him his duty,” said the old +squire. +</p> + +<p> +He summoned a passing labourer to hold the horse’s head; but as he was +about to step down Conway sighted the dog-cart, and hurried across the +dusty grass in the happy mood of a schoolboy enjoying a half holiday. +Mr. Price sank back to his seat with an exceedingly guilty expression, +and caught up the reins. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are taking in the variety show,” the young man cried, with an +appalling bonhomie that set the immediate neighbourhood grinning. “I +had no idea one could find such sport in a village,” he went on. “I’ve +been throwing for an old chap, who came to me with a penny, and said +he wanted to take a nut back to his grandson, and couldn’t throw +himself, so would I? He kept his penny while I spent a shilling before +I knocked down a nut. You seem to breed good business men down here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here to satisfy myself that no objectionable features have been +introduced to corrupt my people,” said Mr. Price severely. “I hope you +will not mind an outspoken remark from an old man, Mr. Conway, but I +feel that when one comes to take up a position in the country it is +very necessary to keep up appearances. These simple people readily +form a wrong estimate of character. Ah, yes! This is my niece, Miss +Neill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you enjoy this sort of thing?” asked Flora directly she had been +introduced. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s something fresh to a Londoner,” the young man replied. “I have +been round all the shows, I have smashed bottles, tried my strength +and my luck, and found I haven’t much of either, seen the fat woman, +pinched her leg—” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you sleep at the Strath last night?” broke in Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I went to the pub. It’s an awful hole,” said Conway. “I started +out to call upon you, as you were good enough to ask me to come, but +when I got here I yielded to the temptation of the fair. If you are on +your way back, I may as well walk on to the house,” he added coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conway might drive back with us,” Flora suggested. “There is +plenty of room behind.” +</p> + +<p> +Courtesy hindered the squire from objecting. The young man neither +acted nor spoke according to his old-fashioned ideas of a gentleman. +He appeared to be neither temperate nor well-bred. And here was Flora +making herself agreeable, solely because there did not happen to be +another man handy. The smoke from Conway’s cigar passed across his +face, and the old gentleman, whose constitution prevented him from +appreciating tobacco in any form, coughed disgustedly. +</p> + +<p> +It was a long mile from the centre of the village to the vicarage. As +the cart jolted along the road Mr. Price shouted his customary little +jokes to the people who passed on pleasure intent; while his niece +sustained a running conversation with the new owner of the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle has told me all kinds of stories about your house,” Flora was +saying. “I have often wanted to see the inside of it. But I should be +sorry to have to spend a night there.” +</p> + +<p> +“The parson at Thorlund swears it isn’t haunted,” said Conway eagerly. +“I just looked in last night for a few minutes. It did make me feel a +bit queer to see all the eighteenth century fixings which haven’t been +touched for the Lord knows how long. The old garden by itself is +enough to make a fellow imagine all sorts of things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your poor uncle was not strangled,” said Mr. Price, breaking into the +conversation with a note of strong conviction. “That was only doctor’s +evidence to give the jury a chance. I shall always maintain that Mr. +Reed was killed by fright.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe that fright has ever killed a man,” objected Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, child. What do you know about fear?” said the vicar +sharply. “At your time of life you ought to be asking questions, +instead of arguing with your betters. If the Strath were mine down it +would come,” he went on, turning to Conway. “Of course it is haunted. +You remember, Flora, my farmhouse and its spook of an old dame in a +poke bonnet? Well, I had the place down, and out went the lady. You +can’t strike a bargain with unrepentant souls. You must employ drastic +measures, and the only way of getting rid of a spiritual nuisance is +by using fresh bricks and mortar.” +</p> + +<p> +Now that Mr. Price was mounted upon his hobby he talked freely, and +the young people were compelled to remain tongue-tied until the +vicarage was reached. There tea awaited them, a meal which Mr. Price +took seriously, and when he was satisfied Flora asked Conway if he +would care to see the garden. The townsman rose at once and +accompanied the tall girl along the grass paths, above the valley and +the stream winding in the distance, while the vicar uprooted plantains +from his lawn, with an old table-knife. It was all delightfully +old-world and simple. The profligate felt the charm of the soft +evening and began to understand the pleasures of country life, as +Flora, bare-headed and handsome, talked freely upon his limited +subjects and laughed at his somewhat vulgar jokes. It was the sound of +this laughter which caused Mr. Price to straighten himself and +remember that he was the guardian of his fatherless niece, and that +his guest might be able to claim some distant sort of relationship +with his head-carter. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” said Flora, who always insisted upon managing the affairs of +the house during her stay, as the old gentleman approached them. “Mr. +Conway will stop and have supper with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I really think I ought to go back,” the young man said, conscious +that it would not be wise to outstay his welcome. +</p> + +<p> +“What, back to your Load of Mischief? No, you must follow the custom +of the country. We will feed you and send you off to Thorlund by a +poetic moonlight. Uncle, do go and wash your hands. They look as if +you had been making dirt pies.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man has no need to be ashamed of soiled hands,” said Mr. Price +somewhat sharply, because he resented any allusion to his +peculiarities. “I shall be pleased if you will share our evening meal, +Mr. Conway,” he added, turning to the young man. Directly he had +spoken he went to his threadbare knees and expelled a huge dandelion +from a bed of larkspurs. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conway wants us to go over to Thorlund to-morrow,” Flora went on. +“You will take me, won’t you, uncle? I am longing to see the Strath, +and he has promised to give us tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not at all sure whether I shall be able to come,” said Mr. +Price, approaching Conway, with the dinner-knife in one hand, and the +bushy dandelion in the other. “I don’t like leaving Kingsmore while +these fair people are about. They are an ungenerous lot, and sometimes +repay my kindness by appropriating my chickens. But we will come if I +can get away,” he added, because he too was burning with curiosity to +see the interior of the house concerning which he had heard so many +strange tales. +</p> + +<p> +So Conway stopped to supper, and Flora played hostess; while Mr. +Price, his simple face shining from a generous use of soap and hot +water, thawed out under the benign influence of a glass of port, and +told all his anecdotes for his guest’s benefit, studiously avoiding +any reference to the Strath or to the Reed family, until his niece +rose and left them. Then he pushed the decanter across the table, and +from a dissertation upon the iniquitous corn-laws passed at a bound to +the subject of oral tradition, and furtively inquired of his guest +whether there were to his knowledge any letters or memoirs +appertaining to Sir John Hooper in existence at the Strath. Seeing +blank astonishment on Conway’s face he went on to explain his +question, by dealing with the known history of the defunct baronet. +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard of the chap,” declared Conway, assisting himself to wine. +</p> + +<p> +“You may possibly find in your house some of those materials which +help us to a knowledge of history,” went on the old squire, who was by +this time in his most genial mood. “Sir John had a daughter, an only +child, who, it is reputed, was very beautiful, and he treated her, +’tis said, with great cruelty. A tradition exists in my family that on +a certain winter’s night the girl was discovered crying among the elms +in this garden. My ancestor had remarked upon the noise made, as he +supposed, by the owls, until a friend declared that the sound was made +by human voice. They went out and searching in the snow found the +girl. She was huddled against a great dog, and her eyes were fixed +with fear. They carried her to the fire, but directly she found her +strength she was gone. They say she had a lover, and that her father +killed him on the highway.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did this happen?” Conway asked, reaching again for the decanter. +</p> + +<p> +“About the time that Wolfe was chasing Montcalm out of Quebec. Hooper +was hanged upon what is still known as Deadman’s Hill. Any villager +will point out the spot to you. But I want to know what happened to +that poor girl. Tradition in this village suggests that she was often +to be seen, walking at night with the dog, always crying, and always +dressed in white like a bride. It was considered bad luck to meet, or +even to see her, just as it is thought unlucky nowadays to break a +mirror or spill the salt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she supposed to haunt the Strath?” inquired the owner with more +interest. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price shook his head in a puzzled fashion, and bent low over the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“Your rector, who knows the place better than any man living, declares +there is neither figure to be seen, nor sound to be heard, either in +house or garden,” he said, fingering the ends of his white tie +excitedly. “And I must own that village opinion bears him out to the +letter. Now as regards my farm-house, which was undoubtedly +possessed—I saw the queer old Georgian woman myself, standing by a +hay-rick, one raw winter afternoon—not a labourer would go near the +place, and the stories I heard of red and green lights flashing across +the windows, groans, and gnashing of teeth, though the poor old dame, +I would swear, hadn’t a stump left in her head, made me sympathise +with the psalmist who declared, ‘all men are liars.’ Try the Strath +for a few days, Mr. Conway. Don’t mistake me. I wouldn’t live there +myself. I’m a churchman, but I have a horror of the unseen world. Is +that decanter empty? There is another upon the sideboard. Yes, give +the Strath a fair test. It has always been a place of mystery, but +latterly seems to have broken out, if I may so use the expression. +Enter into the mood of the influence and it will treat you well, Berry +would say. Only don’t let him get too strong a hold upon you, or he +will whisk you back into an atmosphere of prehistoric days.” +</p> + +<p> +Nearly an hour later Flora, weary of her own society and nettled at +being isolated, came glimmering round the house in her white dress, +and played spy at the dining-room window. She saw the two squires, the +old aristocrat and the young plebeian, leaning across the table, +slopping wine amicably into each other’s glass, the one talking +perpetually, the other laughing in approbation. She heard her uncle +announce that his father had died of gout, the blame being on the +speaker’s great-grandfather; and she also heard his companion’s +assertion that Mr. Price might therefore consider himself insured +against the malady. Then she shivered a little at the grotesqueness of +the scene, entered the house through the conservatory, and passing +into the dining-room broke up the conversation by taking Conway out +into the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“If you decide to live in the country,” she told him severely, “you +will have to abandon your London habits. Uncle is an old man,” she +added reprovingly. “And it is wrong of you to excite him into +forgetting himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway became penitent and apologetic. “A fellow living alone in +diggings hasn’t much chance of doing himself any good, Miss Neill,” he +said in deep humility. “It’s too lonely of an evening to stay in, and +the means of enjoying yourself are made so jolly convenient. I’m +ashamed of myself—I am really, but your old uncle is such a jolly +good sort. And, you see, I’m not a clever chap, Miss Neill,” he +rambled on. “I haven’t got much learning, and I can’t stand books. I +don’t know Shakspere from Robinson Crusoe. Don’t laugh at me, Miss +Neill. I can’t help being a silly jackass. Perhaps I had better be +going now. But you will come over to-morrow? Do come and see my +house.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora was about to deliver one of her plain-spoken remarks, when she +was interrupted by a loud summons from the dining-room. Leaving the +guest she slipped back into the house, and discovered her uncle, +sitting erect and preternaturally stern, beside his hospitable table, +which had been influenced that night by some subtle nerve of +consciousness deflected from the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +“Flora,” he cried indignantly. “The man’s no gentleman. I forbid you +to contaminate yourself by speaking to him. He has drunk more than is +good for him. And so have I.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy you once told me your great-grandfather never went to bed +sober,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Customs were different then,” snapped the squire. “Send Mr. Reed +away, and remember please, he is related to my head-carter.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean Mr. Conway he is just going. Had you not better come into +the drawing-room? The housemaid will be here presently.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall remain here until to-morrow morning, if necessary,” said the +squire solemnly. “Supper has not agreed with me to-night. The soup was +a failure.” +</p> + +<p> +“If my mother could see you, she would take hold of your poor old +shoulders and shake you,” cried Flora; and with that she ran out and +rejoined the squire of Thorlund, who was standing near the gate, +gazing penitently at the solemn stars. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Neill,” he said tremulously. “There’s nothing like the country. +I was ill when I came here, but already, thanks to the beautiful fresh +air, I feel a different man. I am going to walk back to Thorlund in +this wonderful moonlight, and I shall admire nature all the way.” +</p> + +<p> +After an earnest appeal to Flora “not to forget to-morrow,” the guest +started off along the shining road. From a distance came up the +mellowed noises of the fair, and the glow of naptha lamps became +reflected against the rolling clouds. +</p> + +<p> +Flora stood, smiling a little, in the shadow, flicking away the gnats +from her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“That is one of the weakest men I have ever met,” she said to a moth +which hovered for a moment before her. “It would be amusing, and quite +easy, to treat him in this fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +She wound her handkerchief tightly round her little finger, and turned +with the action towards the house. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a2s2"> +Scene II.—MYSTERY +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Is it possible then that the soul—which is invisible and proceeding +to another place… when it is separated from the body—is at once +dissipated and utterly annihilated, as many men say? It is impossible +to think so.—<i>Plato</i>. +</p> + +<p> +When Conway reached the exposed road, leaving Kingsmore behind, a cool +wind sprang up redolent of pines. To feel it the better he took off +his hat and leaned against a moss-clad milestone. The unwonted +exercise of walking along country roads tired him quickly. He watched +the moonbeams playing across the ridges of short grass, and flinging +shadows into the ghastly chalk-pits, until the solitude awed him. He +found himself in a vastly different world from the noisy town which +had surrounded him throughout his life. And yet he found himself +longing for the grapes and pomegranites of his Egypt. He was incapable +of feeling any true admiration for the splendid silence of the hills. +The novelty of the experiment was still upon him; but the artistic +temperament was not, and never had been, his. +</p> + +<p> +Across the brow of the chalk a thin thread of road cut the highway at +right angles, and here a spectral sign-post pointed with three arms; +the fourth had been removed by storm, and its remainder was a sharp +finger-like splinter. Reaching this point Conway crossed the patch of +grass to make a short cut; but in passing the post his foot struck an +obstacle, which proved to be the amputated arm. In idle curiosity he +lifted the rotten board, and holding it in the moonlight made out the +barely legible inscription, “Queensmore. 1 Mile.” +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing to be seen in the direction pointed at by the +splinter, except ragged bushes and white stones, beside a weedy road +which descended in graceful curves from the summit and disappeared far +down in a clump of larches. There was no indication of a village down +beyond; not a voice proceeded from the valley, nor tinkle of +sheep-bell, nor snort of cow or horse at pasture. A barn owl slid +across the firs and shrieked at the enemy; and silence settled down +again. +</p> + +<p> +Presently there sounded a rattle of wheels, a stamp of iron shoes; a +stream of lamplight followed; and then a box-shaped cart topped the +ridge, and came noisily to the rectangular section of the roads, the +horse backing as he felt the decline. +</p> + +<p> +“Like a lift, sir?” inquired a hoarse voice, proceeding from a muffled +figure perched high between two goggle lamps. +</p> + +<p> +Conway recognised the mail-cart making its journey towards the distant +railway. Glad of the invitation he reached the flat roof, with the +driver’s assistance, settled himself upon a bag of newspapers, and, +clinging to the iron rail, closed his eyes when the horse was given +his head, because it appeared that any moment he might be hurled +forward into space. The driver began to chat, and when his head had +ceased revolving Conway found himself able to listen. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t allowed to take anyone up,” the man explained. “And I ain’t +supposed to smoke neither, which is what I call a bit of stupid +tyranny. But ’tis lonesome driving along these roads night after +night. Would you mind leaning over a bit, and holding the reins, while +I strike a light? Are you a stranger in these parts, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Conway replied, without revealing his identity, and as the cart jolted +on he asked the driver to point out the site of Queensmore and the +position of Deadman’s Hill. The man immediately swung round, and +extended his whip in the direction of the rapidly receding clump of +larches. +</p> + +<p> +“Deep down in yonder valley,” he replied. “You ain’t got property +there, I hope, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not,” Conway answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Queensmore is deserted and broke up. A very old village, they tell +me, sir, built by these Saxons, and full of their remains, leastways +the ground is. Go over and have a look at the place, if so be you can +spare the time. It lies just at the foot of Deadman’s Hill. That there +is the hill, sir. A bit further back you can see the post which marks +where the gallows stood. They do say it ain’t healthy to be along +these ways by night; but I’ve crossed this here country for years in +all weathers, at Midsummer, Hallow’s E’en, and Christmas, and I’ve +seen naught, but only owls and bats and glowworms. Folks let a fancy +get into their heads, and keep it there, and let it grow, until they +come to believe it’s true.” +</p> + +<p> +“How many people live at Queensmore now?” Conway asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Not one. The last inhabitant—an old man, name of Jabez Tooke—died +there five years ago. He wouldn’t leave the place, and having a bit of +money of his own he lived there by himself till he was ninety, and +then he had to go whether he wanted to or not. They buried him in the +old churchyard, and there’s a stone over his grave, saying something +this way, ‘Here lies Jabez Tooke, the last resident in Queensmore, who +wouldn’t be taken from his native village till death took him.’ Kind +of joke on his name, you see, sir. Parson Price was angry when that +stone was put up, they tell me. But it don’t matter now. Queensmore +has had its day, and now the owls have it to themselves. The wind is +pulling it down bit by bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“What made the people leave it?” the townsman asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well ’tis a bad country for agriculture hereabouts, and when year +after year the sheep did no good the farmers began to get out of it. +Then, of course, the labourers had to move on, and after that the +parish was joined on to Kingsmore, and that was the end of it. It +wasn’t ever what you would call healthy down yonder. Too much stagnant +water, and they couldn’t afford to drain. Flowers did well, but +there’s no money in them. All the village must be just blowing with +roses now, sir, and any one as wants can help themselves. But ’tis a +sad kind of place, with its tumbling cottages, and ruined church, and +nobody seems to care to go near it.” +</p> + +<p> +The driver chatted on, glad of the opportunity to use his tongue, +until the mail-cart approached Thorlund, and the great elms which +surrounded the Strath could be seen against the sky. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t carry no weapons,” he said, in response to Conway’s question +regarding the dangers of the road. “I wouldn’t know how to handle a +pistol—shoot the old horse as likely as not. There ain’t any real +danger on the road nowadays. I was held up once, when ’twas thought I +was carrying valuables, and I gave my gentleman strong medicine with +this here whip. I’m tidy useful with a whip, and when a man gets a +clean cut across the eyes he’s had enough. Never got a word of thanks +for saving the mail, but if I was seen carrying a gentleman I would be +sure of the sack. I mustn’t do less than my duty, sir, but as much +over as I like. It’s a hard life, because there’s more foul weather +than fair, and never a word of encouragement if I bring in the cart up +to time all the year round. Yonder is Thorlund, and the Strath. Now +that’s an awful mysterious sort of place, if you like, sir, and it’s a +very queer affair about this Mr. Henry Reed.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t mind stopping here, I will get down,” said Conway, when +he discovered that the cart was turning away from the valley. “I am +going to Thorlund.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you though?” exclaimed the driver, with a sudden direct interest +in his passenger. “Mind that step, sir. It’s dangerous when you don’t +know it. Well there, I’ve been real glad to have your company, and I +didn’t ought to take anything, but thank you very much all the same, +and good-night to you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not until the ancient yews of the churchyard appeared before +him that Conway perceived he had somewhere made a wrong turn. He saw +ahead a grey wall partly covered with ivy, and in his pocket he felt a +key which would open the hidden door in that wall. A light streamed +across the graves; a window beyond was open, and coming near he saw +Dr. Berry seated at his table, and when he stopped there came upon the +night the scholar’s rich voice chanting a Greek lyric. It was an +unknown tongue to the listener, but he was nevertheless fascinated; +and as he stood, listening, a strange power fell upon him, his mind +succumbed at once, and his feet passed the dark mound which marked the +resting-place of his uncle’s body, and entered the shadow. He fitted +the key into the lock, turned it, and the door opened at a touch. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant he held back. The wonderful garden spread away before +him bathed in moonlight. Then he laughed with a sense of new-found +happiness, and moved forward, drawn on by invisible bonds; and the +door closed into the wall with a gentle vibration; and a hundred +unknown energies made music in his brain. The house called to its new +servant, and he went to it; and the guest’s bedroom in the Load of +Mischief remained unoccupied that night. +</p> + +<p> +As the Aeolian harp is thrilled by every passing breath of wind, so +the consciousness of Dr. Berry responded to every change in the +influence of the Strath. He had not perceived the figure of Conway +passing before the window, neither had he heard the opening nor the +closing of that door in the crumbling wall; and yet he knew a material +being had entered the garden, and he felt more strongly than he had +ever done a power controlling his human organism, prompting him to +take pencil and paper, and write—he knew not what. +</p> + +<p> +The influence of the Strath was again strongly aroused. Since Reed’s +tragical fate the old house had remained quiescent. It appeared to +have exhausted its power for the time. And now in one moment the +scholar’s tongue was silenced as he recited the complaint of Euphron, +“God, as thou hast given us only a short life, why dost thou not allow +us to pass it without sorrow?” and a cold breath went through the +room, and his body began to pass into ecstacy; and he knew by all this +that the power had returned, and that it was kindly and wished him +well. +</p> + +<p> +The impulse to write became overwhelming. Scarcely knowing what he +did, the scholar took a pencil, and immediately the hand supporting it +was guided towards a sheet of paper and there reposed with violent +twitchings. The upper part of his body turned shudderingly away from +the right arm, and settled, a mass of semi-conscious matter, across +the high support afforded by the side of his chair; but the arm, and +especially the hand which clutched the pencil, were impatient, active, +and mobile. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” he moaned; for he could feel that his body was in +pain, and there was in his mouth a taste exceeding bitter, as though +he had swallowed hemlock. +</p> + +<p> +And immediately his unconscious hand moved fiercely and rapidly across +the paper, tracing out in ancient Greek the explanation:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“We cannot command the elements, or would have come near before. Now +you shall recognise our power. Give praise to the Supreme, for the +permission afforded of proving to you the truth of the endlessness of +life. +</p> + +<p> +“We will answer the questions you have written down, though we work +with difficulty, being compelled by the immutable law of Nature to +communicate through your brain and your mind, feeling again, as we +return to earth-state, the pains of our dissolution. The conditions +are exceptional to-night. We have awaited such an opportunity for +long. But being yourself in the body you will desire some proof of the +presence of an objective mind. When you awaken go forth into your +garden. Seven white lilies stand in a line beside the gate. The blooms +upon the fourth we will remove as we pass from hence, leaving the +green stalk bare. We will also read from a book and impress you of a +word. Walk, when you are able, across the room, and your hand shall +seek out a book, which, as you hold it, shall open at the one hundred +and ninetieth page. The last word upon that page is ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. It is +enough. Thus you shall learn our power over matter. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the meaning, you have asked, of this influence at the Strath? +You have doubted whether this power could arise from the actions of +certain earth-bound spirits. Also you have desired to know how it is +that after years of quiescence the spirit of the house, as you have +called it, should have become in so short a time thus mightily +aroused. We answer you concerning these things. Those spirits, who, +because of their grossness, are imprisoned near the earth, are ever +struggling to make their presence felt. As the sea-bird flutters +towards the light of some lofty tower, so do these discarnate beings +struggle towards that incarnate mind, or towards those material +objects, through whom, or by which, they may exert their will and +proclaim their identity. Some of these spirits are harmless, but many +are dangerous and all are undeveloped. There are in the Strath certain +material objects by means of which these spirits are allowed great +power upon the affairs of mortals who approach the place. You cannot +understand, nor may we explain to you further, how this should be. +Only beware, for there is peril in seeking out this knowledge, and the +body endures not easily nor for long. You know not how the spirit may +work, even through a ring, or a lock of hair, or may seek to impress +its nearness through the bird or the flower. We say again, beware, for +the spirits of the earth-bound, they who in the flesh have done +murder, or violence to themselves, or have succumbed to the bodily +appetite, are jealous of the happiness of those who have led the +spiritual life in your condition. They shall retard your upward +progress if they may. +</p> + +<p> +“And now we answer concerning the present great activity of those who +control the ancient house. It is your desire to seek into hidden +causes which has made it possible for such energies to arise. That +power will not be maintained, but while it continues we have fear for +you, knowing the frailty of the incarnate mind. These undeveloped +spirits have at length become skilled in managing the elements. It is +necessary that a certain combination of circumstances should be +formed, before such manifestations of spiritual power be possible, and +because such a combination is rare you do not often find upon your +sphere that influence, as you call it, which is now filling your mind +with perplexing doubts. It is possible that the combination, which now +exists, may not be made again. We would speak upon other matters, but +your brain is unable to express those greater truths, and your mind is +incapable of receiving them. Be satisfied now, and rest. You have very +much to learn.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The inert body of the scholar stirred slightly and he groaned deeply +in his trance. But, before he could awaken, his vitalised right arm, +acting so strongly at variance with the remainder of his system, swept +again across the paper, and his hand settled, and his fingers went on +to write: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“A spirit lately arrived desires to communicate, and we are commanded +to permit him. He will use our power to write in his own language, and +will then depart from you, having given the evidence that is +required.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +There the sprawling Greek letters ceased, and the pencil went on to +write in English, forming in illiterate unshaped handwriting the brief +and blasphemous message: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Damn you, Professor. You were right.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Some minutes passed before Dr. Berry came to himself and was able to +comprehend what the intelligence had wrought through his undiscerning +brain. It was close upon midnight before the message was deciphered; +for despite his scholarship and skill in reading manuscripts, there +were words and symbols in that script which were new to him. The +communication was written in Attic Greek by an intelligence which +exhibited a perfect command over the finer tones of that perfect +language. No living scholar could have penned those lines, and +possibly few modern Greeks could have translated them into their own +decadent tongue. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly and painfully, for his body was racked and weary, Dr. Berry +approached his bookcase, and immediately his arm was raised and his +hand guided towards a work near the end of the top shelf, a book bound +in drab boards, entitled, “Theatre of the Greeks.” That work was one +of a parcel which had come to him during the previous year and so far +had not been opened. The boards fell apart, but not the pages which he +required, and on bending to discover the cause he found that the +leaves had not been cut. Opening the page quickly with a paper-knife, +his eye sought the concluding word upon page 190. It was ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. +</p> + +<p> +Lighting a candle, the scholar walked out into the garden and the +still dark night, until he came to a flower-bed, beside the gate which +opened upon the graveyard. Six tall Madonna lilies lifted their heads +of white bloom before the fence where at sunset seven had stood. +Approaching, the scholar raised the candle above his head, and before +a moth blundered against the wick and extinguished the flame, he +perceived that the central lily, the fourth from whichever side the +plants were counted, stood a bare green stalk, denuded of its blooms. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a2s3"> +Scene III.—MUSICAL COMEDY +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Light quirks of music, broken and uneven.—<i>Pope</i>. +</p> + +<p> +When Flora awoke she discovered a pink envelope addressed in Maude’s +careless caligraphy, lying beside her morning cup of tea. She hurried +over her toilet, made her way into the garden; and seating herself +luxuriously in an easy chair beneath an arch of honeysuckle, read and +laughed over the selfish sentences inscribed upon two sheets of +perfumed paper. +</p> + +<p> +The little lady was very miserable. London was dusty and desolate. She +had read the new books, seen the new pictures, and heard the new +plays; she had done everything and enjoyed nothing, because she was +losing all her prettiness. Lately no one had admired her, at least no +one had told her so, and it was because she was growing old. She felt +perfectly convinced she would never attract anybody again. What would +happen to her if she became a widow she dared not contemplate. As for +Herbert, he was always in the city, which was of course the proper +place for him, but he was bad-tempered when he did come home, and +always declaring money was dreadfully scarce, which she didn’t +believe, but he had always been fearfully stingy. And he declared he +would not take her into the country, so she had made up her mind to go +away by herself, before her health was completely wrecked. And if +Flora was staying for any time at Kingsmore, would she look out for a +furnished cottage, upon rather high ground, but not in an exposed +spot, well away from standing water, with a nice garden, which could +be guaranteed free from toads and owls, with plenty of lavender +bushes, and green blinds to all the windows, but not Venetians, which +always broke directly they were touched… +</p> + +<p> +Then a bell jangled in the house, and Flora rose at once, because she +desired to find her uncle in a good humour; and she knew nothing upset +the old gentleman more than being kept waiting for his breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +Because it had been the custom of his ancestors, and Mr. Price was an +ardent conservative, a service was held for the labourers early every +morning in one of the barns. The squire had not only accomplished this +duty, but had ridden round the farm and signed the death-warrant of +several pigs, before entering the dining-room where his niece +immediately joined him. The old gentleman kissed the girl on both +cheeks, according to custom, and plunged into discursive talk which +had nothing to do with the guest of the previous night, or the empty +decanters upon the sideboard; while Flora, so soon as she was allowed +the opportunity, told him of Mrs. Juxon’s requirements, and read such +extracts from the letter as were fit for publication. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless my soul,” exclaimed the squire, as he dropped a drumstick of +cold chicken noisily into his plate. “What more will the woman ask +for? Why does she not say at once that she intends to have the entire +scheme of nature altered to suit her convenience, and engage angels +for landscape gardeners. Lavender bushes and green blinds! I hope she +may get them.” +</p> + +<p> +After sundry remarks on Flora’s part Mr. Price stumbled into his +niece’s snare, and suggested that she should take the light cart and +drive round the neighbourhood, with a view to finding a cottage +sufficiently idyllic to suit the spoilt beauty. When this matter had +been settled, Flora placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin +upon her hands, and introduced a fresh topic with the statement, “I +have been thinking, uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, my dear?” the squire replied, adding with a chuckle, “You +look none the worse for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think mother would be willing to let our house this year,” Flora +went on. “We have heaps of applications, on account of the river. And +then she could come here, and keep house for you all the summer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before agreeing, I shall require an undertaking that my liberty is +not to be interfered with,” answered the squire, who was in very good +spirits that morning, despite the excesses of the previous night. As a +matter of fact Flora’s suggestion was entirely after his heart, and +had been made by himself without success in former years. “You know, +child, I will never consent to have my study tidied,” he went on, “and +the privilege of the latchkey I must retain. Your dear mother has a +weakness for what she calls order, therefore, before admitting her +into this house, I shall require a signed agreement granting me full +licence to continue in my untidy ways.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you shall have all your old privileges,” said Flora. “I will +write to mother at once, and then go cottage-hunting for Maude. +Remember,” she added carelessly, as she rose to go, “we are due at +Thorlund this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora had her way. At half-past-four the Kingsmore carriage entered +the valley of Thorlund, bringing the vicar and his niece to visit the +Strath. The old gentleman wore his best coat, which had left the +tailor’s hands not more than five years back. He had also put on a +fresh white tie, which was already showing finger-marks, and had +brought out his dusty silk hat, the wearing of which when visiting a +neighbouring squire being a point of etiquette upon which he was +particular. During the journey across the four miles of chalk hills he +talked sheep and turnips, and was continually putting his head out of +the window, to examine the state of the road, or to shout a simple +joke for the appreciation of some passing son of toil. +</p> + +<p> +As the coachman was unwilling to venture with the carriage through the +high grass, which completely obliterated what had been the drive, the +visitors alighted at the iron gates, and made their way along a +faintly defined path to the house. The front door stood open, but +there was no sign of any occupant, and their attempts to ring were +frustrated by the corroded bell-knob, which remained immovable. Mr. +Price shouted and stamped, and, when no one put in an appearance, +stepped into the hall. He was the first squire of Kingsmore to enter +the Strath since the beginning of the period styled by historians +modern England. At the opposite side of the hall a huge fireplace +yawned blackly, its iron dogs red with rust. Some old tables, +stiff-back chairs, and sofas of tapestry, with a couple of tarnished +sconces holding blackened candles, and a curious clock its dial made +of white flowered glass, were the principal articles of furniture. The +hall was paved with stone. Above, a rectangular wooden balustrade, +sadly in need of repair, went round the building, and a few sombre +pictures could be seen against the damp stained walls of the first +floor. The frames were as black as dead walnut-leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“It will cost the young man a great deal to restore the place,” Mr. +Price whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“But where is he?” returned Flora. “I wonder if he is in here.” +</p> + +<p> +She led the way boldly into the drawing-room or saloon, the walls of +which were hung with tattered crimson velvet. This room had been +cleaned by the late owner with a good deal of care, until traces of +what must formerly have been a richly gilded cornice had become here +and there apparent. The extinct Hoopers had furnished their home well. +There were tables and chairs made of mahogany, a new and expensive +wood in the eighteenth century. Cabinets filled with old china +occupied the corners, and grotesque footstools with sprawling legs of +acanthus pattern were placed before each chair. Mirrors were greatly +in evidence, all handsomely framed, the majority bearing sconces which +still contained black sticks of wax. Upon a walnut sideboard a massive +candelabrum threw out seven silver arms. Above the fireplace were +arranged several bizarre ornaments of Indian make, intermingled with +porcelain vases painted with gross designs after Giulio Romano. The +pictures, which had evidently been lately rehung after having fallen +from their original positions, were numerous, but of little artistic +worth. The subjects were generally unpleasant, or suggestive; such as +Actaeon watching Diana, the loves of Jupiter and Leda, of Venus and +Adonis, of Aaron and Tamora, with coloured copies of Hogarth’s +Marriage <i>à la mode</i>. Upon a Louis Quinze table a fan was sprawling, +the scenes of The Harlot’s Progress painted upon its mounts, and +beside it a box containing patches. The escutcheon of the Hoopers, set +into the central window, cast a bar of colour across the rotten +carpet. The squire gazed upon his surroundings without any sense of +amazement, but with a distinct fascination, until he discovered +himself putting up a hand to adjust the periwig which was not there. +Both uncle and niece had altogether forgotten their absent host. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to be getting rather dark,” the girl said tremulously. +</p> + +<p> +“The sun has gone behind the trees, and the creepers are thick against +the window,” replied the squire with extraordinary light-heartedness. +“Look here, Flora! A French horn, such as is used upon our coaches. +And here a bent sword, twisted I doubt not by our host when in town +while defending himself against the Mohawks, and here one of the +furred caps which we old men wear while our wigs are with the barber. +And now let me hear you draw some music out of this beautiful +harpsichord.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl laughed, waking echoes in that strange place, and saying +lightly, “I will endeavour, my respected relative, to give you the +gratification which you desire,” drew up a chair, and sat down before +the impossible instrument. +</p> + +<p> +“By God! what a place for a dance,” cried the reverend squire, cutting +a fantastic caper, then bounding after his hat as it rolled across the +room. “Look at these boards, where they show through the carpet. All +of oak, a foot and more in width, somewhat worm-eaten, but none the +worse for that.” Holding out his coattails, the old gentleman bowed +gravely to his niece, and commenced to dance round her. +</p> + +<p> +There came a sound of heels clicking upon the stones of the hall, +followed by a rich voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo! bravissimo! That step was worthy of a dancing-master. If I had +but a fiddle I would play you a measure which should set you +skipping.” +</p> + +<p> +A handsome man strolled into the saloon, an open snuff-box between his +finger and thumb, attired in laced coat and embroidered waistcoat, +silk knee-breeches and stockings, silver-buckled highlows, and a big +white wig. A quantity of lace surrounded his throat, and his smiling +face was highly powdered and his chin patched. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Sir John! my dear Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Price, ceasing from +his gambols, and bowing to the new-comer with his toes turned out in +most approved style. “This is a very extraordinary and unexpected +pleasure, I do assure you, good Sir John.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but you are mistaken,” came the answer, as the speaker bowed low +to the lady at the harpsichord. “The humble personage before you is +merely the poor parson of Thorlund parish.” +</p> + +<p> +At that the squire of Kingsmore went very red and awkward; and finally +blurted out the remarkable statement: +</p> + +<p> +“I am totally at a loss to explain why we are here in these +preposterous garments. Flora, my dear, what could your tiring-woman +have been thinking of, to send you out with not an atom of powder to +your head, nor a patch to your face. And I believe we are expected to +drink a dish of tea. Where is our host that I may apologize in a +suitable manner?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been for some hours in a state of drowsiness,” Dr. Berry +explained, with a careless wave of the snuff-box. “I am unable to +understand what has come over him. He is dressed ready to receive you, +but I cannot keep him awake. I will, however, inform him that you have +arrived. As for your clothes that is a matter which can be easily +attended to. There are, in the rooms upstairs, presses filled with +apparel for both sexes, secure against dust and moth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray show me the way,” said the squire with old-fashioned urbanity. +“My charming niece, shall we accompany the learned doctor and make +ourselves presentable?” +</p> + +<p> +The strange characters passed out, making for the stairway and the +unexplored regions above. For them the clock of time had been set +back, or rather the hands were continuing to move at the point where +their progress had been arrested more than a century back. The drama +had been suddenly broken into during the eighteenth century; and now +that figures had come again upon the scene the drama went on, as +though there had been no interval, and those who were present had to +take their cue, and assume the parts of those men and women, Hoopers +or Branscombes, long since driven off that stage. +</p> + +<p> +After a short interval of silence a sound of singing filled the long +saloon. The vocalist was Dr. Berry, who was drawing an accompaniment +of broken music from the harpsichord, while Conway lolled sleepily +upon a sofa, costumed as a <i>beau</i> of a past age. To them entered a +lady and an old man, the latter exceedingly quaint and undignified, +the former tall and handsome; both attired after the best manner of +the time in which they dimly believed they were drawing breath and +inspiration. +</p> + +<p> +“It is certainly growing very dark,” said the squire of Kingsmore, as +he advanced with mincing step into the saloon. “And it is still early +in the evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“The clouds are coming up thickly,” replied the musician. “The windows +are also obscured by ivy, and trees surround this peaceful retreat +upon every side. Our host continues to be drowsy,” he went on, +pointing to the sofa and its silk-clad occupant; and having spoken he +crossed over, shook the sleeper gently by the shoulder, and called, +“Wake, my friend, here are your guests.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway opened his eyes. His face was perfectly pallid, but there were +lines of laughter drawn about his mouth which gave him a curious +resemblance to the mask of comedy, hanging in the room across the +hall. He rose slowly, and with perfect breeding, altogether unlike his +usual manner, bowed silently to his guests. Then he seated himself +again, and became aesthetically engrossed upon a painted vase. +</p> + +<p> +Flora came forward, and asked, “Are you tired, Mr. Conway?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have still a sleepy humour upon me,” the owner of the Strath +replied, passing as he spoke a hand across his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry was posing before one of the mirrors. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we play?” Conway suggested, stretching out his arms and smiling +vacantly. +</p> + +<p> +“By all means let us play,” assented the old squire, admitting into +his nostrils a pinch of dust which had no doubt been choice <i>rappee</i> a +hundred years before. +</p> + +<p> +A small sane voice whispered to these mummers that they were playing +at folly, just as the drunkard may be conscious that he is making a +deplorable exhibition of human frailty, although the knowledge in no +way aids him to act like a sober being. They set out a table, +old-fashioned cards and markers were produced; and they commenced to +play. The silence of the house was only disturbed by a faint moaning +of wind in the chimneys. +</p> + +<p> +“Gott in Himmel! as our gracious king would say. I am scarce able to +read my cards,” cried Mr. Price, after they had played the first hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It is growing damnably dark,” muttered Conway, not ashamed to swear +before the lady because such was the custom of the time. “Set a light +to the candles, doctor. There is a tinder-box upon the mantel. The +king,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Price, the sane intellect +struggling to assert itself. “Who is our king?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a perplexed interval, occupied by a mental conflict between +enlightenment and possession, before Mr. Price replied somewhat +testily, “Why, George the Second. Though ’tis said he has not long to +live. God save our Augustus!” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly the spirit of comedy prevails this evening,” observed the sober +voice of the doctor, who was lighting the ancient candles with a +modern wax vesta. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” exclaimed the old squire, picking at the yellow ruffles upon his +wrist. “What is that, doctor? Comedy! Why, to be sure, let us laugh +and sing. Where are the servants? Let us have a bowl of punch and a +few long pipes.” +</p> + +<p> +He stumbled in his big shoes towards the bell-rope, tugged it, and the +cord came away in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no servants,” said Conway meditatively. “But there is wine in +the house. I will bring you some.” +</p> + +<p> +He left the saloon, and they could hear him laughing across the hall. +Dr. Berry went on lighting the old candles in the sconces, in the +ormolu chandelier, and the candelabrum, until the saloon began to +glitter. He closed the decayed shutters and drew the torn folds of the +crimson curtains, singing a ballad as he worked. The light revealed a +painted ceiling, in the centre of which appeared a nymph entwining the +stem of an apple-tree with garlands of flowers. +</p> + +<p> +“A forest of lights!” cried Mr. Price, standing before the +chimney-glass and lifting his hands in rapture. “The view of this +handsome apartment regarded thus is indeed exquisite. The lights +dazzle and shine from one mirror to another in an endless vista. Ha! +here comes our wine. What elegant glasses, my dear Sir! What a superb +piece of workmanship is this salver!” +</p> + +<p> +They drank, to the health of their dying king, to George William +Frederick, Prince of Wales, to a lord admiral, and a great duke, all +of whom had left the body many generations back. They drank confusion +to the French and prosperity to their country. Then the scholar took +Flora by the hand, and leading her out into the centre of the saloon +danced with her a minuet. +</p> + +<p> +The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared startlingly at the entrance. +Having failed to make himself heard, and finding the front door open, +he had taken the liberty to enter, and now stood struggling with +amazement and some little fear, and yet without finding anything of an +incongruous nature in the scene before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, addressing the capering little gentleman +whom he recognised as his master. “Do you want the horses to stand, +sir, or shall I put them up at the Inn?” +</p> + +<p> +Another wave of sanity passed across Mr. Price’s brain. He understood +that it was his duty to leave that present company and go into an +altogether mysterious world. With many apologies, and much +snuff-taking, he approached the master of the house to take his leave. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall see you at Almack’s or White’s, when we are next in town,” he +said after a final warm good-night, glibly repeating the words that +were forced upon his tongue, although feeling them to be absurd. +</p> + +<p> +There was still daylight upon the village. A couple of labourers, +their day’s work done, had proceeded towards the iron gates, attracted +by the Kingsmore carriage, and had been summoned by the coachman to +hold the horses while he went in search of his master. These men stood +craning their necks towards the garden, until they saw in the twilight +two figures approaching; an old gentleman in a monstrous periwig, +handsomely embroidered sack coat, flowing waistcoat, and gleaming silk +stockings, assisting the progress of a young and beautiful lady, with +protruding panier and powdered head, a fan swinging from her wrist, +and a soiled Pamela hat upon her whitened hair. +</p> + + +<h2 id="entracte"> +ENTR’ACTE +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +An avowal of poverty is a disgrace to no man; but to make no effort to +escape from it is certainly disgraceful.—<i>Thucydides</i>. +</p> + +<p> +A fortnight had passed since Conway’s departure from his rooms in +town, and still the profligate gave no sign of his existence. Every +morning, when the postman’s knock sounded along the street, a weary +man crept down a dirty flight of stairs from his attic, praying for a +letter which might cheer his heart, but finding none. After a meagre +breakfast he would venture out to another house, to inquire if there +was anything for Mr. Drayton. The answer was always in the negative. +</p> + +<p> +The hack-writer had been compelled to abandon Conway’s rooms, not so +much because the place was being subjected to a thorough cleansing, as +owing to the fact that the rent was overdue, and the attentions of the +agent had become pressing. Drayton had written several letters to his +patron, acquainting him with this fact. As these letters were not +returned, he concluded they had been received, and yet nothing came +from the distant country to prove that Conway was alive. This +continued silence was becoming a serious matter for Drayton, who at +that time was in a desperate state of poverty. Younger men were +jostling him out of the ranks of an overcrowded profession, his one +suit of clothes was more than threadbare, and his health had begun to +fail for want of sufficient food. He knew that Conway hated country +life, and would never separate himself from the pleasures of town +unless compelled to do so. Concluding that the missing man was ill, or +had met with an accident, Drayton resolved to go down into the country +and find his way to the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +This determination came on a morning when he found himself absolutely +penniless. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the wretched lodging-house, he passed into the street where +the sun was showering golden favours upon rich and poor alike, let +himself into Conway’s rooms by means of the key which had been left +with him, and searching in a cupboard found to his delight a tin of +biscuits and some apples. Having breakfasted, he passed into the +bedroom and exploited his patron’s wardrobe, remarking as a +justification for the act he contemplated, “Conway has always been +good-natured, and I don’t think he will mind. Anyhow I will play +boldly and take the risk.” +</p> + +<p> +The impecunious writer believed in being thorough in his methods. +Having come to a decision, he discarded his own seedy garments in +favour of one of Conway’s numerous suits, borrowed a pair of boots, +which were not, like his, gaping at the seams, and a change of linen; +and presently returned to the sitting-room better dressed than he had +ever been in his life. There was a jar of whisky in the cupboard. +Drayton helped himself moderately, then sat down to think. As he +contemplated a railway journey it was obviously necessary to be +provided with cash; and to that end it would be equally necessary to +pawn something. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round the room to select a victim. Pictures were too bulky; +an inquisitive policeman might meet him at the door and put +inconvenient questions. There were, however, numerous small +money-bringers, such as a marble clock, a pair of field-glasses, a +handsome tantalus, a silver cup, any of which he might very easily +hypothecate. He selected the clock, and approaching the chimney-piece +had put up his hands to remove it, when the two masks above caught his +eye. Straightway his arms dropped at his sides, and his mind became +possessed by a new and quaint idea. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes later he was hurrying down the street towards a familiar +pawn-shop, with the pair of grotesque faces wrapped in brown paper +beneath his arm. He felt unusually excited, and somewhat +conscience-stricken at purloining the heirlooms. +</p> + +<p> +At first sight it seemed as though he was to be sharply disillusioned, +for the pawnbroker, who knew Drayton well enough, pushed the parcel +back indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Having a lark, ain’t you?” he satirically demanded, noting the +writer’s unusually well-dressed appearance, and jumping at the +conclusion that he had made some money and had spent an undue portion +of it in liquor. “There’s a toy-shop round the corner,” he went on, +endeavouring to repay insult by insult. “Take ’em there. Maybe they’ll +give you a penny for the pair.” +</p> + +<p> +Like many of his profession Drayton was sensitive, and sarcasm hurt +him. Muttering an apology, he caught up the masks and slipped out of +the shop, hot and awkward, with the idea of returning for the clock +that he might convince the pawnbroker of the seriousness of his +intentions; but when again upon the street the former influence +possessed his mind, and there flashed across his vision the picture of +a dusty little shop, a mile westward, beside which he had often +lingered, to glance at the fantastic objects exposed for sale, and to +wonder how the proprietor made a living, because he had never seen a +buyer enter or leave the house. Mechanically he turned his footsteps +towards the mean and dirty street, where the little curio-shop +survived, while more ornate trading ventures went to the wall. +</p> + +<p> +A swarthy little man advanced from a black recess when the writer +entered, and in a guttural voice sought to learn what the gentleman +required. Somewhat nervously Drayton explained the object of his +visit, and opening his parcel placed the masks side by side upon the +counter. The dealer assumed a pair of spectacles, and bent his head to +examine the two brown objects; then, with a muttered apology, he +lifted the models tenderly and carried them towards the light. +</p> + +<p> +“They are worth very little,” he said deliberately, as he looked back. +“I will advance you five shillings upon the pair.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is no good to me,” Drayton replied. +</p> + +<p> +“If you desire to sell I would give you one pound,” the little man +said, his foreign accent becoming more pronounced. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not wish to sell,” said the writer. “I want to borrow five +pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +The curio-dealer said nothing, but his head inclined slightly. Then he +walked away into a back-room and very quickly re-appeared, with five +sovereigns and a scrap of pasteboard on his little crooked hand. +Drayton confessed that he had not a copper on him to pay for the +ticket, whereupon the little man gravely gave him change for one of +the sovereigns, bowed him out of the shop without a word, and then +scurried back into the dark recess, shouting: +</p> + +<p> +“Jacob! Where is that boy? Jacob! Run, my son—run!” +</p> + + +<h2 id="a3"> +ACT III. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="a3s1"> +Scene I.—HEROIC +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +All that thou sayest I can bear unmoved; for thou hast a voice bereft +of power, like a shadow. Thou canst do nought but talk.—<i>Euripides</i>. +</p> + +<p> +It was dusk when Drayton entered the parish of Thorlund, after a +wearisome railway journey, and a long tramp of nine miles from the +station. He walked straight to the partly-open iron gate, without +pausing to seek information from a homeward-bound ploughman, the only +being whom he met upon the road. He knew he had reached the Strath. He +felt that he had known the place all his life. To one born and brought +up in the metropolis, to struggle for daily bread, it was a joy to see +that wilderness of flowers, and to breathe the heavy perfume wafted +across the grass. The weary man pushed at the gate and passed in. +Great stagbeetles were droning across the bushes. He removed his hat +reverently, and waded through the tall herbage towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes were heavy, as though with sleep, when he reached the door +and rapped upon it, gently at first, then loudly, and finally with an +energy akin to fury. +</p> + +<p> +He had no idea how long an interval elapsed, before an old woman +shuffled across the hall, and held up a sharp white face to hear what +he had to say. She was short-sighted, deaf, and asthmatic, incapable +of deep feeling, untroubled by emotions. This poor creature had been +on the eve of being cast out “broke” from the cottage home of her +relatives; and the rector, hearing of it by chance, had rescued her +for a time, and secured her poor services for the owner of the Strath. +The influence of the house failed with her, perhaps because there was +in her so little that was capable of responding to its dramatic power. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conway,” she whined sadly. “He is walking in the orchard.” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton recrossed the weedy moat and walked away, plucking flowers as +he went, pushing them into his button-holes, the brim of his hat, +behind his ears, and even into his hair; and when they fell replacing +them with others. +</p> + +<p> +A ragged hedge appeared before him, and beyond were apple and pear +trees with sparse foliage fluttering and whispering above mossy +trunks. Hearing a human voice, Drayton peered through a gap to behold +the man whom he had come so far to seek, walking through the long +grass among the drooping branches, reading aloud from a book, and +smiling as he read. Pausing close beside the hedge which concealed +Drayton from his view he recited thoughtfully: +</p> + +<p> +“I profess I know not what to think, but still there are some scruples +remaining with me. Is it not certain I see things at a distance? Do we +not perceive the stars and moon, for example, to be a great way off? +Is not this, I say, manifest to the senses?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is manifest,” muttered Drayton, as he tumbled stupidly through the +hedge. +</p> + +<p> +Not a sign of surprise crossed Conway’s white face, when the +apparition fantastically dressed with flowers stood by him in the +fading light. He continued his even paces, after motioning to the +visitor to keep step at his side; and when Drayton obeyed the two men +walked on through the orchard to the music of the evening, regarding +one another, if they considered the matter at all, as spiritual beings +unnecessarily encumbered with flesh. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, my friend,” said the late debauchee, who in his former state +had hated the sight of books and the thought of philosophy, “what was +the cause that impelled the rustic mentioned by Horace to lie on the +bank of the stream, waiting until the waters should pass? Have we +there ignorance in its most inexplicable form, or a super-normal +belief in the wonder working power of faith?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or a passionate longing for a revolution of nature’s laws,” Drayton +added in the same gentle manner. “So often had he watched the flow of +the stream that the sight may have wearied him. His wish might have +suggested a half-belief that the source had failed, that the waters +were actually flowing away, that any moment might witness their final +exhaustion. Perhaps again, in monstrous arrogance, the fool believed +that he stood beyond the law and at his word the waters would be +stayed.” +</p> + +<p> +“When the brain has been wrought upon by insanity the sufferer will +lift himself to the plane of godship,” Conway mused, drawing down a +mossy branch and gazing thoughtfully at the little emerald apples. +“But our author assumes that his hero is sane.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet we are unable to deduce sanity from his actions,” Drayton argued. +“There are limits to the imaginings of ignorance. The most insensate +mortal knows that the apple, if detached from the bough, will fall to +the ground. The observation of countless generations of ancestors has +imbued him with so much knowledge. Instinct alone should advise him +that the river must flow continually.” +</p> + +<p> +“I acknowledge it,” Conway murmured. “The sanest philosopher is also +the humblest. He who loses his reason holds up giants and examines +them through a microscope.” +</p> + +<p> +They continued to pace the orchard through the thickening air; and +Conway still felt no astonishment at finding Drayton by his side, +attired in a suit of his own clothes. As for the latter he had +certainly some dim remembrance of a visit to a pawn-shop, of a +landlord waiting for the overdue rent, and of a back attic in a noisy +street; but such matters were very distant and indistinct. Had he been +told he had pawned the masks a decade ago, or even assured he had not +pledged them at all, he would have assented. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this happiness?” he inquired of his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful happiness,” Conway answered. “I sleep much. My head aches a +little, but it is no pain. It is a gentle heaviness, which does not +cloud my vision. When I am awake I read. After supper I will read to +you. The house is full of books.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear voices?” +</p> + +<p> +Conway shook his head with a sleepy smile. +</p> + +<p> +“It is always peaceful here.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow I shall write,” went on the uneducated man confidently. +</p> + +<p> +They went by slow periods to the house. +</p> + +<p> +The deaf old woman had no culinary skill, therefore the meal awaiting +them was of the plainest—thin soup, a piece of mutton, a milk +pudding, and a little fruit. Both men were silent, Conway reading from +a book beside his plate, Drayton already absorbed upon the first act +of a play which he intended to begin at once. When his host rose he +also pushed back his chair, and they stood gazing at one another +foolishly, until Conway pointed towards the flight of stairs. Side by +side they crept up into the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Passing along the passage they entered a windowless room cumbered with +much furniture and mouldy books; a great bed, heavily draped, occupied +the centre; the carpet had been eaten away, and the rotten planks +crumbled beneath their tread; a sofa and two chairs occupied spaces at +the foot of the bed, and between the chairs stood a marble table, and +upon the table two candles in bronze candlesticks, which when lighted +revealed also a manuscript book in shagreen covers and a floriated +cross. On one arm of this cross some long vanished hand had scratched +the name of Winifred; on the other Geoffrey in similarly tremulous +characters. +</p> + +<p> +Drayton seated himself upon the sofa, and drawing the heavy draperies +apart admitted light across the bed. There was nothing to be seen, +except a mass of tumbled garments, and a black heap which might once +have been a wreath of flowers. +</p> + +<p> +There came a scurrying of rats from beyond the wainscoting, and after +that silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What room is this?” asked Drayton, as he permitted the damp curtains +to fall and close. +</p> + +<p> +“The bedroom of Winifred Hooper,” Conway replied, without raising his +eyes from a closely written page, dated along the margin January 14th, +1742. The writing was fine, and perfectly distinct, sloping from left +to right, blurred occasionally by the damps of time, or perhaps by +tears from the writer’s eyes. The master of the house snuffed the +candles, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“I found this book to-day, in that cupboard beside the fireplace. It +is the journal of one who formerly lived in this house. I will read +you a few pages, and if you grow weary, or desire to sleep, put up +your hand and I will cease.” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton was huddled at the end of the sofa, his arms folded tightly +across his breast, his eyes fixed upon the cross. He made a motion of +assent, and straightway the host began to read: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“I write to you, my Geoffrey, although I know you may never see these +lines, therefore I will not commence with Beloved, or My Love. Such +words spring warmly from my heart, but lie as cold as snow upon these +pages. Yet I write them. ’Tis but a little happiness. I am alone in +the wind. It is so cold a wind. It howls round the house, and enters +this room, to make my candle flicker. Snow has been falling all the +day, and the garden lies buried, and the great tombs in the churchyard +are covered with white sheets. The dead shall sleep to-night more +warmly than I. My father is playing chess with Mr. Blair, the rector +of Thorlund, in the saloon. At the end of their game a summons will +come for me, and I must go down and sing. They say my voice is +beautiful, but that is because I sing to you, and sometimes you seem +so near that tears will come into my eyes, and my voice will tell +again what it has already told, and would so gladly tell again, until +I hear the drunken parson thumping his great shoes upon the floor, and +shouting, ‘My God! She sings like Farinelli.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Let me tell you how I have passed this day. In the morning I walked +out. It was so still, and winter fog was lying along the valley. I +heard the horses stamping in the stable, and saw the white mist +steaming off the moat, while I scattered bread for my hungry sparrows. +(Pardon this careful account of my trivial actions, Geoffrey. I could +not write if I did not hope that Providence might place this little +book into your hands some day, perhaps when you are wedded, and I am +in the vault. You will not be false to your wife if you kiss this +page, because my hand has rested for a cold hour upon it.) Then I +walked into the plantation, and beneath the bushes were snowdrops, so +pale and white. They seemed to be shivering and to say, ‘Why does the +sun not shine?’ But I knew that it was I who shivered, because the +snow flowers are children of the winter, and I am made for the +bluebell and the rose. Do you, I wonder, sometimes recall to mind that +daffodil I plucked and gave to you last spring? I planted a chestnut +beside the bulb, and the tiny tree grows strongly and the daffodil +will come up again this spring in just the same spot, and will bear a +bloom like that I gave to you, but you will not be here to take it +from my hand. +</p> + +<p> +“That same day, while walking with me through the plantation, you +stepped upon and crushed a crocus. After you had gone, I went back for +the bulb, and planted it in a box which stands beside me now. The +divided bulb has sent up two little spikes of bloom, but one is very +much stronger than the other. The weak one is mine, the strong is +yours. Mine will flower last and fade first. I cannot water mine +without watering yours, or I would be selfish and make the spears of +equal strength. +</p> + +<p> +“During the afternoon I walked to Queensmore to visit my uncle the +vicar, a man I cannot love, because he is so hard, and I fear a miser +also. The wheels of the coaches had beaten down the snow, but it was +slippery to walk, and once I went down. Had you been there you would +have taken me up, and carried me against my will—so I would have +declared—down Stone Hill, as you carried me once when my foot gave me +pain from the sign-post to the village stocks. A coach passed me, the +guard blowing upon his horn as though to warm himself, the passengers +very cold and miserable, the poor horses sadly weary. A woman in the +basket called, ‘Good-luck, pretty dear,’ and I started when I +understood the good wish was intended for me. It cheered me on my +lonely walk. I am sure the sharp wind had put colour into my face and +brightened my eyes. Perhaps I was pretty then. But I am white again +now, and the mirror opposite tells me that my prettiness was borrowed +after all. It was only for the hour. And, Geoffrey, you were not there +to see it. +</p> + +<p> +“The bushes are covered with berries this winter, and I am glad to +know that my singing-birds will not starve. But I have found some +stiff little bodies upon the road. There is miseltoe in our orchard, +but none has been brought into the house. On Christmas night my father +was out late, and when he returned drank deep, and would have beaten +me, for no fault whatsoever save that I had seen him come home, had I +not run from him and hidden in the lumber-room. No Yule log burnt in +this house; no hackin, nor turkey, nor plum-porridge was served at our +table; the village mummers did not enter this garden; and when I heard +the bells a-ringing I shut myself in my room and tried to be brave. I +had seen woodmen hauling the Yule log merrily towards Kingsmore, and +Mr. Price himself was sitting atop, with a great branch of holly in +his hand, singing a carol with all his might. They are merry folk at +Kingsmore. I could hear their drums and fifes on Christmas Eve, and +Deborah tells me the whole company gambolled and danced all night, and +their boar’s head was one of the largest seen, and their masque the +most diverting, and their ale the finest ever brewed. Happy that ’tis +given to some to spend their lives in giving pleasure to their +fellow-men. Deborah tells me also, or will whisper it rather, how that +she heard the phantom bells in the long pasture between here and +Queensmore. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Geoffrey, I wander. Would you desire to hear of my uncle, whom I +found this afternoon in his study, sitting without a fire, a red cloak +round him, and stiff white gloves upon his hands? I think you would +rather I wrote about myself. I will promise you I am no bigger than +when you saw me last, and then you thought me, I fear, somewhat too +small a person to contain a heart so big with love. But there, wise +sweetheart, you were deceived. My face has not greatly changed. My +eyes are just as blue, but as they look back at me from the mirror +they do not smile. I would not have them try, because happiness cannot +cannot be forced. I see I have written the word cannot twice. I have a +little scar upon my wrist, which was not there when you departed. +Shall I tell you how it came? But, no! I would not have you think me +impatient. I am like the willow tree beside the stream, which yields +to every blast, and rises forgetful of the few weak leaves that the +wind has taken away. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to the window in the passage. The snow is deep and +smooth, and all the world is silent. What a pitiless thing is this +frost, and yet how kindly does it work! It soothes the unprotected +into sleep, and draws life away, so painlessly, so gently. How +different from cruel man or beast. Yesterday I discovered my cat +playing with a poor mouse. I took the little thing from her, but alas, +it shivered once and died in my hand. I could have cried for it. I +knew! +</p> + +<p> +“My candle is burning out. I would gladly seek warmth in my bed, but +dare not while the noise below continues. Where are you, Geoffrey? Oh, +my love, I know you will play the man amid the wicked society of our +time. I pray you shun the court, the painted faces, the cringing +favourites, shun also the gaming-house, and the cockpit. Nay, I mean +no harm. My father is shouting for me upon the stairs. Ah, Geoffrey! +Come again.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + + +<h3 id="a3s2"> +Scene II.—PASTORAL +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Let me, neither in adversity, nor in the joys of prosperity, be +associated with women.—<i>Aeschylus</i>. +</p> + +<p> +After searching diligently Flora discovered a little farm-house some +three miles to the west of Kingsmore, which the tenants were glad to +let at a weekly rental, sufficient to give them a long awaited +opportunity of visiting relations elsewhere. On a set day Maude +presented herself with a cartload of baggage; and after spending a +night beneath Mr. Price’s roof, and horrifying that simple old +gentleman exceedingly, went on with her friend in the morning to the +retreat on the side of the hill, with which she was graciously pleased +to declare herself “pretty well satisfied on the whole.” During the +week that ensued she was occupied, putting the place into her idea of +order, and endeavouring to regain the prettiness which she believed +London had taken from her by driving abroad in a donkey cart. But +before the first week had elapsed she had begun to complain, +ungrateful person that she was, of the monotony of country life. +</p> + +<p> +The empty-headed little woman would have been horrified had anyone +dared to suggest that she was not a perfectly righteous person. What +harm, she would have argued indignantly, had she done in the world? It +was true she had married Mr. Juxon for the sake of his money, but then +she did not believe people ever married for love. It was certainly too +comical to suppose that any woman could possibly fall in love with +Herbert, who was short and bald-headed. She had been true to him, she +considered, and constancy was all that could reasonably be required +from her. It was his duty to go on making money, and when he remained +in the city until dark, as he had been doing lately, she did not +inquire the cause. She had certainly been surprised when he raised no +objection to her proposed jaunt; but it never entered her head to +imagine that his affairs might not be going any too prosperously. She +would have been vastly astounded could she have heard the remark which +he made when he watched her train depart. He had given a sigh of +relief, and said, “It will be better for her not to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing but trouble, my dear,” said the ungrateful person, who +had been a penniless little nobody before the stockbroker married her, +to Flora, as they sat together on a tiny lawn under a dwarfed tree in +front of the bijou residence. “I have lately suspected that Herbert +drinks. Men who stay late in the city, as he has been doing, cannot be +at work, because as everyone knows there is no work done after four +o’clock. They meet together in some horrid low place, drink brandy and +swear, and make bets on horse-races.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora trailed her handkerchief along the grass for the delectation of +a fat kitten, and made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“It is disgusting,” went on the little lady. “Drunkenness is so vulgar +and costermongery. I had a letter this morning,” she added in +aggrieved tones. “He wants to come here from Saturday to Monday, and I +have written to say that I have not got the house in order yet, and he +is not to come. I am here for privacy,” she concluded pathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty people must not expect to have privacy. Especially when they +have husbands,” said Flora. +</p> + +<p> +Maude Juxon laughed delightedly. Flora could say what she liked, so +long as she wrapped the sting of her truth in a sheath of flattery. +The kitten jumped across the lawn sideways, its tail like a +lamp-brush, flung a mad somersault, and dashed into a briar-bush, +bringing down a shower of petals. +</p> + +<p> +“When are you going to take me to that remarkable house in Thorlund?” +asked the beauty. +</p> + +<p> +Flora turned grave at once, and answered shortly, “Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s jealousy,” murmured Mrs. Juxon. “I want to see the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can tell that to Mr. Conway. He is coming to Kingsmore on +Thursday, that is if he can remember the engagement,” said Flora. “I +am not going with you to that house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that clever delightful poet coming too?” cried Maude, sincerely +interested at last. “That nice, handsome, doctor clergyman?” +</p> + +<p> +“He never goes into society,” said Flora. “I suppose he’s afraid of +meeting fascinating little women like you. Do you really think him +handsome?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, superb. His head is like one of those pictures you see, +somewhere or other. And that beautiful silvered hair, and smooth grave +face, and great grey eyes—why, Flora, there isn’t an actor in London +half as handsome. I’m sure he looks a saint.” +</p> + +<p> +“He neglects his parish fearfully,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can’t expect him to take any interest in those stupid +labouring people,” said Maude with some asperity. “I shall intercept +him in one of his walks, and tell him he’s to come to Kingsmore on +Thursday. Now do say something, and don’t leave all the talking to +me,” she went on fretfully. “You have become such a silent person +lately. Tell me all about Mr. Conway. Does he like you? Has he money? +Do you think we could persuade him to give a dance in his wonderful +house?” +</p> + +<p> +Flora was troubled. She had been given reason to suppose that Conway +did “like her,” when at a distance from the Strath. She supposed him +to be fairly well off; he gave the idea of a man who had never done a +day’s work in his life. As for a dance at the Strath, she found +herself smiling at the suggestion, then began to wonder why the idea +should appear incongruous. +</p> + +<p> +Neither she nor her uncle could recall what had taken place during +their visit to the Strath. When upon the road they had discovered +themselves costumed after the fashion of a by-gone day; but memory had +given them no answer when they asked why those old habits were upon +them, or what had been their actions inside the house. Soberly and +silently they had returned to reassume their modern garments, and Mr. +Price had since avoided any reference to that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +The same with Conway, Drayton, and, in a lesser degree, with Dr. +Berry. Inside the Strath they were puppets; outside they +resumed—although there were exceptions to this rule—their normal +selves. The time spent among the antique furniture, or along the +tangled walks, left no more memory than a night of sleep. They +discovered a subtle influence drawing them back, as opium will recall +its victims to their dreams. They knew that the sleep induced by the +Strath was delightful, that happiness was given there; but former +experience told them nothing concerning the nature of that sleep, or +the substance of that happiness. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the garden Conway fell beneath Flora’s spell, and would decide +to settle every pressing affair in London by letter upon his return; +Dr. Berry continued his work on Aeolian poetry, and vaguely remembered +that he had a flock. Inside the garden the world went away from them, +and they were mimes, speaking the words put into their mouths, and +playing the parts which had been assigned to them. All that their +minds were capable of producing was brought out there. So long as they +did not attempt to oppose their will against that of the controller of +the masque, as Henry Reed had done, all went well. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course the place is haunted,” said Maude with a dainty shiver, +when her friend had told her all that she knew. “I don’t think I want +to go there after all. But I should like to see the china. You say +there is lovely china in the drawing-room?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful,” said Flora. “Uncle says there was a rage for china during +Queen Anne’s reign.” +</p> + +<p> +“No atrocities? No horrible wool-work, or samplers, or antimacassars? +No wax-flowers, or leather fruit, or horsehair sofas?” went on the +little lady, confusing her periods. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw none,” said Flora. “I only remember the china, and some +pictures which wouldn’t be allowed nowadays, and a quantity of mirrors +and candles.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad there is nothing vulgar,” said Maude. “I almost think I +could go there, if there were plenty of people with me. If the house +is haunted I expect it will all be done in a proper and genteel +fashion. When I went to see Hamlet I was quite prepared to be +frightened when the ghost came on, but I wasn’t, not in the least. He +was such a gentle and aristocratic ghost. I expect the bogey of the +Strath would be just like that.” +</p> + +<p> +The stars in their courses were propitious to Maude. Towards evening +on the following day she encountered the rector of Thorlund, after +driving over to the hamlet in a gig drawn by a tandem of donkeys, and +placing herself in ambush so to speak along his usual walk. She had +been introduced to the scholar by Mr. Price in his offhand fashion +upon the day of her arrival, chancing upon him as they drove from the +station towards Kingsmore. Directly she espied the scholar, she +abandoned gig and donkeys, and fluttered along the field road, +pretending to be busily engaged in gathering a handful of marguerites +and ragged-robins. +</p> + +<p> +He, poor man, was fully occupied with the problem of Sappho’s +morality, mentally weighing the evidence in her favour, sifting the +chaff of legend from the grains of fact as best he might. He did not +perceive Madame Papillon until he heard her salutation; and then he +started and stared up into the golden mist which the sun was trailing +across the side of the hill. +</p> + +<p> +Maude was pretty—just then wonderfully so, because she was anxious to +please—somewhat doll-like perhaps, but beautifully made, and scented, +and bravely tricked out in <i>batiste</i> and lace and flowers and innocent +infant hat. Her throat was as white and soft as the petal of a lily, +and her little nose as dainty as a rosebud. She was frothing over with +life and health, and her feet in toy white shoes were as light as +bird’s wings. Perhaps it was unfortunate for the scholar that his mind +should have been occupied by thoughts of Sappho, whom he admired and +loved academically as the world’s one poetess. Some Greek escaped his +lips involuntarily; he was no pedant, but the sweet Ionic words were +as familiar as his own tongue, and better expressed his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“How funny I should have met you!” cried lady frivolous. “Because I +was wondering whether I could summon up enough courage to go all by +myself to the rectory and leave a message. I don’t believe you +recognise me. The sun is dazzling, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the scholar. “Yes, the sun blinds me.” He took off his hat, +and the light glinted across the silver of his hair and made it live. +</p> + +<p> +He did not question himself as to whether this divinity was maid, +wife, or widow; he only knew that the apparition was very good to gaze +upon, and he found himself hoping that it would not vanish suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope your carriage is safe,” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“My carriage!” exclaimed Maude with ringing laughter. “Why, it’s only +a wobbly gig, drawn by two of the most ridiculous donkeys. Do come and +look at them. They have ears as long as—as—” +</p> + +<p> +“King Midas after his transformation,” suggested the scholar. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” said Maude, who had no idea what he meant. “But they are +champion trotters. Come into the cart and I’ll drive you home. We +shall be packed tight, but I’m small.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something here which made lyric poetry doubly sweet to the +scholar’s mind. A life of dreams, of fingers on pen, and eyes in +books, had fallowed his heart unconsciously for the reception of a +seed which had been with him nothing but a name. His eyes were sleepy +as he approached the cart, and the lines about his mouth showed +weakness, and there was irresolution in all his actions. This was not +Dr. Berry of the study and the Strath. It was Dr. Berry who was +learning that he was a man. +</p> + +<p> +“Get in,” said Maude. +</p> + +<p> +The scholar obeyed, and the dainty creature followed. The cart was, as +she had said, very small. They filled it, as they sat facing one +another, Maude’s scented frills trailing upon the scholar’s feet, her +breath coming to him when she spoke, her hat brushing his forehead +when she turned with some sudden motion. For the first time in his +life Dr. Berry cast down his eyes and was ashamed. He did not know +that the little beauty was a butterfly: but he began to understand why +Leander swam across the Hellespont and why Sappho flung herself from +the Leucadian rock. +</p> + +<p> +The birds were singing in the beech-wood as they had never sung +before. +</p> + +<p> +“The country is beautiful,” Maude was saying. “Oh, Dr. Berry, I could +live here always, just to walk, sleep, and dream in the sun. But there +would be winter. How I wish we could have summer every day!” +</p> + +<p> +Maude meant nothing that she said. She knew how pretty she looked in +furs. She was a rattle, not understanding her own noise; but the +scholar hung upon her words, and believed them inspired, and did not +know they were murmurings from a shell. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a message for me?” he said, without perception of a +labourer, who passed, and grinned as he touched his hat, at the +strange conjunction of the stately poet with that tiny cart and the +donkeys and the pretty lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Maude, flicking at the flies with her toy whip. “You are +to be at Kingsmore on Thursday. Flora commands your presence, and so +do I. It is impossible for you to refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will be there?” mused the thinker. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. And I’ll see that you have a comfortable chair in the +rosiest corner of the lawn, and if you feel a sudden desire to write +you shall have pen and ink, and if you are lazy you can talk to me. +But you must not be too clever. I shall tell Flora you are coming. How +do you go to Kingsmore?” +</p> + +<p> +“I seldom leave my home,” the poet answered. “I am not able to fit +myself into society.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s easy,” said Maude. +</p> + +<p> +“I always walk,” he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“But that must be tiring, especially when the sun is hot. Suppose,” +said Maude, “suppose you found this little cart on the top of the hill +outside Thorlund at half-past-three on Thursday afternoon, and suppose +I drove you in triumph across to Kingsmore—wouldn’t that save you a +lot of trouble, and mightn’t it be rather an inducement for you to +keep your promise?” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry could not remember how he answered, whether indeed he spoke +at all. He looked towards the hill which rose above his valley, and +saw the white road bending away in the far distance. “Would it not be +cruel upon these little animals?” he said, with a more confident +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” replied Maude. “They are full of oats, and they shall eat +all Thursday morning to prepare themselves for the honour of drawing +wisdom and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Beauty,” added the scholar, sincerely. Folly he should have said, but +Maude was well masked. +</p> + +<p> +One low thatched roof peeped from its green bower, and the mossy spire +of the church pointed reproachfully upward. The poet did not look +there. His eyes were upon the things of earth. A pink rose at Maude’s +throat shed its petals when the cart jolted across a ridge, and the +dainty fragments rained upon his hands. He began to gather them up one +by one, storing them unconsciously in the warm hollow of his hand. +Maude’s eyes were dancing with satisfaction. He had called her +beautiful and she was happy. +</p> + +<p> +The day dedicated to Thor arrived. Down in the valley the sun +scorched, but a gentle breeze was playing across the hills when Dr. +Berry reached the summit and seated himself upon a hummock of short +grass. He had done nothing all the morning, except pace study and +garden, wondering at the tenderness with which he was able to +criticise the self-dedicatory odes of comparatively obscure singers. +So it was passion that called out what was best in mortals. Had +Archilochus not loved Neobule he would have passed into the cloud of +oblivion. Had Sappho been cold and chaste that magnificent ode to the +Goddess of Love could never have been given to the world. The heart, +mused the scholar, not the mind, strikes into being the living fire. +</p> + +<p> +He saw nothing of a frivolous nature in the donkey tandem. He walked +down to meet the cart as it ascended the hill, and Maude greeted him +warmly and began to chat vigorously. She had never spoken so agreeably +to her husband, but, as she would have argued, it was absurd to +fascinate a man who belonged to her. She was a child, playing with +fire, and not to be warned of danger until the fire burnt her. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Price with more than his usual +fervour, when the gig came jingling up the avenue. Flora contented +herself with smiling, while Mrs. Neill, a fragile lady filled with +inaccuracies of speech, put up her glasses and made her customary +statement, <i>apropos</i> of nothing in particular, that social customs had +changed very much for the worse since that age of respectability when +her dear brother and herself attended school. +</p> + +<p> +The hill country was very sparsely populated with gentry. There were +not more than a dozen guests, of whom the majority had covered a +considerable distance and were on that account leaving early. Everyone +knew the recluse of Thorlund, either by name or reputation, and upon +him were showered the honours of the afternoon. Dr. Berry found +himself in a new element which was not so distasteful as he had +supposed. +</p> + +<p> +“Maudie, how did you manage?” Flora whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“I circumvented him, and told him he was to come,” explained the +little lady. “And here he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you drove him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? He brought himself down to my level beautifully.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora slipped away to attend to her guests, giving thanks because she +believed she was more righteous than her friend. +</p> + +<p> +A bald-headed clergyman annexed the scholar, and was leading him apart +with inaccurate historical chatter, when Maude intervened, routed the +bald-headed clergyman, and installed Dr. Berry into the comfortable +chair which she had promised him. Then she brought tea and little +cakes and strawberries, and soothed him with empty talk, which seemed +to him more worthy of attention than words of wisdom. This man, who +had shunned women all his life, not from any innate dislike for the +sex, but simply because no inclination had drawn him on, found his +tongue loosened by the fascinations of the butterfly. Presently he +began to speak of himself, his aspirations, and his work, Maude +leading him on with skilful flattery. +</p> + +<p> +“How I would like to see your wonderful book,” she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not finished,” he said. “There is still much to be done and I +work slowly. I have a conviction that my translations are, not only +more accurate, but more artistic and powerful than any which have +preceded them. I think if I could read you some of those early +lyrics—” +</p> + +<p> +“I should cry,” interrupted Maude pathetically. “I’m certain I should. +Poetry, or music, or sad pieces at the theatre, always make me cry. I +went to a dreadful pathetic play last winter, and I cried all down a +pretty new frock and spoilt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yours is indeed the true poetic temperament,” said the scholar +earnestly. “What a rare and precious gift it is! You, more than +anyone, can understand me when I say that my work has engrossed my +life. Many in their ignorance sneer at the classics, but your mind can +respond with mine to the true message of art. Being yourself beautiful +you are able more readily to appreciate the pure beauty of those +poetic jewels with which the human intellect has enriched the world.” +</p> + +<p> +This last remark was balm and honey to the silly soul of his listener. +</p> + +<p> +“When the book comes out I shall buy it,” she declared. “And you must +write something nice and original upon the front page, and I shall +read it again and again. Will it be out soon? I know a book doesn’t +take long, because I met an author once, and he told me it took him +three weeks to write one of his.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been fifteen years over my work, and I expect it will take me +another five to complete,” said Dr. Berry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but I can’t wait all that time,” cried Maude. “I shall be old by +then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,” quoted +the scholar with unmistakable sincerity. +</p> + +<p> +“How lovely!” said smiling Maude. +</p> + +<p> +He could not see through the pretence of that outward show to the +empty soul within. He never doubted her sincerity; her beauty was +apparent; and he thought her clever and a poetess at heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you what you must do,” Maude rattled on brilliantly. “You +must read me some of your beautiful poems. Pick out the very best, and +come over to my farm-house on Sunday—no, that’s your workday—on +Monday, and I will give you a cup of tea. I shall look forward to it +immensely. You won’t forget? I shall expect you on Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to hear my verses?” said the delighted scholar. “You +shall hear them. We will discuss their merits. You will be able to +help me by suggestion and advice. Two minds are better than one. Two +kindred minds strike sparks.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I will make you a nice rice cake,” said the little lady, +irrelevantly, but as she thought very happily. +</p> + +<p> +At that point Mrs. Neill interposed, to claim her share of the lion. +She had met him upon previous visits to her brother’s house, and was +desirous of showing him the hidden beauties of the garden; and +obtaining at the same time a full account of the means and position of +the young man who had been lavishing some polite attentions upon +Flora, to-wit Conway, who had been expected that afternoon, but had +failed to appear. +</p> + +<p> +“Maude, you selfish child, I have come for your gentleman,” she +announced. “I want to take you down the garden, Dr. Berry, and show +you a pretty little corpse quite covered with fly-orchids.” +</p> + +<p> +The good lady had meant to say copse. Maude shrieked with laughter, +and corrected her rudely, because she was indignant at being deprived +of her property; and, having revenged herself, she tripped away across +the lawn in a pink froth of frills, with one innocent blue-eyed glance +behind. +</p> + +<p> +“She is very beautiful,” murmured Dr. Berry. “And as clever and good +as she is beautiful.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="a3s3"> +Scene III.—EXTRAVAGANZA +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Human nature is so constituted as to be incapable of lonely +satisfaction; man, like those plants which are formed to embrace +others, is led by an instinctive impulse to recline on his +species.—<i>Cicero</i>. +</p> + +<p> +To account for Conway’s non-appearance at Kingsmore vicarage it will +be necessary to revert to the day of Dr. Berry’s meeting with Maude +upon the upland, because that encounter was in the main responsible, +although indirectly, for the young man’s absence. The scholar walked +back to the rectory, but did not open his books that evening. +Outpourings from the intellects of the immortals would not content him +then. In a heat he cast off an original poem and proceeded with it +into the garden of the Strath; and there he came upon Conway who was +confused by struggling memories and a present anxiety. Money had been +required of him for the settlement of accounts. Being unable to +comprehend the meaning of that demand he had taken his trouble to +Drayton; but the writer, who was entirely engrossed upon his +historical play, gave him little satisfaction. “If the woman asks for +money, give it her,” he said, and straightway had returned to his +work. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry’s understanding was less obscured. After listening to +Conway’s complaint, he advised him to leave the garden, and walk out +of the valley. “You will then perceive what should be done,” he added. +“If you require to write letters, go into my study, and write them +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway did as he was directed, that is to say he left the garden; but +he did not enter the rectory. He walked out of the valley, and when +darkness came upon the country he was still walking, with his face set +towards the town. Night fell upon the Strath, but the master was +absent. The next day Drayton noticed that he was alone, but his mind +had no desire to learn the cause. Another day went, but Conway +remained absent. The next morning a letter came to Drayton, and the +dazed writer found himself charged with various heinous offences. It +appeared that the profligate’s furniture had been seized for +non-payment of rent, and among the articles on the inventory made by +the agent the two masks did not appear. Therefore, the writer argued, +Drayton had most perfidiously stolen them. The shaky epistle concluded +with the statement that the writer was about to return to Thorlund for +the sole purpose of dragging the “ungrateful, sponging, thievish +brute,” Drayton to-wit, out of his house by the ears. +</p> + +<p> +“A strange document,” murmured the gentle scribe. “Interesting also as +illustrating a phase of the human mind. Penned, I should determine, by +a dissolute character, somewhat under the influence of <i>aqua-fortis</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +As the letter was not of sufficient interest to be subjected to any +more critical analysis, he set it aside, and went into the orchard to +think of other things. Late in the evening Conway returned; but so +soon as he entered upon his property, shame took the place of anger. +He became dimly conscious that he had degraded himself during the past +three days. Very soon the determination, which he had made that +morning, to offer the Strath for sale, and to resume his former manner +of living, became forgotten. As he made towards the house, feeling +sleep settling again about his eyes, he encountered the perfidious +Drayton; but, instead of seizing the thief by the ears, he passed his +arm within that of the writer, and asked, “Have you finished the +translation of that ode of Horace, the song in which he deals with +woman’s love?” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton put a hand to his forehead, and presently replied, “I have +forgotten. I will make you the English rendering to-night. Have you +not been out a long time?” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Conway absently. “I have been troubled with bad dreams of +late.” This was Conway’s first and final effort to break from the +influence of the Strath; and after failure his mind, like that of his +companion, succumbed entirely. +</p> + +<p> +There came a day when rain soaked the moss-grown garden and the trunks +of the trees were black with moisture. Mists were exhaled from the +stagnant moat to form into shapes about the house. The spell-bound +wanderers, hovering between the seen and unseen, found the Strath +altered. It remained peaceful in its decay; there was neither +fluttering of tapestries nor whisper of misery; but over all brooded +an indefinable sensation of calamity impending. +</p> + +<p> +In that room where Winifred Hooper had slept and written, Conway sat +alone, with her journal between his hands. The influence impelled him +to reason concerning himself. “What was he?” A card, engraved with a +mere name, lay on the table, but the words Charles Conway brought no +answer to his question. Perhaps he was a product of that damp old +house, an ephemeral growth like the mosses and lichens upon its walls, +or a passing shadow, with a name to distinguish it from other shadows. +One touch of sunlight might cause him to vanish into vapour. Or again +a little spark roving like Jack o’ lanthorn through space, seeking +another spark with which to unite and strike the wondrous flame called +life. He saw a face in the time-stained mirror. Was it that of Flora +Neill, or of Winifred Hooper, or of Lone Nance of the hills? The spark +which was himself became blown into fire, and waved to and fro.… The +place became a museum, and he a dry and dusty exhibit, catalogued +Charles Conway, and numbered 31. He was a curiosity, genuine and of +some practical use once, but now out of fashion. What had he done in +his foolish life? Walked out with his hair in papers, inhaling snuff +through the pepper-pot head of a clouded cane; sauntered at auctions, +or in the Mall; spent one quarter of the day in dressing, another in +dining, a third at the coffee-house, a fourth at play; half the night +in drawing-rooms, the other half in sleep. What noise had he made in +the world, beyond piping on the French horn, or springing the rattle +of a drunken watchman? If there had been work to his hand he had +closed his eyes. Work! Why should a man work? What was the reward for +a life devoted to tilling the ground, to fighting the French, to +ministering to the sick, to sitting at the king’s council? The finest +machine must break down some day, and rust, and become old framework. +Work! What about Southey, poet laureate, sweating heart and brain, and +confessing at the end that it had not been possible for him to lay by +anything for old age? What about old learned Johnson, putting off his +threadbare clothes upon his birthday, and muttering bitterly, “I can +now look back upon threescore and four years, in which little has been +done, and little has been enjoyed; a life diversified by misery, spent +part in the sluggishness of penury, and part under the violence of +pain, in gloomy discontent or importunate distress?” What about Lamb, +thanking for nothing a great minister who brought the reward of labour +as the hand of death dragged him off the scene? +</p> + +<p> +The Strath was in a morbid mood. Drayton was pacing the saloon, crying +like a woman. The deaf crone prepared food in the kitchen, working out +her time indifferent to the drama. The rain poured heavily flooding +the worm-eaten boards of the upper rooms. Conway raised his hands, +which held the book in shagreen covers, brought the yellow pages +nearer to his eyes, and read aloud: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“To-day the wind is warm, and the birds sing merrily. For it is +spring, the gladdest time in all the year. Were this a letter to you, +my love, as I would cheer myself by believing, I might tell you much +that would bring you pleasure, and much that would not be true. I +might describe to you the beauty of the country. I might tell you how +happy I am to breathe the odours of the young larches, and to feel the +warmth of the sun. I might assure you how I laugh in the mornings, and +sometimes sing the songs you taught me, and how I watch the roads with +a light heart, sure that you are upon your way. And I might promise +you, praying God the same moment to forgive the lie, that I know no +trouble. But, alas, this is my journal, and here I may not cheat +myself. +</p> + +<p> +“Spring will never come again, unless it brings you, Geoffrey. All day +I have sat beside a downstairs window, listening to the joyful sounds +of life, watching the little leaves unfolding, and the first yellow +butterfly playing across the lawn. Everything in nature has something +to do, and I alone am idle. I can only sit, with my hands together, +wondering that there should be joy upon earth for the brown sparrow, +and none for me. Yet the sparrow might pine and cease her twitter, +perchance give up her little ghost, were she to be imprisoned in a +cage. Even so there might be happiness for her. She might see her +mate, and sometimes hear his song. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night my father threw at me a log of wood, which struck my +ankle, and to-day I cannot bear my shoe. Ah, Geoffrey, could you but +see my poor swollen foot! I dwell upon the happy thought that you are +nursing it in your dear hands, and looking up into my face with your +tender eyes. Would you not come through fire and water to save me? But +I know all now. The light of life has gone, and each morning and +evening the message of curfew comes, ringing, ‘No more! No more!’ +</p> + +<p> +“My father has admitted much over his wine. Your messengers have never +reached this valley. Perhaps they have been killed upon the highway, +for my father’s men are instructed to watch the roads, and he has lost +all scruples. I cannot warn you, Geoffrey. I am not able to bid you +keep away from me. Would I, if I could? I do not know. I have become +selfish. You might meet Sir John, and he is stronger than you. Were +they to carry you dead into this house.… well, we should be together +at last, for I would throw away my chance of heaven in the hope that +my soul might pass with yours through space. If you killed my father I +would yet receive you with the same love. I am unnatural indeed, but +he has beaten me with a cane when in his cruel mood, and has pulled me +to the ground by my hair, and closed his hand round my arm, tighter +and tighter like a vice, until I have satisfied his cruelty by +fainting. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that my father is a highwayman and the most daring of them +all. It is when I am so unfortunate as to see him returning from some +expedition that he is more than usual pitiless. I have seen Thomas +Reed, his trusted man, leading the chestnut mare—the swiftest horse +in the country, they say—sweating to her stable at midnight, and I +have seen his masks, his pistols, and his sword. He will have this +Reed into the saloon to drink with him. I have heard them fighting, +but Reed is a strong-willed fellow, and know my father cannot break +with him, lest he should turn informer. I know the vileness of their +lives; but God also must know, and if there be justice above—which +sometimes I am wicked enough to doubt—an end must come, and soon. +</p> + +<p> +“Placing before me the beloved face which I hold in my heart, I +painted your portrait, and finished it last Saturday at sunset. It was +a happy sorrow to kiss those cold lips, to touch and retouch that fair +hair, only one shade darker than my own, and to bring into being your +own dear smile. During that night the portrait seemed to me to have +taken life, and through the hours of darkness—for I sleep but +little—I thought you were protecting me, and I felt the warmth of +your eyes, and heard your breathing, and your soft whisper, +‘Winifred,’ just as you whispered it—ah, so long ago—with your lips +against my hair. It was so like you, Geoffrey. Even that tiny spot, +where you were cut as a child above your left eyebrow, was there in +all the beauty of its blemish. On Sunday I went to church, not indeed +to listen to Mr. Blair’s hypocrisies, but to pray with all my soul for +you and for myself; and returning hurried to your portrait to tell it +how I love you. But it had been cut into pieces, and the pieces were +strewed about the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not shed any tears. Indeed it is seldom that I cry now, not +because I am stronger, but perhaps I have shed them all. I began to +sing, and put a flower into my hair, and laughed and talked to you, so +that I might forget how I was shivering. I am made of tough stuff, +though I am small and white, and as for my heart is it not yours, and +did you not replace my loss with the gift of your own? It is your +strength that holds me up. But it was a good portrait, Geoffrey, else +my father had not recognised it. +</p> + +<p> +“That night I saw a strong light pouring through the keyhole and the +chinks in the wood. While I looked the door came open, and there was +old Deborah, standing in her nightdress, with a candle in her hand, +and the passage round her was filled with light and a fragrant odour. +She made me a sign that I should not be afraid and said, ‘There is a +stranger waiting for you below.’ So I got up, and wrapped a cloak +round me, and went down. There was light everywhere, but I could not +see whence it came. Standing in the hall I saw an old man, clad in +white, with hair flowing upon his shoulders, and holding a great +pitcher between his hands. He came to me, when I stopped in fear, and +spoke in a low sweet voice, ‘I am bidden to return you these. They are +your tears.’ But when I held out my hands to take the pitcher it +dropped and I found myself standing among pearls, and it was dark, and +the old man was gone. Then I awoke and discovered that I had been +walking in my sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not dream, dear, in your London home? Do you never see me, +bending low, drawing my hair across your face? Do you not hear me +calling? Cannot you feel my lips near yours in sleep? Am I never with +you? Oh, my love, I am there. Look, and you shall see me. Call, and I +will answer. Put out your hand, and I will touch it. What has space to +do with love? There is nothing between us, but the will of God. I am +yours, beloved, and you are mine until these shadows pass away.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +There the book fell, and it seemed to Conway that an invisible hand +had struck it out of his. He rose, leaving the journal lying open as +it had fallen, and hurried from the room. A gloom filled the passage, +and the house was full of horror, resounding with the sufferings of +its past inhabitants, and dripping with their tears. His hand closed +upon the damp balustrade, and the rotten wood exuded moisture like a +sponge. A minute later the owner, but not the master, of the Strath +was speeding through the garden, his being reaching out to find an +affinity, as embryonic life must grope into the darkness for its +promised soul. +</p> + +<p> +The deluge had ceased. Milky rivulets bubbled down the chalk road and +dark clouds scudded across the hills, while Conway hastened in the +direction of Kingsmore, with Winifred Hooper’s piteous voice still +sounding in his ears. When he came near the grass-filled road which +led to Queensmore he thought he saw her. She reached scarcely to his +shoulder, the pretty pale maid, and over her white forehead the fair +hair clustered and tumbled into tendrils round her ears and neck. +There was a scar upon her delicate wrist, and she limped slightly as +she walked from the sign-post downwards. Her voice was exceedingly +plaintive, and the words caught in her throat with the sound of a sob. +Her eyes were large and blue, like two corn-flowers upon white satin, +and her features were small and very frail. They quivered when the +wind met them. +</p> + +<p> +On the far side of the hills a more serious dreamer was at that moment +shaking out his umbrella in the porch of a little farm-house, while +its dainty bedecked mistress implored him to wait until the rain had +passed, and insisted upon retaining a precious bundle of +manuscript—of which she could understand no single word—that she +might study it alone. And the handsome dreamer remained yet another +hour, until the watery sun broke through the clouds and tinged the +mist with red, and when he departed the manuscript which he left +behind was not so precious as it had been. +</p> + +<p> +At Kingsmore the sun was shining through the rain. A bow was bending +across the sky, one end of its span over the ruins of Queensmore, the +other filling a chalk-pit with coloured vapour. Mr. Price assumed one +of his shameful overcoats, a slouch hat, and long boots, and went out +upon the farm to poke about in ditches and free obstructed +drain-pipes. Mrs. Neill was upstairs, writing ungrammatical letters. +Flora roamed aimlessly about the house, yawning for dulness, and well +able to appreciate the saying of Chilo the sage, that one of the three +most difficult things in life is to make a profitable use of leisure +time. +</p> + +<p> +Finally she wandered into the study, a room forbidden to her sex, +therefore the more attractive, and stood aghast at its untidiness. Mr. +Price was the most unmethodical man incarnate. Upon his writing-desk +were farming-reports, parish-magazines, bundles of twine, sermons, +cigarettes, horse-shoes, theological works, and samples of wool. More +books were piled upon a central table, novels, bibles, philosophical +works, and agricultural digests, thrown together with bags of grain, +much of which was scattered over the carpet, and eggs dated in blue +pencil. The fireplace was filled with rubbish, an old saddle, and a +broken reaping-hook. The single armchair was piled with horse-cloths. +The pictures on the walls, chiefly framed photographs of horses and +landscapes, were hanging awry and begrimed with dust. An open work of +Josephus was covered with cartridges, and a brace of pigeons, shot in +the early morning, were staining the right reverend bishop’s latest +charge. The remaining chairs were occupied with a jumble of tools, +coats, and hats. Boots and guns were lying about the carpet. A bust of +Shakspere supported a leather shooting-cap; and a little oak desk of +ecclesiastical design held a couple of soiled collars, an incomplete +copy of a book of common prayer tied together with string, a flask +half filled with sherry, some candle-ends, and a half-dozen unanswered +letters. +</p> + +<p> +“No one would imagine uncle was well off,” Flora murmured, moving +through the confusion, with her skirts gathered round her. “I wonder +how much he loses every year on this stupid farm. It would be much +more sensible if he put by the money for me to spend later on.” +</p> + +<p> +She approached the window and pushed it open; but while shaking some +rain-drops off the back of her hand footsteps became audible upon the +wet gravel. She knew it was not her uncle’s tread, and looking out saw +Conway, his garments splashed with chalky mud, and his face flushed by +the wind. +</p> + +<p> +She was at the door before he could ring. He came up, and said +quickly, but solemnly, as though it were a matter of the last +importance, seizing her hand and looking into her eyes, “There is a +change to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl flushed, because she saw a crisis impending. Conway was +altogether different; younger, fresher, better-looking. There was not +a trace of nervousness in his manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come in?” she said. “How wet you are! Uncle is out, but +will be back soon, and then we will have tea. You are right about the +change. But we agricultural people wanted this rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the Strath,” he exclaimed. “The change is there.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora looked round, with a very uncomfortable feeling. There was not a +sound in the house, except the ticking of a big clock in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot quite remember what has happened,” Conway went on rapidly, +his eyes fixed stupidly upon her. “I want you to come back with me. +The rain has stopped. I want to show you a room in my house, a room +with a blocked up window. I think you will recognise it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conway,” Flora exclaimed. “Do you know what you are talking +about?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have something to show you there. I have made a discovery, and I +must share it with you. Is it not Cicero who says, ‘Were a man to be +carried up to Heaven, he would receive little pleasure from the scene, +if there were none to whom he might relate his experience?’ ” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot talk to you while you are in this state,” said Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“Then will you come with me to Queensmore? We can cross by Deadman’s +Hill. I can tell you everything there, but here I cannot remember +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have anything to say to me I can hear it here,” Flora replied. +“Mother is in the house,” she added. “But, if you are going to +stay—come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want to sit down?” said Conway. “Your ankle pains you still?” +</p> + +<p> +The strong-minded girl looked at the speaker in dismay. This was sheer +madness. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not hurt my ankle,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“It must have been some time ago,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Conway, if you will take my advice you will live no longer in the +Strath,” Flora said strongly. “Remember what happened to your uncle +there. They have never been able to discover who killed him. No +stranger could have entered Thorlund without being observed. It is a +horrible place.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway shook his head, perplexed at her argument. The Strath was to +him a Paradise. +</p> + +<p> +“That is only because you are not there,” he answered. “Hooper is dead +now, and the house is yours. The Reeds were always interlopers. I want +you to take possession of the Strath at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want me to have the Strath?” exclaimed Flora with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“It waits for you,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And its master?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no master. I am its servant, and yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have made a quaint proposal, Mr. Conway,” the girl said +flippantly. “If the Strath were mine I would take uncle’s advice and +have it down; and if you were my servant—well, I might perhaps want +to give you notice and engage another. I think you had better not +stay,” she went on. “You are not yourself. I am sure you do not know +what you have been saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot enjoy life alone,” cried Conway. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Drayton so unsociable? Give up the Strath, Mr. Conway. Take my +advice—and another house, before it is too late.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as Conway still evinced no inclination either to enter the house +or to move away, Flora unsympathetically shut him out. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a3s4"> +Scene IV.—SENTIMENTAL COMEDY +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Praise undeserved is satire in disguise.—<i>Broadhurst</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Implicit faith had never become rooted in Dr. Berry’s mind. He had +sought ordination because “out of these Convertites there is much +matter to be heard and learned,” and the disposition of his mind +towards retirement seemed to him a call sufficient. He believed that +it was necessary to pay tribute for the delights of Nature, the +flowers, the trees, and the sight of the sun. This was a debt which +might be discharged by accommodating the will to that of the higher +influences, and by living in tune with the unseen. +</p> + +<p> +The scholar was gentle, charitable, and forgiving. He would have +emptied his pockets to benefit an unworthy beggar, and have travelled +far out of his way to relieve suffering, and yet in many things he +remained more ignorant than a child. +</p> + +<p> +During the past twenty years he had changed, both outwardly and +inwardly. The greater part of his time had been spent in the +imaginative world within the influence of the Strath, until the day +had come when he could not clearly distinguish between shadow and +substance. Gradually the tension between mind and body had relaxed +while the light across the past had become correlatively stronger. He +could not give up the Strath, nor was he able to understand the +dangers which threatened him there. +</p> + +<p> +His friendship with Maude had introduced another change into his +strange existence. He had been very near the borderland when she had +come to signal him back to the material world. He had however passed +too far away ever to return as a rational being. He could only look +back. And she could not advance to him, because she was made of stuff +which would not float across the gulf which spread between them. He +was deceived, and she was dazzled. He knew that he wanted to be near +her, and listen to the silly prattle, which by process of filtration +through his brain became wisdom. Her mind throbbed in response to his; +she, he believed, was filled with the divine fire of poetry; they met, +he assured himself, upon common ground. +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s not real,” she exclaimed, breaking in upon his reading; +and he paused to set a query against that line. +</p> + +<p> +“And that jingles.” +</p> + +<p> +He pencilled upon the margin the words, “More dignity required.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s heavenly!” +</p> + +<p> +And happily he marked the verse “Good.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude was only speaking whatever came into her head, lolling among +cushions, eating chocolate, twisting her pretty hair round slender +pink-tipped fingers, and thinking how handsome he looked with the +sunlight upon his head. +</p> + +<p> +When she informed him that her husband was coming down on Saturday, +she was a little disappointed when he absently remarked, “Indeed.” She +would have been astounded had she known that he did not even consider +the affinity she had so plainly suggested. Husband to him was a word, +such as man or woman. Had Mr. Juxon entered that room, the scholar +would have greeted the financier with his invariable courtliness, and +have proceeded to appropriate Maude to himself as before. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming to Church on Sunday,” said Maude triumphantly, as though +the idea appeared to her worthy of a reward for originality. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, in that case, select a sermon which I am sure will interest +you,” came the grave reply. “A careful inquiry into the nature of the +Bacchanalian Mysteries.” +</p> + +<p> +“It sounds nice,” said she dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +“I will have cushions placed for you in the front seat underneath the +pulpit.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ll wear my new hat,” she rattled joyously. “How about the +donkeys? Where shall I put them up?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a small stable at the rectory. I will tell the sexton to +wait for you by the lich-gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“The what gate?” said Lady Ignorant. +</p> + +<p> +“The gate of the churchyard. We still call it by the Anglo-Saxon +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” said Maude, reaching towards the bell. “Now we will have +supper. You will stop for supper.” +</p> + +<p> +Sunday morning there was a jingling of silver bells in Thorlund +valley, and Maude made her entry in a pink and white hat and a radiant +costume. A stout man was packed into the cart with her, he who +provided for her luxuries, and received in return upon that particular +day the assurance that he was crushing her dress, added to +instructions that he should make himself as small as nature would +permit. Mr. Juxon had pointed out the propriety of accompanying his +wife to church. +</p> + +<p> +The stockbroker had few natural advantages. He was neither elegant nor +learned; but he was very true to his wife and sincere in his love for +her. Indeed she was everything to him. He had made the mistake of +giving way to her always, and at the outset had failed to show her +that without his purse she could do nothing. Juxon was not a saint; he +did not object to a certain amount of chicanery in the transaction of +business; but in private life he was thoroughly upright. He had caught +Psyche in his hand, and when she struggled he let her go, lest he +should damage the beauty of her wings. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry came down to the porch and entered with them, retaining +Maude’s hand in his affectionate manner, and grasping the arm of her +husband as he walked between them to their cushioned pew. The +stockbroker’s eyes were upon him, but the rector did not feel them. +Both men were perfectly honest in their different ways. The scholar +made no secret of his admiration for Maude. The husband was +mistrustful, but when Dr. Berry left them, after an invitation to +luncheon, his suspicions gave way to wonder. Either this learned man +was the simplest soul incarnate or a consummate knave. The latter +supposition was reduced to an absurdity by one glance at the pale face +uplifted in the pulpit. Then the unpleasant thought occurred that +fault, if fault there was, lay entirely with his wife. He looked at +her. The sunlight was slanting across the little church, and in the +midst of a dusty beam sat Maude, a vision of innocence in pink, her +head tilted back, her lips apart, her ears filled with the music of +Dr. Berry’s rich tones. There was no colour in the stained windows to +be compared with hers; there was no cherub weeping, or +flambeau-waving, over the recumbent effigies of the Hoopers more +modest or free from guile. +</p> + +<p> +The rector’s sermon was paganism from beginning to end. It was an +account of the birth and early history of the drama. He began by +remarking upon the prevalence of mankind to bow down before the works +of their own hands; to worship the seen, in preference to the unseen. +He pointed out that the drama in its original form was the direct +result of idol-worship; and not only the drama, but all the +arts—sculpture, painting, poetry, and architecture—came into +existence, and were inspired, by the worship of false gods. +</p> + +<p> +Being unable to form any clear notion of divinity, men endeavoured to +represent the subjects of their thoughts under the human form. +</p> + +<p> +The divinity would need a dwelling-place among them; therefore they +built temples. +</p> + +<p> +He would require their gratitude and worship; and so poetry came into +being, also the music and dance which accompanied it. A hymn +accompanied by music was the first state of the dramatic performance. +</p> + +<p> +Such exhibitions were invariably connected with the celebration of +religious duties; and the theatre in which they were performed was a +temple dedicated to Bacchus. In the earliest times it was the custom +for the entire population of a city to meet together in some public +place, and praise the gods with songs and dances. These songs were +martial, but tinged with religious feeling; and the god to whom they +were usually offered was Apollo. They were accompanied by the lyre, +because Apollo was not only the god of the sun, but the god of music +also. Later this religion became slightly altered, and moon-worship +was introduced into Greece, very possibly from Egypt. Then Bacchus, or +Dionysus, was adopted as the sun-god, in place of Apollo, and Demeter +his sister became the moon-goddess. It was a natural transition in a +wine-producing country. The sun ripened the grapes, and Bacchus was +the god of wine. Demeter was the earth which grew the vine. So the +Bacchic festivals in honour of the wine-god came into being; the +lesser festival, accompanied by the song and dance, and procession of +the fig-wood phallus, was held to celebrate the vintage; the greater +festival was held in the spring, when Bacchus was worshipped as the +Deliverer, because he had brought the people safely through the +winter. The former was a country festival, and from it comedy +originated; the latter was held in the city, and it was the beginning +of tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +As the god of wine, light, and procreation, the festivals of Bacchus +were accompanied by liveliness and mirth. The sun-god was supposed to +be attended by certain grotesque creatures; the Sileni, represented as +old men generally intoxicated, who were not very appropriately +regarded as the deities presiding over running streams; and the +Satyrs, half-men and half-goats, who were not divinities, but merely +representatives of the original worshippers, who were goat-herds, and +during the festival assumed the skins of the goats which they had +sacrificed as an offering to the god of wine. +</p> + +<p> +The earliest state of the drama was therefore a hymn to Bacchus, which +was called the Dithyramb; who invented the hymn is not known, nor is +the precise meaning of the name. It was danced in a wild fashion by a +chorus around a fiery altar, and accompanied by the flute. The poet +Arion introduced many striking changes into the Dithyramb, the most +important of which was a tragic style of declamation. He substituted +the soft lyre for the shrill flute, and decency and order in place of +irregularity and licentiousness. The name of Bacchus was dropped, and +the deeds of semi-divine heroes were exploited in the hymn; there were +no actors; it remained a chorus, but of a mimetic nature, and led by +the exarchus—the forerunner of the principal character—who was the +best dancer and mimic. The others took their cue from him. Thus, in +the course of lamentation, when the exarchus struck himself as a sign +of grief the rest of the chorus would imitate his example. +</p> + +<p> +While the feast of Bacchus was thus developing another cause +contributed to the birth of the drama. This was the recitation of +Homer’s poetry by wandering minstrels. These men carried a staff as +the symbol of their business, and chanted the national poetry with +musical accompaniment. As these recitations increased in popularity +many of the living poets became themselves minstrels in order to make +their own works known; every kind of poetry was recited; and the +musical accompaniment was dropped. Minstrelsy became a profitable +trade. On great occasions, when a large number of the rhapsodes, as +they were called, came together, different parts would be assigned, +which were recited alternately; making the first approach towards a +theatrical dialogue. The next step was to unite the methods of the +minstrels with the Bacchanalian goat-song; and it was that blending +which brought the drama into life. +</p> + +<p> +The man who accomplished this was Thespis, but his action was probably +the result of an accident. He discovered that the Bacchanalian chorus +became tired of singing in the course of the festival, and so he +introduced a minstrel, or an actor, to rest them. This actor was +himself. He disguised his face with pigments, and prepared a mask in +order that he might be able to sustain more than one character. He +addressed himself to the chorus, which stood near the thymele or altar +of Bacchus, and that the singers might have no difficulty in hearing +him he stood upon a table, which was the origin of the stage. +</p> + +<p> +Thus tragedy became established; but after a time the lower classes +grew discontented with the serious performances, and missed the +buffoonery of the Satyrs, which was the principle feature of the +vintage festival. They considered also that Bacchus was not +sufficiently honoured by performances which dealt with heroes and +other gods. To remove their discontent the Satyrical drama was +introduced, that is to say plays in which the chorus was composed of +Satyrs. In the meantime comedy, which at the outset was nothing more +than a Bacchanalian orgy, was gaining ground. At the festival of the +vintage the countryfolk went about from one village to another in +carts, or on foot, making jesting and abusive speeches and singing +licentious songs. Such a song was called Comus. The same word +signified also a night revel. Young men would go into the streets +after supper with torches, and sing to the flute and lyre. Such a +party was called a Comus. Thus the Bacchic reveller was known as a +Comodus or comus-singer, just as the singer of the Dithyramb was known +as a Tragodus or wearer of a goat-skin. +</p> + +<p> +The orgies of the vintage were still confined to the country and the +lower classes. They were unspeakably coarse, and consisted largely in +the abuse of public characters. For that reason comedy was +subsequently introduced to the city. One political party in Athens +desired to attack its opponents, and could think of no better method +than the introduction of the lower order of country-folk, to repeat +their performance in the town, and to speak the words which were put +into their mouths. This led to the recognition and establishment of +comedy, which in its then form was little more than the scurrilous +abuse of some unpopular demagogue; the aim of comedy being to exhibit +individuals in a ridiculous light, and worse than they were; while +tragedy showed them as sublime, and better than men could be. +</p> + +<p> +The preacher went on to consider the subject of representation, +pointing out that the performances, which it was the duty of every +citizen to attend, were of a religious character; the actors wore the +festal robes used in the Bacchanalian processions; the theatre was the +temple of the god; and its central point was the smoking altar. He +went on to trace the connection between religion and art; and +concluded his strange sermon, which interested nobody, except the only +one who understood it and that was himself, with a discussion upon the +scenic accessories and the dramatic incidents connected with public +worship, both in pagan temples and Christian churches, from the +earliest times to the present day. +</p> + +<p> +Service over—neither Conway nor Drayton attended, because the Strath +was no observer of the first day in the week—the rector joined the +Juxons in the churchyard, and escorted them to the rectory, talking +with unusual brightness. He demanded Maude’s opinion upon his sermon, +and she replied that it had been too long. At that Juxon interposed +with a few quiet words of praise, but the rector maintained that Maude +was right. There was much extraneous matter which should have been +removed. He ought to have remembered that his sermon was to be heard +by a gifted critic. He feared that long association with rustics had +dulled the edge of his intellect. The stockbroker listened with +increasing amazement. +</p> + +<p> +Whatever doubts he might still have entertained regarding Dr. Berry’s +attitude towards his wife were to be set at rest that afternoon. After +luncheon they sat upon the lawn, and the stockbroker politely +introduced the subject of Greece, although he knew little about the +country, beyond the fact that its bonds were not easily negotiable; +and the conversation naturally passed to the poet’s special period and +the great work of his life. +</p> + +<p> +“You should read some of Dr. Berry’s poems,” remarked Maude, who was +beginning to feel neglected. +</p> + +<p> +From that moment she had no cause for complaint upon that score. +</p> + +<p> +“Mine is not the intellect,” said the scholar. “I am little more than +a translator. It has been my effort to express in our own tongue the +thoughts of the ancient singers.” Again he placed his hand upon +Juxon’s arm. “In my recent endeavours this lady has been an +inspiration. Before she came into my life I worked in a groove, which +I can now perceive was leading me towards the dangers of commonplace. +I lacked tenderness; the softer qualities were altogether lacking. I +was neither sufficiently broad-minded nor sympathetic. But she has +shown me my faults.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude became scarlet. She cast an agonised glance upon her husband, +but his head was down. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon the occasion of our first meeting she expressed great interest +in my work,” went on the musical voice. “She was good enough to invite +me to her house. I confess I hesitated. It may seem strange to you, +but throughout my previous life I had refrained from female society. +To my shame be it said I could not believe that the analytical faculty +could be found highly developed within any beautiful woman. +Fortunately for me I went to this lady’s house, and she convinced me I +was wrong. I found appreciation, a tender listener, a sympathetic +critic, an affectionate adviser. Such a help-meet was the one thing +wanting in my life, though I had not known it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Juxon. +</p> + +<p> +Maude was digging her sun-shade into the turf. It was horrible to know +she could say nothing in self-defence. She was painfully conscious how +often she had told her husband she could not tolerate being read to, +she absolutely never had an opinion to give, she hated reading, and +thought all learning a bore. Now she was being extolled before her +husband as an efficient critic upon one of the most brain-vexing +periods of history. +</p> + +<p> +“I went again and again to this lady’s house,” Dr. Berry continued, +lifting his hat reverently and gazing into the sky. “Not content with +rendering me very much valuable assistance, she showered upon me her +hospitality also. The welcome I have always received from her has made +a very deep impression upon my heart. Quite recently we spent a +memorable evening together, I in reading my translations—for I find +she has not as yet made herself thoroughly conversant with the earlier +Greek—she in suggesting alterations and improvements, dealing chiefly +with the necessity for introducing more natural tenderness of feeling. +Afterwards we had supper, and her conversation I remember was +beautiful and inspiring.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad my wife has been of such service to you,” said Juxon. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been a guiding star,” said Dr. Berry, putting out his white +hand and touching Maude’s fingers tenderly. “And I trust she will ever +remain so. I have become a changed man of late. My studious interests +have redoubled. Formerly I was working for myself alone. Now I have +her approbation to secure. Through the light of her mind I am enabled +to see many truths which formerly were hidden from my eyes. I have +been callous; but she has quickened me with new life. I have to thank +her for my present insight into the tender mysteries of devotional +love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Herbert,” Maude cried with a gasp. “I think we ought to be going.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” said the scholar, closing his fingers affectionately round +Juxon’s fat hand, “that you also have realised this happiness. I +understand now that there is help for every man in this world, when he +has been led to that one of his species whose being throbs in unison +with his own. Our most secret ambition may be realised through the +mind of a faithful friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Juxon rose. He looked at his wife, and their eyes met. He was not +angry with her then. He was sorry for himself. She had won the heart +of a far more intellectual man than himself, and he had given her +nothing beyond that which he now believed her soul despised. He had +given her liberty to move about the world, a certain position, the +very clothes she stood in. He compared his flabby features and +half-bald head with the grave handsome face, the sensitive mouth, and +silvered hair of his dreamy host, and the mystery became solved. He +understood that women require something besides luxuries and freedom; +and he had neither fascination nor charm of tongue to offer. +</p> + +<p> +Again the silver bells jingled through Thorlund and the donkeys +presently stopped their trot, to walk the long hill. Maude was +indignant because she felt she had been made ridiculous. She had not a +word to say, until the cart reached the grass-grown road which led to +Queensmore, then she lashed her diminutive team spitefully, and +exclaimed, “I suppose Dr. Berry is mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought him original,” answered her husband quietly, “but +remarkably sane.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is just the sort of exasperating remark I might have expected,” +said Maude angrily. “He made a perfect idiot of me. Why didn’t you +change the subject?” +</p> + +<p> +“He regards you as a saint. It was not for me to disagree with him,” +her husband answered. “I must own I was astonished to find you held up +as an art critic,” he added with a gentle, and perfectly legitimate, +touch of irony. +</p> + +<p> +“It was all utterly idiotic,” said Maude. “And I will never ask him to +the cottage again. I am not going home, I want to go and see Flora.” +</p> + +<p> +The following morning Juxon returned to his business, which just then +was engrossing all the attention which he was able to bestow; and +after his solitary dinner he sat down and wrote a long letter to +Maude. For a man of his temperament it was easier to write than to +speak. +</p> + +<p> +When Flora came over on Tuesday morning she found her friend simmering +with indignation and a sense of injury. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had a ridiculous letter from Herbert,” she began at once, “He +talks of my duty to him and to our child. I’m sure Peggy is much +happier with a nurse than she could ever be with me. Besides it makes +one feel old and ugly to have a growing child hanging to one’s skirts +and crumpling them. He says, as I am so fond of the country, he will +take a house within easy reach of London, and go backwards and +forwards. That is altogether absurd. If the weather happened to be bad +he would stop at home whole days and ruin his business. And I don’t +want to be planted down. I like to go about. And he says he knows I +mean nothing, but I ought not to encourage Dr. Berry’s visits and this +poetry reading. What rubbish, Flora! Dr. Berry’s voice is so soothing, +and I like to watch his face. Do you know he said all sorts of nice +things about me on Sunday—called me his guiding star, and—and angel +of inspiration, and Herbert was there and had to listen! Sit down, and +I’ll tell you all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the little weathercock favoured her friend with an account +of the scene in the rectory garden, adding her own airy touches of +imagination to what she could remember of the scholar’s actual +utterances. +</p> + +<p> +“I always thought you were a wicked person, and now I am sure of it,” +said Flora, when the pink lady had done bubbling. “You had much better +make the best of your husband and be good. As for Dr. Berry, I should +advise you to leave him severely alone. You know you are just a little +bit fascinated, and he might become dangerous, and you might be +stupid, and Mr. Juxon would hear of it—and then, where would Miss +Maudie be then, poor thing?” she concluded flippantly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are always preaching,” said her friend pettishly. “You have +changed altogether, and I don’t like you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Givers of advice are often unpopular,” Miss Neill admitted. “But you +are right about my preaching. I have been lecturing uncle on the +condition of his study, and advising Mr. Conway to destroy that house. +By the way he has been trying, in a weird sort of way, to approach.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Proposing?” cried Maude, forgetting her own tribulations. +</p> + +<p> +“Something rather like it. You will please remember I am still a line +moving through space, and Mr. Conway has chosen to establish himself +as my curve for the time being. It is the duty of the curve to remain +motionless, but he has forgotten propriety and jumped out to meet me.” +</p> + +<p> +“With the result that you jumped back?” +</p> + +<p> +Flora nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“The idea of calling me wicked!” exclaimed Mrs. Juxon indignantly. “A +married woman has certain flirting privileges, but an unmarried girl +has none. You will play your game too long, and some day you will wake +up and find yourself growing old and ugly, and then you may whistle as +much as you like but no one will come to you. I have a heart, Flora, +and yours is just a horrid cold lump of stone. You will become a nasty +old crabbed spinster, sitting at a window, knitting socks for +missionaries, keeping cats and canaries, and saying atrocious things +about your neighbours.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may threaten,” said the fair-haired girl loftily. “Remember what +I said to you at home. The sympathies will not be forbidden. If you +are married without love, some state of the soul will assert itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish,” said the little lady. “Go into the garden, while I write +no-thank-you to Herbert, and pick me some roses.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I cannot touch roses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then do, for goodness sake, take a piece of string and play with the +kitten.” +</p> + +<p> +So Flora went on her way, Maude Juxon on hers; and the Strath waited +for them both. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a3s5"> +Scene V.—PAGEANT +</h3> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza ch_ep"> +<span class="i0">Toss fortune back her tinsel and her plume,</span><br> +<span class="i0">And drop this mask of flesh behind the scene.—<i>Young</i>.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The two dwellers in the Strath went on dreaming. Drayton had reserved +a small ante-chamber leading out from the saloon for his work-room. +Here the escutcheon of the mask was endlessly repeated in wood, +plaster, and copper; a pinched tragic face was represented, +crest-like, upon the picture frames, and along the cornice. And it was +here that the tragic influence of the house was felt more strongly +than elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +The day was grey. The sun had shone little of late; and a moist wind +carried restlessly through the garden. The playwright sat nursing a +volume which served him for a desk. He appeared in good health, +although his eyes had a trick of roving, and at times he would shudder +as though with cold. He believed that he had never been so well in his +life, and this opinion was shared by Conway, who was lying in the +saloon, listening to his friend. The journal that he loved was lying +open upon a cushion before him. The draperies which divided the two +rooms were fastened back, and when the enraptured voice came louder to +his ears Conway put back his head and laughed in sheer happiness as he +heard the noisy sophistry of the writer: +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot conceive a Deity who finds pleasure in tragedy. The Creator +must understand and appreciate comedy. If there be the divine frown, +there must be also the divine laughter. I am assured that the Sublime +would rather see a wine-skin dressed out in child’s clothes than the +lion-hide and the club; and rather hear the quack of the frog-souls +against the Acherusian lake than those anguished cries in the grove of +the Eumenides. If that be so, let us have no more tragedy. Let us grow +wings and fly to Cloudcuckootown, and take a bird’s eye view across +mortality.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before you attempt to fly, be sure that your wings will bear you,” +called Conway, also speaking in the spirit of ancient comedy. “The +nearer the sun the greater the effort; and if you fall there may be no +Icarian sea to receive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a theme, and I will set to work upon it,” cried the +enraptured Drayton. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen then,” said Conway, picking up the journal. “Take a well known +theme. In old fields we gather fresh flowers, and new learning may be +found in the oldest tales.” Then he went on thus to read: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Can there be anything more bitter than solitude? This morning I was +driven out by my aching tongue to speak to nature. I called to the +flowers, and they were silent. I cried to the birds, and they +chattered, but not to me. I whispered to the stream, and it murmured, +but not to me. The eyes I saw in that water were not those you have in +your memory, my fair-haired love. I spoke to the trees, to the wind, +to the clouds, and despairingly to God. The trees whispered, and the +wind murmured, but not for me; the clouds drifted on; and God remained +more silent than any of the wonders He has made. +</p> + +<p> +“The prisoner in the Fleet has consolations which I may not share. He +may wrangle with his turnkey concerning fees, or argue with his +fellows in misfortune. I have nothing, but memory and faith. There is +a place for me in this world, and I may not fill it; a love, and I may +not have it; a life, and I may not enter into it; one voice above all +others, and I may not hear it. This is to be in prison indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“You will wonder, Geoffrey, should this little book in time to come be +brought into your hands, why I did not escape from this misery, before +death, like some kindly nurse, snatched me from my play-things and put +me to my bed. Let me answer you. The roads are watched, not only +against your coming, but against my going. I know that silent men +follow me. Were I to enter a coach, I should be dragged down. Were I +to steal forth some night, I should be seized, brought back by +violence, and beaten for my effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir John fears me, because I know too much concerning his two-faced +life. Yet for my freedom I would promise anything, nay, I have +promised, but ’tis of no avail. He knows that the caged bird is +secure, but let that bird fly, and it will be seen no more. There is +also another, more bitter reason. That it is which now tears out my +heart. My uncle, miser and parson of Queensmore, told me, with a grin +and a screwing up of his pig-like eyes, that you were lately taken by +the press. That pitiless and cunning wolf my father set the plot to be +rid of you. May God alone forgive him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true? While I write these words are you far upon the seas, +shamefully degraded and abused? You could not have kept from me a +whole year. You would have found a way, for love laughs at swords, and +knows no fear, and has no sense of bodily pain. You have gone far from +me, and I am left with a sad last hope that someone will be found to +tell you I was true. My final breath shall be in prayer that you may +be brought some day into Thorlund, to stand upon a cold stone marking +the spot where I shall be in silence. Do not be afraid, Geoffrey, even +though it be night and a wild wind beating; for your mind shall not be +troubled and you shall see no ghostly sight. You will know I did +myself no harm. +</p> + +<p> +“Would that I might leave you something, a ribbon, a lock of hair, a +ring. Why, so I will. None but old Deborah shall handle this small +white body when I am wrung out of it, and she will do my bidding yet. +Our vault lies beneath the chancel. You have but to shut yourself in +the church during the night, raise the great stone beside the +wall—’tis graven with the Hooper arms, surmounted by a cross +fimbriated—and descend the stone steps. Beloved, do not be afraid. I +shall be loving you still, and I may be nearer than you think. If a +light breath passes, call it not night wind. Upon my body you shall +find the ring you gave me, and the lock of hair which now lies upon my +forehead. Yet I have forgotten. My brain is wandering. How shall you +discover this poor record of my daily life? +</p> + +<p> +“The trees are white with dust, and the flowers wither. No rain has +fallen for long, and the people who dwell upon the hills are hard put +to it for water, and much sickness is, I hear, abroad. Mr. Blair takes +his customary ease, smokes his long pipe, makes fishing-lines, and +turns a deaf ear to the calls of the cottage folk. His duty begins and +ends with his Sunday sermons, and these he is too idle or too ignorant +to write himself. What a little charity there is in this great world! +I can do nothing for the poor. I may not visit them, nor send one +bottle of my father’s wine. Reed, who is the master of this house, +keeps a sharp eye upon the household, and nothing goes out without his +knowledge. ’Tis strange that my father should trust him, and none +besides, but villainy acquaints a man with vile partners. +</p> + +<p> +“To-day I met with Poor John, one who has lost his wits and roams +about the country making verses. I see him often, at evening trapping +sparrows in the ivy, at morning whistling beneath the elms, and at +noon lying beside the stream to laugh at the image of his white face. +He asked me for apples, as his custom is, but I could only tell him +that all last year’s apples were done. Then he gave me a whistle, +which he had made, and directed me to go into the woods and blow upon +it, when I would immediately set all the birds a-singing. And so he +left me grinning. Poor John do they call him? Why, he is far happier +than I. I could envy this gentle madman. He views his surroundings +through a weird atmosphere of imagination, and regards sane suffering +men and women as underlings, and passes them in the belief that he is +nature’s king, never knowing what a misshapen oaf he seems to them. +</p> + +<p> +“It is exceeding hot. My brain aches and my eyes burn. This is my +twentieth summer. I have lived a long time. You have been given and +taken away; I mourn the loss and forget to be thankful for the gift. +My books tell me nothing is left for a woman when the time of her +love-making is passed. The man may still have his ambitions. He may +attempt to follow in the steps of Mr. Pope, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Hogarth, +or Mr. Fielding. He may serve his country, or aid the Pretender, +winning scars and fame, as you may be doing while I write, my +Geoffrey. But Miss Hooper, sad, and white, and shivering—what may she +do? Nothing but sigh, and wait, and hope; and sighing kills, waiting +maddens, and as for hope—why, hope is a fading flower. Oh, Geoffrey, +cannot you send some small message through all this darkness, +something to tell me that you live? Cannot you make a sign? I listen +in the night for the movement of your spirit, or the echo of your +mind. Ought I not to feel your heart longing for me? I hear only the +night throbbing, the insects murmuring, the house creaking, and beyond +there is cold pitiless space half-lit by stars. The daffodils were +glorious this year, Geoffrey. They filled the plantation with a light +of gold, and yours was there, and I stood by it alone.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The reader stopped, and a gentle movement came from the ante-room. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a time when every living creature saw the bright side of +things,” said the voice of Drayton. “Even when the human emotions were +first represented upon the stage, it was believed that happiness ruled +the world, until the philosophers discovered that whereas one play +aroused the laughter of the audience another excited their compassion +and their tears. Thereupon the drama became divided into its two great +heads, known as the goat-song and the wine-song, the goat being the +prize for tragedy, the wine for comedy. Comedy is the beginning of the +story; tragedy is the end; there is only the difference of a letter +between them. That which you have read seems to me to contain the germ +of tragedy. When my modern drama, dealing with the life and death of +George the Third, is completed I will give the world that story. The +emotions are there,” he went on noisily. “I see light there, and it +must be the phosphorescence of the dead which produces it.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway joined the speaker. His face was pale, and his eyes shone with +a mad light as he cried, “Let us remain here and work together. Let us +discover the origin of love, and find the cause of its unhappy ending. +Why does the glamour of life end when love has been satisfied?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because of that satisfaction,” said the other character. +</p> + +<p> +“That could never be so here.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a vast region outside,” said Drayton. “Love is here a +religion; there a passion. Here desire becomes etherealised by +possession, and consummation leads to higher things; there ambition, +rivalries, and all the petty wedges of worldliness are driven in to +love’s destruction. It ends in a tragedy there. It must end so, +because of that finality. For every thing that knows an end is a +tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +All the little tragic masks frowned at the spell-bound men, in copper +and wood and plaster. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no such thing as comedy at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Call the drama a knot,” said Drayton. “Call, the gradual unloosening +of that knot comedy, the complete unfastening tragedy. The one deals +with human beings, the other with actions. The light which falls upon +the stage is constant, if difficult to discern. That light is not shed +by religion, for religion is a superstition, and superstition is a +flickering lamp which requires to be often recharged and changed. We +live in the faintly glimmering region which lies outside, where there +is no terror and no suffering, because we are spiritual. This state +cannot be tragic, because it knows no ending.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our minds demand an ending,” the other urged. +</p> + +<p> +“When the body ceases to be material the mind will be unable to +realise an ending,” said the man, who but a few weeks back had with +difficulty made a living by writing snippets of nonsense for people of +no intellect. “We are living in the half-light under these present +conditions. It is the finest state we are capable of attaining while +encumbered with the body.” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned forward, parted the creepers, and holding them apart +continued: “I perceive a woman walking in the garden. She is looking +into the lilies beyond the topiary hedge. Her hair is dark, and her +face tanned by exposure to the weather. Now she turns to me. There is +a poetic gloom in her dark eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +Before Drayton had done speaking he was alone. Conway had stepped into +the garden. The creepers fell back across the window, the scribe’s +fingers closed round the pencil, and he resumed his automatic labours. +</p> + +<p> +It was Lone Nance who stood in the garden. She was often there, but +the dreamers had not sighted her before, because she had hidden +herself when she saw them coming. They had heard a singing voice +during the still evenings, but had given it no heed. What was it to +them if the nightingale sang old ballads, and the blackcap madrigals, +so long as the songs were in tune with the influence? +</p> + +<p> +He, who was called the master of the Strath, reached the yew hedge, +and discovered the girl scraping moss from a long low stone. She +looked up at him fearlessly with large eyes lightly blurred with +tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you kneel beside that stone?” Conway muttered, not venturing +to remove his eyes lest the vision should disappear. “And why are +there tears in your eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl put out her hand and held up the speckled and stiffened body +of a thrush, which had been smitten by some hawk and had tumbled into +the garden to die in the dust. +</p> + +<p> +“The birds come to the Strath to die,” she said. “I will not bury it, +for there may still be life in its little brain. I will let it lie +upon the stems of this long grass, where the wind shall rock it up and +down, and the sun shall warm it, until the little body may forget that +it is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you scraping the moss off that stone?” he urged. +</p> + +<p> +“I was running on the hills when a voice stopped me and called me into +the valley,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not hear it,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“At sunset there is always a voice, like music melting in the air,” +she said. “You must make no sound, or you will not hear it. He hears +it.” She nodded in the direction of the rectory. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that stone? Why is it broken across the middle?” +</p> + +<p> +“This stone cries out, and the house answers it,” went on the girl in +a low voice. “Lives and hearts have been broken here. He was young and +he was beautiful. As they carried him past the gates into the garden +he sighed once and that was all. They buried the body here that night, +and covered the grave with a great stone taken from the stable-yard. +But in the morning the stone was broken. The spirit had escaped in +spite of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his name?” Conway asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know. His hair was fair, and his eyes were blue. I have seen +him walking with the lady of the white lilies.” +</p> + +<p> +She stroked the stone. Her hand was a deep brown, bearing marks of +bramble scratches, and the fingers were delicate. Her head was small. +There were white seeds of grass held in its thick dark hair. She was +strong and healthy, this wild girl. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never been in there,” she said, pointing towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me,” said Conway. Holding the girl’s hand, he led her +through the garden, across the moat, into his home, and left her at +length beside the door of what had been Miss Hooper’s room. “This is +your place,” he said quietly. “You will find here all that you can +require.” +</p> + +<p> +But there still existed a gross world of evil-thinking outside the +influence, and there was materialism even within the Strath. Early in +the afternoon the crone of the kitchen accosted the master, as he +walked in a state of innocence, and stated her intention of quitting +the place forthwith. The influence had left her absolutely untouched; +she had no laughter to give, nor shudder to spend. But she could not +tolerate the presence of Lone Nance; and if the girl were to remain +she, the speaker, would go, and that immediately, even to the work +house and her pauper’s coffin. +</p> + +<p> +Conway could not understand, nor was he able to reason with the +rachitic dame, who insisted upon dragging the custom of another world +into his paradise. Why this turmoil because another character had been +added to the drama? He did not know why she should seek to disturb his +state of peace. There were the iron gates in all visibility; she might +so easily walk off the stage. The birds did not first come to him, and +scold noisily, if they intended to fly away. +</p> + +<p> +“Human nature has many phases,” observed the philosophic Drayton, when +the respectable dame came and appealed to him. “One well-defined trait +is a longing after change.” Then he gravely handed her the Ethics of +Aristotle, and bade her study the pages for her soul’s good. +</p> + +<p> +Finally the poor muddy-minded creature became appeased, not through +the wisdom of Aristotle, nor yet by the indifference of her masters, +but owing to the natural passing of her indignation after the noisy +assertion of her wrongs. She returned to the kitchen, after a manner +mollified, to grope grumbling among the pots, and to prepare the +evening meal which differed not from day to day. +</p> + +<p> +That same evening rumour went rustling into Kingsmore, where the +relations of Lone Nance lived, and charges were brought against +Conway, as gross as they were false, while wiseacres nodded heads of +clay and recalled predictions made by them aforetime. They had seen +the squire of Thorlund at the fair, and had written him down a fellow +of the baser sort. They exhorted the lone girl’s guardians to take +immediate action; but these practical folk merely realised that there +was no longer a superfluous mouth to feed and an irresponsible spirit +to suppress. Only one old man was sage enough to say, “No harm will +come to her if she is at the Strath.” To those who reminded him of +Henry Reed’s fate the grandfather replied, “He set himself against the +place.” +</p> + +<p> +When Dr. Berry came into the garden at his accustomed time he +discovered a young woman, dressed in the mode of the eighteenth +century, selecting blooms from the rose-bushes. He bent his head +courteously and passed without a word. +</p> + +<p> +The night fell, close, humid, and dark. There was not a breath of wind +to move the heavy clouds which obliterated space and its starlight. +Through a mist hanging about he garden beamed the light of a single +candle, set beside the stone under the topiary hedge. The long yellow +flame rose like an ear of wheat, and only flickered when a moth darted +into it. There was a sound of music in the house, and presently the +chorus reached the garden, and loomed into the misty radiance of the +candlelight. First came Nance, grave and self-possessed, her head +bare, her hands full of white roses; then Drayton and Conway; and +finally Dr. Berry. They were holding sprigs of rosemary gathered from +the herb-garden. +</p> + +<p> +They took their stand about the stone, and when the girl had covered +it with her roses the exarchus recited the office of the dead. The +garden was steeped in silence outside the halo of light. The window of +the saloon could be seen faintly glowing in the distance, but the +outlines of the house were lost. +</p> + +<p> +The Dithyramb was sung and the chorus marched away, leaving the solemn +candle to burn itself away among the blooms. The Bacchanalians sat +down to eat and to drink, but there was no sound of laughter, nor any +careless word. The mind of the house was grim. +</p> + +<p> +The procession made its way out the second time, Dr. Berry leading. +Behind him came Conway and Drayton carrying iron bars and chisels. +They passed the gate leading into the churchyard. Beneath a drip-stone +terminating in a diabolic face, at the west end of the building, the +scholar left them and went to his house for the key. The atmosphere +continued to be dense; not a sound was heard, except the squeaking of +bats, and the cry of a nightjar. +</p> + +<p> +When the heavily clamped door had been opened, the three men passed +into the mouldy interior. The rector locked the door, lighted one of +the chancel lamps, and indicated a long stone let into the tiles, +beneath the north wall of the building; and, when the others +hesitated, he snatched the bar from Conway’s nervous hands and forced +its point into the mortar which crumbled in the crevice. +</p> + +<p> +A canopied memorial, adorned by miniature fluted columns and capitals +of spiral volutes, acanthus-leaf bosses, brackets of decorated +foliage, grape pendants, and crotchets terminating in mitre-head +finials, had been let into the chancel wall, where a marble slab +lyingly recited virtues of dead and gone Hoopers. There was no mention +of Sir John, nor of his wife Edith, nor of his daughter Winifred; and +the parish registers dealing with their period had been destroyed by +carelessness and by fire. The baronet, as was well known, had been +buried in unconsecrated ground. The stone which closed the entry to +the vault was soft and much chipped. The cement crumbled at a touch. +Conway, who had joined the work in fearful expectancy, felt the slab +heave. Another moment it came up, and they could hear the hollow sound +made by fragments of mortar falling into the vault below. +</p> + +<p> +A step appeared, dry and dusty, and when a candle was brought and +lowered they discerned a narrow flight leading into the silent space. +Dr. Berry was the first to descend, and Conway the last. A brick arch +sloped over them, and on either side appeared stout shelves, +supporting narrow berths where the bodies of the extinct family had +been put aside like old garments in a press. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the one,” the scholar whispered, raising the candle above his +head, and tapping a worm-eaten plank which gave forth a hollow echo. +</p> + +<p> +“Died December 12th, aged 20,” muttered Conway. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see whether her lover came to her,” the scholar murmured. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing terrible about those swathed remains. Only a lock of +fair hair, which had escaped from its bonds somehow, glistened when +the candlelight entered the coffin. What had been little white hands +were folded; and between them Conway perceived a tiny packet, bound +with white ribbon, and inscribed with one word “Geoffrey.” He put out +his hand, but shrank, afraid to rob the dead. +</p> + +<p> +“It was never meant for me,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless take it,” urged the rector. “She does not need it now.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway put out his arm, but again the effort failed. The packet was +retained jealously, and the grave-breaker had neither the courage nor +the inclination to use force. He turned away quickly, and sought the +steps, muttering as he escaped, “She will not let it go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wished to bury it beneath the stone where her lover lies,” murmured +Dr. Berry, as he also turned away. “But she knows what is best.” +</p> + +<p> +As they replaced the stone, the light went out. Velvety darkness, +heavy as cobwebs, closed down, submerging them, leaving them standing +as it were upon the bottom of the sea of space. Then Drayton spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“A current of cold air passed me. It was going from east to west.” +</p> + +<p> +“It passed me also,” said the rector. “And I could see its outline and +its eyes.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="a3s6"> +Scene VI.—MELODRAMA +</h3> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza ch_ep"> +<span class="i0">And the Voices of the Dialogue would be Strong and Manly.</span><br> +<span class="i0">And the Ditty High and Tragicall; Not nice or Dainty.—<i>Bacon</i>.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Drinkers of tea in Kingsmore continued to talk scandal concerning +Conway and Nancy Reed; but when the evil practice extended beyond the +farm-houses and reached the untidy Vicarage, Mr. Price considered the +time had come for him to act. The breath of ill-report was poison to +the simple squire. Having drunk his customary four cups of tea, he +roundly lectured his sister and niece; and when he had finished his +sermon he went out to the stable-yard, saddled a cob with his own +hands, then jogged across the hills to Thorlund, to acquaint himself +personally with the facts relating to his peccant parishioner Lone +Nance. +</p> + +<p> +The squire remained a very short time at the Strath; yet it was long +enough to satisfy him. He trotted back contented, although ignorant +that he had regarded his neighbour’s domestic affairs through the +spectacles which the spirit of the place had thought good to push +before his eyes. Reaching home, he fell in with Flora, and after +removing himself slowly from the saddle thus expressed his mind: +</p> + +<p> +“The only way of punishing scandal-mongers is to disgrace them +publicly. Our ancestors had the sense to know that. When gossips made +a nuisance of themselves they had their heads harnessed in an iron +cage. I could name a few chattering people who would be none the worse +for a dose of old English penalties. Give me the stocks again, and let +me see the public nuisances with their ankles picketed, and a beadle +handy to encourage honest folk to jeer at them—” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you have been to the Strath?” broke in Flora, who knew by +experience that when her uncle was mounted upon a hobby his speech was +liable to flow. +</p> + +<p> +“Where I discovered the truth,” the vicar snapped. “Mr. Conway finds +that old woman totally inadequate, and I’m sure I don’t wonder. It +appears that Nancy Reed came and offered her services and he accepted +them. It is all quite respectable and right. But the extraordinary +part of it is the girl appears to be perfectly sane.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you go into the house?” Flora asked, with meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“I stood in the hall for about five minutes, and enjoyed a very +interesting conversation with Mr. Drayton. A most well-informed man, +my dear, and as clear-headed as anyone could be. I have asked him to +come and visit us. Really I found the Strath quite fascinating. After +all I should be sorry to see it pulled down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you interview this young woman?” Flora pursued. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said her uncle, somewhat blankly. “Well, I cannot remember +that I did,” he went on crossly. “I was perfectly satisfied. Anyhow +it’s not a subject for you to discuss, and I do not wish to hear any +more questions.” +</p> + +<p> +The squire was walking beside the girl, who was tall enough to look +down upon him. As they came near the house he turned to her, and asked +sharply, for he was not in a good humour that evening, how many men it +had pleased her to refuse to marry. +</p> + +<p> +“Four at present,” replied Flora carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed her uncle. “It is evident you are incapable of +selecting a husband for yourself. When is your reply going to be in +the affirmative?” +</p> + +<p> +“Probably never. I don’t want to marry, and I don’t want to talk about +it,” returned Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless my soul! A good-looking girl not want to talk about matrimony!” +said the astounded squire. “I want to see you settled,” he went on +seriously. “I am an old man, and I should like to have the pleasure of +uniting you to some suitable partner before I take my departure.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have someone in your mind,” she suggested. “Is it Mr. Conway?” +</p> + +<p> +“You might do worse, I suppose,” said the vicar, stroking his chin, +and glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“And live at the Strath?” she went on. +</p> + +<p> +“You might improve it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not very long ago you told me Mr. Conway was not a gentleman,” Flora +reminded him. “You remarked that he was connected with the Reeds of +this village. You called the Strath a haunted house. Do you know what +has caused your mind to change so completely?” +</p> + +<p> +The vicar stared her in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the house,” she said. “You have just come from there, and I +believe its influence is still upon you. You were not expressing your +own opinions just now. They are not your opinions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Flora,” the old gentleman exclaimed angrily, “I may be over seventy, +but I am not a fool, and I am not to be told by a young girl that I do +not know what I am talking about. I want you to marry, and of course I +hope you will choose a worthy gentleman. In my young days girls were +not allowed to have opinions of their own, and it was very much better +for them. I did not ask your poor dear aunt if she would marry me. I +went to her father, who, I believe, was far more capable of judging a +man than she could ever have been and told him I wanted his daughter. +That is the way marriages ought to be arranged. If any man asks me for +you, and I think him desirable, I shall take it upon myself to answer +for you, and if you refuse to accept him I shall leave my money +elsewhere. I have an idea you have behaved disgracefully.” +</p> + +<p> +With that the squire led his horse off to the stable; while Flora, +very white and angry, mounted her bicycle and rode across country to +seek consolation from Maude. +</p> + +<p> +The little lady was not at home. A man of general uselessness, who was +rolling the lawn without energy, volunteered the information that his +mistress had driven off in her donkey-cart half an hour earlier. Flora +returned to the road, and tempted by a long declivity ran down into +Thorlund. +</p> + +<p> +She saw no one in the hamlet; not a living thing appeared upon the +road; only a subdued hammering issued from the smithy on the side of +the hill. The Strath never appeared more alluring than when flooded in +evening sunlight. It seemed to be breathing softly, reaching a dreamy +influence over church, fields, and hills, hushing nature into silence. +Flora walked to the gate in the churchyard, responding to a summons +which would accept no denial; and for the second time found herself in +the garden with the eyes of the house upon her soul. +</p> + +<p> +The mood had changed; on her former visit the house had transferred +her into a light-hearted mummer. Then it suggested solemn truths, +responsibilities which might not be avoided, and the necessary sorrows +of existence. It suggested that a thin veil separated knowledge from +belief; creatures of a day could not afford to dally; the mind which +faces the whirlwind must bend or be broken; women who will not obey +the call of destiny must die, even as Henry Reed had died; tragedy +arises from self-will; obedience is the road to happiness. Through +this atmosphere Flora wandered, with an indefinite longing for a +guide, beginning to comprehend that she could no more struggle against +destiny than the butterfly against the storm. +</p> + +<p> +A rebellious desire came over her to defy those influences, and in +that moment it seemed to her that the light darkened. She experienced +the stunning sensation of walking out to execution before a howling +mob; there was the ancient tragic wail, “Alas, my sister!” and she saw +a stage with curtain descending slowly before a dying body. Here then +was the end of those who opposed themselves to destiny. So she +resigned herself, and immediately the light became clear, and her mind +was at rest. She was told contemptuously that she was human, therefore +ignorant, and fated to stumble. She was like a foolish moth coming out +of darkness, burning its beauty, and returning into darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Life must be something more than a glimmering meteor. It is a flame +burning well, or flickering feebly, according to the supply of soul. A +life might light the world, and continue burning. Far back in the +morning mists of time a fair woman had struck the lyre. It still +vibrated. Four thousand men had held at bay three millions of foes, +falling at last, envied, their tomb an altar; and a general in command +of a few heroes had faced the fighting force of the world, and hurled +it back, with death in the front, destruction in the rear. The light +shed by such lives might never be extinguished. +</p> + +<p> +Flora had sought originality. She had longed to render herself +conspicuous by a line of action contrary to the laws of the drama. It +was for the Strath to open her eyes, and point out, what should have +been obvious, namely that she was a very ordinary woman. Originality +does not consist in doing uncommon things, but in doing common things +in an uncommon way. Thousands of men had fought and fallen, before +Miltiades occupied the plain of Marathon, or Leonidas led his handful +to the pass of the Hot Springs. Hundreds of singers had lifted up +their voices, before Sappho’s throat melted with its music. They were +immortal, because they had played the fine old parts as well as it was +possible to play them. But let a man or woman create a fresh part +which was contrary to the laws of the drama—then would come failure, +dishonour, and the hisses of the audience. +</p> + +<p> +The voice of warning was clear. Away from the Strath the girl might +assume her part of attracting men with no idea of union; but there at +least she was bound by the custom of ages. She stirred among strange +forces. The dramatic fingers of destiny indicated the well-worn paths +along which she must walk, through pain and difficulties by performing +a woman’s duty, to attain present happiness and rest at last. The +influence suggested, moreover, that she might not turn into that +beaten track without a punishment for having gone astray. +</p> + +<p> +The lessons of the Strath were those of the didactic drama, which +teaches that mortals must submit to unchanging laws. The battle of +free-will against destiny was its theme when serious, but under the +teaching there lurked undoubtedly the sting of malevolence, of hatred +for the actors upon its stage, and a desire to destroy them if it +might. It had no phantasm to show, nor could it terrify by any sound; +it could only shape minds for good or evil, causing the puppets to act +and speak in comic or in tragic mood, showing them that life is not a +small thing, the world no passing scene, but rather a permanent stage, +upon which actors pass and repass, each playing many characters, with +the same passions in them, and the same destiny always behind. +</p> + +<p> +Unmindful of time or place Flora walked on until she reached the +orchard. And there other voices came to her ears, and looking out she +saw Conway and Nance walking beneath the mossy branches. +</p> + +<p> +She stood aloof, watching those dream-like figures crossing the bright +green orchard, her ears filled with the drowsy hum of their voices, +until the knowledge came that she was jealous of the brown village +girl who trailed across the grass the long discarded garments of +Winifred Hooper, and rested a hand, half hidden in lace ruffles, upon +the arm of her new-found friend. +</p> + +<p> +Flora swayed to and fro beside the hedge, and endeavoured to reason +with her sane self, but the Strath held her fast. Could this wild +Medea-like passion be love, or was it hatred? There was hatred in her +heart, but it was for Nance, and her eyes had never seen the girl +before that day. A breath of wind shivered through the trees, and +strong-minded Flora bent beneath the tragic influence of the place. +</p> + +<p> +She ran to the house and entered the hall, which was filled with +dust-flecked sunbeams. Then into the saloon, where Drayton was lying +asleep with a smile upon his white face. A mask of tragedy stared from +the wall with pitiful blank eyes. Flora smiled wildly at the emblem; +then, catching the reflection of her own face in one of the mirrors, +shrank because of its tragic similarity. She caught up the rusty +sword, which her uncle had handled upon their former visit, and passed +again through the garden with the day upon one side, and the night +upon the other. +</p> + +<p> +The man and the girl were still walking within the orchard. Flora felt +no sense of nervousness, when they approached her hiding-place. She +could see the lone girl’s face, idealised in that atmosphere, its +large eyes roaming restfully across the sun-mists. She could hear the +long grass brushing against their garments. A few more steps and they +would have passed; but the opposing influence had already issued its +warning, and Nance stopped a few paces from the hedge, and lifting her +hand pointed towards the exact spot where Flora stood concealed. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” she said to her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a holly bush,” Conway answered. +</p> + +<p> +“A flash of light passed through it,” the girl said. +</p> + +<p> +“It was the sun. See how it flashes through the apple-trees.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a dark shadow round the holly bush, and the light that I saw +was cold,” Nance went on. “This morning a robin was singing there. It +has flown away, and now the sun has gone too. Let us follow them. I +hear the robin singing beside the stream.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned and went away, Nance casting back glances at the deep +green bush, until they came into a jungle of roses, leading towards a +little stream which murmured evermore among its weeds. Here the girl +paused and pushed Conway back into the sunlight. “Go to the holly +bush,” she said. “There is an enemy in the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +He regarded her with calm astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“There is danger there, and it is to me,” she went on. “You are safe. +I will sit here, and watch the water until you come.” +</p> + +<p> +Her wild eyes aroused him and he returned, smiling in perplexity, +wading through masses of scented herbs, and tangled brakes of briars, +scattering rose petals all over the slope; and so advanced, forgetful +of his mission, until he saw Flora walking to meet him with the bent +sword hanging from her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He remembered her dimly as one who had scorned him once, but the +thought that she was out of place in that garden did not occur, until +another breath of wind came from the house and set the leaves in +motion; and then there came a suggestion of treachery and the memory +of bodily death. +</p> + +<p> +“So you would have killed her,” he said quietly, as they stopped face +to face. +</p> + +<p> +Flora was deathly pale. After that wave of passion a spirit of cunning +had entered into her. She was following her enemy, hoping to find her +alone; but now that she was confronted by the man of her desires +resolution began to ebb and the deeper self came uppermost. +</p> + +<p> +“I would only have frightened her,” she said glibly. “She has no right +to be here—in my place.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is not your place,” he answered. “Nor is it mine. I was brought +here to learn, but I am on probation. One who was here before me +rebelled against the master of the house, and he was punished.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you always acted according to the dictates of your master’s +mind?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not do otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither do I,” she cried. “My enemy is here, and I was told to hide +in the holly-bush and kill her as she passed.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has done you no wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is winning your love. She is drawing you away from me. She walks +by your side, with her hand upon yours, and looks into your eyes, and +you return her words of affection, and give her smile for smile. I was +watching while you walked together in the orchard. I heard your +flatteries—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are lying,” the male actor interposed. “She is as clear as the +light. I gave her no word of flattery. She has a place in this garden. +You have none. I do not know you, and I do not desire to see you +again. Put down that sword, and go.” +</p> + +<p> +The wind was blowing steadily from the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak so cruelly,” she prayed. “Do not look at me with those +hard eyes. It is my love which has driven me to this. I will go if you +bid me, or come if you call, or kill myself if you would be rid of me. +Have pity upon me. Let me walk with you. Come into the orchard, and +talk to me as you talked to her, and let me rest my hand upon your +arm.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway stepped from her to an open spot, and faced the wind. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe there is no sincerity in you,” he said. “I have had dreams +of a woman like you, one who would lead men on by smiles, and later +spurn them. You are tall and you are beautiful, but I do not trust +you. I am told you are incapable of love, and this one thing I +feel—it is dangerous for you to be here. Give me that sword.” +</p> + +<p> +She put out her arm and gave it him. +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me something to carry away with me,” she prayed. +</p> + +<p> +He plucked a white rose and handed it to her. She touched it, and +screamed. That environment, which had caused her to forget the world +and to act a strange part, had not removed her natural antipathies. +The bloom was dashed to pieces between them. She allowed herself to be +hurried on, through the deepening shadows and that cold scrutinising +wind, in silence and hopelessness, towards the ivy-covered wall and +the gate which stood ajar as she had left it. Conway fell back from +her, as she fled through and escaped. +</p> + +<p> +At the sight of the grass road, and blue hills beyond, the girl’s +normal conditions were established. But as she passed out there was a +feeling in her body, as though some vital essence, which had abandoned +her temporarily, was then restored, and with it came a dull pain +throbbing above her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Conway stumbled stupidly back to the side of the stream, where he +found Nance singing to the water and making boats of buttercups. He +gave her the old sword without a word of explanation, and she as +silently received and flung it into the water, where the long tresses +of weeds closed over and hid it from their sight. +</p> + +<p> +Then she sang him an old sad song. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price had just returned from the farm, and was standing on his +lawn drawing long white hairs meditatively off the arm of his +overcoat. Seeing his niece he hurried to her, smiling in his genial +fashion, because he had been afraid she might have taken his late +lecture too much to heart, and it was not in his nature to play the +part of stern guardian for long. +</p> + +<p> +“Been taking the air?” he cried. “Your mother was wondering where you +had gone to. Why, child, your face is as white as chalk.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a horrible headache,” said Flora sulkily. “I am going to lie +down. I actually went into the Strath and met Mr. Conway, and I +believe I had a row with him about something or other, but I really +cannot remember, because my head is so bad. It was an extraordinary +thing my going there at all.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="a3s7"> +Scene VII.—IDYLL +</h3> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza ch_ep"> +<span class="i0">Now fast beside the pathway stood</span><br> +<span class="i0">A ruin’d village, shagg’d with wood,</span><br> +<span class="i0">A melancholy place.—<i>William Stewart Rose</i>.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Maude Juxon had failed to materialize at the time of Flora’s visit, +because she was on the other side of the great chalky billows, +enjoying life after her usual manner, that is to say by wasting it in +vain pursuits. Had Flora dropped into the Thorlund valley earlier, she +would certainly have seen the notorious little tandem of asses in +front of the rectory. So glorious was the evening that Maude +determined to give herself the gratification of calling upon Dr. +Berry, to offer him a drive through the serene and poetic atmosphere. +</p> + +<p> +The spoilt beauty had soon forgiven the scholar for that indiscreet +praise of herself before her husband. Indeed she liked him the better +for his panegyric, which at least convinced her of the thorough +genuineness of his nature. She knew that he liked her; it flattered +her that he should think her clever. She had been indeed so impressed +by this fact that she spent two terrible days struggling to compose an +equal number of original lines of poetry; and when the effort brought +forth, after much ruffling of silken hair and puckering of pretty +brows, nothing but a silly series of ragged syllables, she shamelessly +copied Sir Nicholas Breton’s “Farewell to the World” from an old book +of English poetry which she discovered in the house, and this inky +forgery was crumpled in her pocket when she jumped into the cart. +</p> + +<p> +The rector was in the church, said the housekeeper, and thither Maude +repaired, to discover him unpoetically engaged in discussing the +condition of the roof with a pair of ruddy sheep-farmers. Some mossy +tiles had been worked awry by wind and weather, and in time of rain a +puddle would occur symbolically in the vicinity of the font. As +Maude’s bright colours illuminated the porch, the first bucolic was +expressing his conviction that a certain handy labourer in his employ +would experience no difficulty in resettling the recalcitrant tiles: +the second bucolic indifferently suggested that the repairer should be +summoned forthwith; the rector dreamily concurred, and the meeting was +adjourned. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you are coming for a drive,” said Maude, when the farmers had +clamped away, side by side like twin brethren. “I am sure you deserve +it, after being shut up with those things. What funny voices they +have, and the red on their cheeks is just like blobs of paint! Why is +it that big men squeak, and little men bellow? How can you talk to +them? I shouldn’t know what to say after I had exhausted the weather.” +</p> + +<p> +“With these men, fortunately, that subject cannot be exhausted,” said +the poet. “It is very kind of you to invite me to drive with you on +this magnificent evening, but I always find you kind and good,” he +went on, gazing into the marvellous flora of her hat with his calm +thought-filled eyes. “I have not seen you for three days, and in that +time have made, I am ashamed to say, no appreciable progress with my +work. I dream too much. Even when I sit beside my table I am unable to +control my thoughts. I am carried away beyond the border, and there +wander at will tween truths and half-truths. And there I am lost, and +when I awake it is late, and nothing has been recorded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” exclaimed Maude. “I hope you don’t talk like that to the +sheep-men and the cow-men?” +</p> + +<p> +“I speak upon such matters to you only,” he replied tenderly. “Because +I know you understand.” +</p> + +<p> +He dropped the church key among the weeds on the gravel walk, and did +not appear to notice his loss until Maude stooped and picked it up for +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at my cart!” she exclaimed, with childish pleasure. “Doesn’t it +shine? I have just had it varnished, and those pink lines painted +round it. May I have some of your poppies?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me gather them for you,” said the scholar, as she hovered about +the border. “You will soil your gloves.” +</p> + +<p> +Immediately he began to decollate all manner of poppies, scarlet, +white, and variegated, great sleep-scented globes of blossom, ragged, +and fluffy, and seed-capped, until Maude arrested his hand with a +scream of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! What could I do with those things—as big as cabbages? It is +the pink Shirley ones I want.” +</p> + +<p> +Laughing and chattering, she selected half-a-dozen of the prettiest, +and fastened them into her dress; while the abashed scholar strewed +the flowers of his own selection about the turf. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t waste them,” cried Maude. “Go and stick them about the heads of +my donkeys.” +</p> + +<p> +The poet did so, but as he bent his silvered head over the long ears +of the little steeds, a voice out of the breeze from the garden of the +Strath sardonically whispered, “Oh, scholar, scholar! How has your +wisdom served you? Has it fitted you for nothing better than to deck a +donkey’s head with poppies? Reason and infatuation, to say truth, keep +little company together.” +</p> + +<p> +“You too must wear a flower,” said Maude, approaching him. “Here is a +pink rose for you.” She lifted her dainty self on tip-toe, and +fastened the bloom into his coat with perfumed white-gloved fingers, +rattling on, “We must preserve the scheme of colour. I like every +thing on me and near me pink. When I die I should like to be carried +away on one of those delicious pink clouds we see at sunset.” +</p> + +<p> +“A beautiful thought,” he said reverently, touching her hand lightly +as it brushed a petal from his coat. “And beautifully expressed by a +true poetic mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am clever?” cried Maude eagerly. “I really am a little clever?” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled upon her, as he replied devoutly, “Cleverness is a small +thing. It is an attribute we allow even to the lower animals. You are +inspired.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he submitted to be packed into the little cart and driven from +the valley. +</p> + +<p> +At the sign-post Maude whipped her leader round to the right, and they +descended the slope which ended among the ruins of Queensmore. The +little lady had been silent for some minutes. That copied poem made +itself uncomfortable in her pocket. She knew that her companion was +widely read. He might recognise it, and she would be shamefully +unmasked. She did not so much mind his discovering her shallowness, +because it was somewhat of a strain to maintain the part; but what she +did fear was lest a forced acknowledgement of her sheer ignorance +might also deprive her of beauty in his eyes. She did not want to lose +her present hold upon him. She liked him, she told herself, immensely, +because he was handsome and dignified, so immeasurably, if +unconsciously, superior to all the men she had known. She had seen her +husband standing by his side. She could never have believed it +possible for two men to be so widely different; the one had seemingly +all the gifts Nature had to bestow; the other had—mere money. +</p> + +<p> +She refused to consider Herbert Juxon’s healthy mind and honest heart, +and resolutely turned her eyes from his excessive forbearance. She had +received a letter from him that morning. Somehow his kindly utterances +always irritated her. He was coming to her on Saturday; he wished he +could take her upon the Continent for a time, but business was holding +him closely to the city; he intended to look out for a house in the +country, which he hoped might suit her health; it was his ambition to +make her happy. But his kindly words and thoughts were merely +hailstones upon this butterfly. +</p> + +<p> +The wheels jolted round a bend in the grass-grown road, and the +entrance to what had been the village appeared before them. On a dark +winter’s day the scene would have inspired with melancholy; then, +mellowed with sunshine and enriched by flowering grasses, lush reeds +and lichens, it made a gratifying picture for the artist. Ruin and +decay were all around; here, brambles choked the bleak foundation of +a former ale-house, the bricks and woodwork of which had been carted +away; there, a roofless cottage gaped with doorless mouth and stared +with empty window sockets. +</p> + +<p> +The church had been a low thatched building with a shingled spire. The +remains were tottering upon a slight eminence beside a gigantic yew. +The thatch sagged heavily, loaded with moist mosses of an emerald +green, and the rotten rafters snagged inward like broken ribs. The +interior was stripped bare. Its bell miles away was used for calling +children to school; its encaustic tiles and fittings had been +distributed abroad; its font and brasses had passed into the hands of +collectors of antiques; even the burying place had been rifled, and +the old grave stones taken to fill gaps in walls or to floor +pig-sties. +</p> + +<p> +A portion of the parsonage stood gaunt and spectral, its windows +gloomy gaps fringed with ivy, its garden a pasture ground for straying +cattle and adventurous sheep. The roof was golden with lichen, and the +gutter-line broken picturesquely into a dog-tooth pattern by tiles, +jutting off, awaiting removal by October winds. Swallows were darting +in and out of the space once occupied by the door, where old parson +Hooper had often entered in ragged red-lined coat and stiff gloves +eager to count his gold. The village green beyond, where a rust-red +pump leaned far out of the perpendicular, was a mere field, lined +geometrically by four cart-tracks. White butterflies were swarming, +and fruit-trees grew unpruned, and all the old gardens writhed with +caterpillars; the grass and reeds fluttered lazily; a gentle sound +issued through the vacant windows that were left. +</p> + +<p> +Maude tried to be solemn as they drove through this desolation. She +quickly found herself incapable of sustaining the effort, and dropping +the reins demanded from her companion accurate information as to +whether <i>asinus vulgaris</i> really delighted in consuming herbaceous +plants of a spiny character. +</p> + +<p> +“By refusing to do so the animal would destroy a long cherished +belief,” the scholar replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Then their little hearts shall rejoice,” said Maude. “There are +enough thistles here to feed a hundred donkeys for a year. I will tie +one of the reins round this pump, and the beasts may eat prickles +while we explore.” +</p> + +<p> +When the tethering process had been accomplished they roamed through +the village of the past, and presently entered the churchyard. A low +tomb beneath a cypress offered a shady resting-place which met with +Maude’s approval, and thither she led the scholar, who was prepared to +indulge her smallest whim. Seating themselves upon the sunken masonry, +they watched the drops of sunlight filtering through the leaves, and +making satin-like patches upon the mouldering and mossy stones which +sealed down the bodies of those who long ago had taken the mystic +road, which, in the words of a wise Greek, is not of difficult +passage, nor uneven, nor full of windings, but all very straight and +downhill, and can be gone along with shut eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is heavenly,” said Maude with a sigh, firmly believing she was +perfectly happy, and fortunately ignorant of the saying of another +Greek, that a woman knows only two happy days, that of her marriage, +and that of her funeral. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry was leaning forward, his beautifully shaped hands clasped +between his knees, his eyes fixed upon an inscription still faintly +legible beside a laurel, “Here innocence and beauty lie.” A beautiful +woman was close beside him and in her soul, he believed, innocence was +personified. The gently rounded summit of Deadman’s Hill rose in the +distance. Clearly outlined against the rosy sky stood the tall rugged +post which marked the spot of the gallows where former villains had +been compelled to submit to fate. The gallows had long ago been swept +away. The post, which stood as its representative, cast a long narrow +shadow across the ruins. +</p> + +<p> +“Say something,” urged the pink idol. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall remember this,” he answered dreamily. +</p> + +<p> +Maude flushed a little. She did not like to be reminded of the future, +when her dainty bloom must ripen off and the wrinkle assert its +tyranny. “Ruins always make people sad,” she said a little crossly. +“The only ruins which could deject me would be those of my +prettiness,” she went on in a lower voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lady,” murmured the poet, taking her hand impulsively. “Beauty +will never leave you. It is the soul gazing from your eyes that gives +you loveliness, and the soul does not age. Fifty years hence there may +be snow upon your head and lines along your brow, but the beauty that +is within can defy the years.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude conceived that moment profitable for the production of her +borrowed master-piece. Releasing her hand, she burrowed into her +pocket and brought forth an inky ball of manuscript, which she +unrolled with blushes and smoothed modestly upon her knee, saying in a +small faltering voice: +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve never asked if I have written anything, but I—I’ve listened +to you so often I want you to—to hear what I have done. Will you let +me read you a little poem of my own?” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart began to thump. +</p> + +<p> +“My sister! My dear sister!” the scholar cried. “This is indeed a +privilege. How selfish I have been! Completely engrossed in my own +work, I had forgotten yours. Let me put myself in the disciple’s place +and learn.” +</p> + +<p> +He stretched himself upon the grass by her feet, and in that posture +of humility put back his uncovered head, that he might behold her +pretty features, and the brilliant curls fluttering beneath the brim +of her hat. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready,” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“It is sad,” said Maude warningly. +</p> + +<p> +“We poets love the sorrowful theme. The sweetest music is also the +saddest. But read! I am impatient to hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is called Farewell to the World,” she murmured, with shy +deprecation, and then hurriedly, “I believe you don’t want to hear it. +I’m sure you’ll think it stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall feel only admiration, with perhaps some little envy,” he +answered. “But why are you so diffident? Am not I a poor weaver of +fancies, like yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +His encouragement was so kindly and sincere that Maude gained courage. +With increasing colour she began to read: +</p> + +<p> +“Go! Bid the world, with all its trash, farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Slower,” he entreated with upraised hand. “The music is lost when the +time gallops.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude’s fear began to be dissipated when the title and opening line +passed unchallenged. She continued with more confidence, until her +dainty voice sounded disdainfully the last of the stanza, “Leave it, I +say, and bid the world farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +A few moments of silence intervened before the poet spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“For freshness of conception, strength of imagery, and purity of line, +that verse is only to be surpassed by the best work of the Elizabethan +poets. It recalls indeed to my mind Sir Nicholas Breton’s—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” Maude interrupted, dreadfully pale. “You don’t think I—” And +there she stopped in dire confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed the similarity is but upon the surface,” he continued. “We all +have our models. The Elizabethan, to whom I have just referred, had +neither your originality nor your strength of metaphor. To draw from +the model is one thing; to improve upon it is another. Talent may +copy, but genius will improve.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude breathed again and, after resolutely repelling the idea that she +was acting with shameless wickedness, read the second stanza with +boldness, the third and last with impudence, and sat, joyous in her +sins, awaiting the verdict. +</p> + +<p> +“That verse again,” he prayed. +</p> + +<p> +When she had complied with this request, he repeated the first line in +a resonant voice, with his eyes fixed upon the ruined church: +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us lie as dead, till there we live.” +</p> + +<p> +Silence fell again, intensified by the ticking of the insects in the +grass and the wings of the swallows cutting through the air. Dr. Berry +turned abruptly and seizing Maude’s right hand pressed it passionately +to his lips. He was paying his tribute then, not to face and figure, +nor to dainty garments, but to a beautiful soul which was not there at +all. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a mere clerk,” he said in a thrilling voice. “A poor transcriber +of the ideas of others, while you soar through the clouds, and drink +out of the golden cup of the gods. How hollow must my poor lines have +sounded upon your ears! Yet you listened patiently, and approved, +condescending to stoop and lift me upon your pinions and point out to +me the path to the stars. My feeble song is but a piping of pan-pipes. +Yours is a trumpet blast, stirring the depths.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so glad you like it,” said Maude, blushing deeply, and delighted +by his praise. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your inspiration?” he continued, gazing up into her flushed +face. “Tell me what stirs your soul. It is not true, as men have said, +and will still affirm, that wisdom lies latent in the mind. We are the +inspired media of an influence, that influence emanating from the +minds which have preceded us. One great poet of the past heard a +gentle fluttering of wings above his head. Another thought he could +see a butterfly quivering about his pen. I, if I may mention my +unworthy self, have a strange nervousness, the sense of a presence, a +quickened heart, and a pricking sensation round my forehead. When the +inspiration passes I am depressed and weak.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” quavered Maude. “Oh yes! I like to smell roses.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is fitting,” he said reverently. “Daintiness and sweetness make +appropriate food for the divine soul. I see now that I have been +misled. I have always refused to admit that the poetess, if born into +this present age, would be able to break the bonds of social and +domestic life, and fly upward with her song. Tell me,” he added in a +low and pleading tone. “Confide in me, dear sister. Only the heart +which has been wrung, and the mind which has cried, ‘The hand of God +has touched me,’ could have controlled the brain to fashion such +sorrowful truths as those you have recited. You have already passed +through tribulation?” +</p> + +<p> +A robin darted into the cypress, and his beautiful little body +throbbed with song. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I have,” said Maude pathetically. “I have had dreadful +troubles, but I have never told anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +Honestly she believed what she said. She did not know that her silly +life had been a mere ramble through a pleasance. Never having seen +suffering, she did not know what it was. But she had a husband whom +she did not care for, ambitions which had not been realised, clothes +which had not come up to her expectations, and friends whom she knew +had scoffed at her idle ways. So she had passed indeed through the +valley of tribulation. +</p> + +<p> +“We do not talk of these things,” the scholar gently answered. “Like +the young Laconian, we hold the fox to our bosom, and though it may +gnaw, and we may wince and faint, we still declare the creature is not +there. We clutch the rose tightly, and aver there are no thorns. But +those who love us know, and we are glad that they should know, because +we need sympathy even as the flowers need dew. I have not known +suffering, and while thankful for the privilege, I confess my work +lacks that refining touch which suffering alone can give. Dear sister, +put your hands for one moment upon mine.” +</p> + +<p> +The little lady quivering slightly, permitted him to take her hands. +Her eyes were hidden by her hat, and waves of pink chased one another +across her face and throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Our souls are here united,” he cried triumphantly. “Beautiful and +inspired poetess! Did you not feel that restful sense of approaching +union when first we met? We have grown together, during these blissful +days, like two blooms upon one stem. Our ideals are the same. Together +we may succeed in realising them. I have perhaps—pardon the +presumption—more learning, but you have far clearer sight, a more +perfect mind, and a soul quickened into fire by the suffering you have +undergone. We will bring these forces together. How perfectly destiny +works! She brought you to me at the time when I needed you most. And I +have served you a little. You were neglecting your gifts. The fires +were smouldering ineffectually. I flatter myself that, if we had +failed to meet, that magnificent lyric I have just heard would never +have been penned by this white hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t,” Maude quavered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I have served you, but the debt upon my side remains still +large. What a mysterious thing is this union! You have often seen a +climbing plant reaching out for support, and when it finds a stem to +which it may cling it grows into full perfection; but if it cannot +establish the union it must wither. The same with our souls. But +destiny is so kind she would not see us wither. You and I have been +languishing, but now we shall grow—together and undivided.” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her hands together, and bent his head over them. +</p> + + +<h2 id="incidental"> +INCIDENTAL +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +All things are changing; and thou thyself art perpetually altering +and, so to speak, wasting away always.—<i>Marcus Antoninus</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The time of ripened fruit had come, and the grass was yellow and sere. +Change was upon the face of the country, the prospect was mantled in +mists, and the shortened evenings were dark with rain-clouds. The note +of Nature’s song had altered. Autumn had taken the lyre out of +summer’s reluctant hand, and as she struck her fiercer notes the +foliage turned from green to gold, and the migratory birds went away. +</p> + +<p> +The spirit of change had settled upon the Bethel of Thorlund. The +interior was in better order than formerly. The spider had been +routed, and the mouse discomfited; the strong coarse flowers of autumn +glimmered dimly at the east, where the old hangings had been replaced +by new; the brass-work shone, and the damp altar itself awoke one day +from a long lethargy to find itself resplendent in a new green mantle. +The sleep which hung so long upon the rector’s eyes had been in some +part dissipated. Foolish Maude was the murderess of that slumber. +Through her trivial and wholly terrestrial mind Dr. Berry perceived +that one side of his environment lacked the beauty which was requisite +for his bodily peace. Hitherto his mind had been so fully occupied in +its strange flights that his charge the church had been but lightly +included. But, subsequent to that memorable evening in the churchyard +of ruined Queensmore, his lower self noted, with a distinct +uneasiness, a certain lack of harmony between dreamland and the +earthly vision. His manner of life had made stains which he would +willingly have seen eliminated. The neglected church was one of these +blots. He opened his eyes, and removed this reproach, in order that +his poetic soul might no longer receive offence. This partial +awakening was not spiritual, because at the same time he attended more +carefully to his own appearance. His hair was more thoughtfully +arranged, and his shoes were more elegant. Selfishness was the root, +pride the stem, and vanity the bloom of this sudden growth, which had +been raised into being and propagated as a pastime by Maude. +</p> + +<p> +Change had come also over the spirit of the influence. It was +stronger, more assertive, and more binding. It was at the same time +more sinister. Conway and Drayton had become drifting particles +controlled by the house, the instruments of its will, like electrons +imprisoned within the atom. They roamed the garden in a perpetual +state of dreams, responding to every breath from the hidden chamber, +where the heart of the Strath was beating. Had Drayton been able to +remind his companion of those past days of profligacy, Conway might +have shaken his head with a perplexed smile. Had the older man been +told of his former struggles to keep oil in the lamp of life, he would +probably have replied, “I am thankful such misfortunes have never +occurred to me.” +</p> + +<p> +As for Lone Nance she was noisy no longer. The Strath supplied what +had been wanting in her. Had she wandered again into the country, she +would doubtless have been seized by the former wildness, and claimed +by the old evils; the borrowed reason would have left her; she would +have sunk again to the level of the animals. Conway would often sit +and gaze upon her face. Though she was brown and tanned, she brought +back for him fair-haired Winifred, walking sadly through the orchard +in glimmering white, her small pale face set towards the road, +watching the night for the lover who did not come. +</p> + +<p> +Flora too had changed since that evening when her soul had been +stripped bare. She had the feeling that youth was departing from her, +and that her woman’s pride of beauty was beginning to wane. Mr. Price +regarded her with apprehension, believing her to be ill. But she was +not ill. She was only undergoing her punishment for having defied the +first principles of the drama. She had come to regard her former +opinions with a sort of loathing akin to fear. She confessed that she +was an unnatural woman, after all her boastings of having made a step +in advance of the remainder of her sex. What had actually occurred +during her visit to the house of the drama she did not know; but she +carried away a dream that evening which became a cloud darkening her +life. +</p> + +<p> +Upon a cheerless afternoon when a mass of grey vapour spread across +the sky dropping warm rain at intervals, Conway brought his +fellow-dreamer to Kingsmore vicarage. +</p> + +<p> +Flora flushed when the leading character of the Strath entered. She +had never been backward in speaking to any man, but then she was +afraid. She knew that she desired to attract Conway, that she would +still draw back if she could make him approach, but the knowledge came +to her that power was wanting. She had lost the old art. At a glance +she understood that he had no real affection for her. Could she have +come to the Strath with a pure mind, as a humble heroine seeking +development, as one anxious to discharge the high, if seemingly +commonplace, functions of a woman, even as Nancy Reed had unwittingly +approached the house, it might have been otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price sought possession of Drayton, and Flora stood in the garden +with the man whom she desired to shrink from, but could not. The rain +had ceased, but the grass was mantled with film, and all the trees +dripped moisture. The girl was cold; she was wearing white, which did +not suit her. She might have recalled to him Winifred, as she had done +once before, because she too was fair-haired, but she did not. Conway +appeared to have forgotten that she was near. Once Flora would have +been enraged at being thus slighted, but now she was pitying herself. +A cluster rose, still showing a few blooms, wreathed an old-fashioned +archway, and Flora in passing brushed against one of the flowers, and +shivered when it became immediately resolved into a number of wet +petals about their feet. +</p> + +<p> +“I have changed a little lately,” she said with a new timidity. “I can +touch a rose now.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway stopped when she spoke, and looked fixedly into the mist. +</p> + +<p> +“Could you never hold a rose?” he said. “That is unnatural.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the cruellest word he could have uttered. She shrank from him +again, but gathered courage to say, as they moved on, “It is not easy +to conquer any antipathy. Last summer I would faint, if I came into a +room where roses were. Next year, perhaps, I shall be able to wear +them.” +</p> + +<p> +Nancy wore roses in her hair. Indeed she was always fragrant with +flowers. Conway had been sorry to see the grass flaked all over with +shell-like petals; but Nance assured him that at the Strath roses +bloomed all the year round. When Flora confessed that the fragrance of +the queen of blossoms had caused her to faint the gulf between them +became wider. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a rose-bush at Queensmore, close beside the ruins of the +church,” he went on, in the abstracted manner which had been his of +late. “I walked there early in the summer, when the flowers were at +their best. It was close upon evening, and as I looked through the +trees I thought I saw a woman, clothed in white, leaning over a tomb. +When I came nearer I saw it was this bush covered with blooms. I went +back and tried to make out the white woman again, but could not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I drove through Queensmore once by moonlight,” said Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“The ruins show us what a small thing life is,” Conway answered +sagely. “They teach us that no trouble is worth taking very much to +heart, because suffering, like our time here, does not last for long. +You know my house?” he added sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been inside it once,” the girl faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Why is not that a ruin? Queensmore flourished for years after my +house was abandoned, but the village has fallen, and the Strath +stands. It has defied wind and weather. Its foundations are secure, +and its walls sound, although creepers were rotting the bricks before +any man now living was born. Do you know the secret of its strength?” +</p> + +<p> +“They built for eternity in those days,” said Flora more lightly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is because the house has a soul,” went on Conway, as though she +had not answered. “Because it lives and breathes, and has its moods +like us. If it were to die it would crumble in a day. You would +understand if you lived there. The Strath resembles you and me, in +that it contains a spirit, which, while it remains, preserves the +fabric from corruption.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora was about to reply, as pleasantly as she dared, when to her +great relief little bells sounded through the damp air, and Maude +Juxon came to join the party, as pink and fresh as ever, although her +curls were limp, and her hat saddened by raindrops. She tripped to her +friend and embraced her daintily with sympathetic comments upon her +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“You are white, and thin, and ghostly,” she declared. “My dear, you +should do as I tell you and take a glass of warm milk, with an egg +beaten up in it, every morning directly you wake up. I have been +quarrelling with myself all day,” she ran on, “because I was dull; and +now I’m damp and cold. Mr. Conway, say something to make me laugh.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no comedian,” said the owner of the house, which was just then +very far removed from the fantastic mood. “I live, you must remember, +in a valley, and it is the inhabitants of the mountains who laugh and +sing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But now you are out of your valley you might laugh and sing,” +suggested the beauty. “Well, I shall go into the house and search +diligently for a fire. It is shivery out here. Come along, Flora. How +is your mother’s cold? It is so stupid to catch colds. I never do, but +then I take care of myself. A cold is so unbecoming, but of course +when one is old that doesn’t matter.” +</p> + +<p> +Frivolous Maude rendered her society one service. It was not easy to +be depressed in her presence, and her pretty face, always laughing at +nothing, quickly changed the atmosphere of any room which had been +dark and dull before her arrival. When all that could be said against +her had been urged, the fact remained that she was always full of life +and sound, like a shallow stream bubbling with bright waters +unceasingly. +</p> + +<p> +Her husband came frequently on the Saturday evening, leaving early on +the Monday. He too had changed; he had stopped “worrying,” to use +Maude’s expression, and talked no longer of a house in the country. +The careless wife would possibly have laughed as usual, had anyone +suggested to her that she was spending more money than her husband +could afford. When he gave up persuading her to return, she believed +he had accepted his defeat. As a matter of truth Juxon was hard hit; +he was in a tight corner; he had ceased begging his wife to come back +because there was no longer a home to offer her. His lease had run +out, and he could not afford to renew it; and while Maude fared +luxuriously in her farm-house, the husband lived and slept in his +office, where there would be a light showing until the small hours of +morning. +</p> + +<p> +He had been hard pressed before to meet his obligations on settling +day, but had escaped, and made the running as strongly as ever, and he +trusted that energy and ingenuity would pull him through again. He was +made of tough material, this stout little stockbroker. His only fear +was lest Maude might stumble across the truth. When he found it +impossible to allow her all the money she asked for, he stinted +himself and did his best; while she sulked and called him stingy, and +told him to his face that he did not deserve her. He only smiled in +his quiet way, instead of shaking her as she deserved; and refreshed +by the hill breezes, went back to work, pouring all his energies into +a final struggle which should decide whether he was fitted to survive, +or fated to go to the wall. His work would have been less arduous, had +he married a wife who would have shared his burden, and assisted him +with sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +That very day Maude had received a message which, stated concisely, +ran thus: “Could you obtain a more inexpensive cottage? I have +suffered an unexpected reverse. Nothing to worry about, but clients +have been more dilatory than usual in paying purchase price of their +investments and differences owing on speculations. And when they are +behindhand I must find the money.” The little lady had driven into +Kingsmore to send a telegram in reply. A telegram was so much less +troublesome than a letter. On this occasion she was not extravagant, +as all she had to say in response to her husband’s note was the single +word, “Nonsense.” It was very inconsiderate of Herbert, she thought. +She had told him so often that she did not want to be troubled with +business matters. As for that reverse, if it was of no importance, as +he implied, why on earth did he want to mention it to her? She was +most distinctly an injured person and a long-suffering wife. +</p> + +<p> +The influence of the Strath extended even to Kingsmore vicarage. +Conway and Drayton had brought it with them, and the heartless little +lady was no doubt its object. So far Maude had escaped. She had come, +as she thought, to visit her friend that day by mere chance, not +knowing that she had been led to that place by the destiny which was +then weaving her idle phrases into a net through the meshes of which +she would not escape until she had learnt to know herself. +</p> + +<p> +It was natural, she thought, that she should speak to Conway +concerning the house of which she had heard so much. She longed to +behold for herself its china and pictures. The garden, she owned, did +not interest her in the least, because she liked order as represented +by carpet-bedding and level lawns. Then she knew that Drayton was a +writer. Dr. Berry had spoken kindly of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I can criticise,” Maude declared, with wicked confidence. “I must see +your work and give you my opinion, Mr. Drayton.” +</p> + +<p> +The scribe muttered something which sounded complimentary, but he did +not display any of Dr. Berry’s enthusiasm. He was not in the least a +clever man, but his eyes were open, and he was well aware that Maude +was sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true you have a stone floor in the hall?” went on the lady +frivolous, turning to Conway. +</p> + +<p> +“And the floor of what you call the saloon is of real solid oak?” she +went on, when he had replied. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not solid now,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Marvellously preserved,” interpolated Mr. Price, swamping his saucer +by adding to the contents of his tea-cup his customary three lumps of +sugar. +</p> + +<p> +“And there are mirrors round the walls, and candlesticks—what do you +call those things with a lot of branches?—and old pictures, and +windows with those quaint diamond panes of yellow glass,” Maude cried. +“Oh, Mr. Conway, you shall give a dance. Just a little dance for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, Maude,” said Flora. +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet, Flora. Mr. Conway, it would be perfect, and we will wear +fancy costumes and masks, and believe we are those wicked people of +the eighteenth century one reads about—yes, a masked ball, and I will +help you with the supper.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear lady, the place would frighten you to death,” said Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I know the house is haunted,” said Maude flippantly. “But +these gentlemen have not been frightened to death, and I don’t mind +groans and rattling of chains and all that sort of thing, so long as I +don’t see real ghosts in white sheets. Besides we shall be making such +a noise the ghosts won’t be given a chance. I shan’t be frightened. +Why, with people all round me I believe I might endure one glimpse at +the wicked baronet himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Strath is not haunted,” said Drayton stolidly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we must have that dance,” cried Maude. “Yes, Mr. Conway, you +have promised. No outsiders. Just us, and Dr. Berry, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly we might have a dance,” agreed Conway with some spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“At the end of the month,” cried Maude. “You need not worry, Mr. +Conway. Flora and I will attend to all the preliminaries, and I know +we shall have a lovely time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see the use of wearing masks,” objected the squarson. “As +there are to be so few of us it will be impossible to conceal our +identity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Masks will be appropriate,” said Drayton almost sharply; and his +voice settled the matter. +</p> + +<p> +When the two men who were bound for Thorlund left the vicarage rain +was again falling. On this return journey they talked incessantly; but +it was not until they reached the summit of the hill, and saw the +ivied roof of the Strath among the wet trees, that the thought of the +proposed masquerade recurred to their minds. It was Conway who touched +upon the subject by remarking: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you imagine that a dance would give offence?” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton understood and answered, as he inclined his head towards the +dreamy hollow, “Not if the suggestion came from there.” +</p> + + +<h2 id="a4"> +ACT IV. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="a4s1"> +Scene I.—PUPPENSPIELE +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +To have a wife, and to be father of children, bring many troubles into +life.—<i>Menander</i>. +</p> + +<p> +While rain was falling upon just and unjust, Herbert Juxon sat in his +gas-lit office up a gloomy court, struggling to conquer the London +which roared around him. A clock indicated half-past-three. The +stockbroker was working excitedly, because he believed that the +combination which might restore him much that he had lost was nearly +made. +</p> + +<p> +Without lifting his eyes from the file of letters and the pencilled +notes before him, he held out his hand to take a message from his +clerk; and at that moment the door opened noisily, and a man hurried +in, hatless and unannounced. He was a lawyer, well-known in the city, +and one of Juxon’s friends. The son of parchment bent over the desk, +and making himself on this occasion a man of few words, whispered into +the stockbroker’s ear. Juxon’s face went white for a moment, then he +recovered, and jerked out a nervous laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“It is impossible,” he muttered. “The business is a small one, but it +has been established for so long. I have heard rumours. They did not +come from a reliable source, and I could not trust them. I had no time +to think of them. But my little nest-egg is there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get it out. You have just time—if it is not already too late,” +whispered the counsellor; and then he left, as hurriedly as he had +entered. +</p> + +<p> +Juxon pounced upon his cheque-book, filled a form, then, glancing up +at the clock, caught at his hat and raced from his office and the +court. He dodged breathlessly along the crowded streets, until he came +to a dark lane, which he entered at the double, and turned in at the +door of a private bank where his money was deposited. He had always +banked there, having no suspicion regarding its stability, and the +manager was a personal friend of long standing, who, he firmly +believed, would have given him a word of warning had any crisis been +impending. He noticed, as he passed the threshold, a group of men +discussing in low tones. +</p> + +<p> +The cashier himself received Juxon’s cheque, but he did not say a +word; nor did he once raise his eyes, after a nervous word of greeting +and one hasty glance upon the stockbroker’s heated face. His own face +twitched, in spite of himself, when he glanced at the figures on the +slip of paper. He flung open a drawer and produced a handful of gold, +which he swept towards the client, so fiercely that some of the coins +rolled away along the floor; and then he rushed round to the door, +locked and bolted it. There was a crash of broken glass, followed by +an outcry and an uproar at the head of the lane. It was twelve minutes +to four; and the little bank had failed. +</p> + +<p> +Juxon received the blow with the patience which was part of his +nature. He said nothing, but slipped clear of the crowd assembling +rapidly before the bankrupt premises, and escaped into the comparative +silence of his office. He believed in being quiet under affliction. He +was not religious in the accepted sense of the word; but he was strong +and upright, for his mind was unobscured by any perplexing creed; just +as the faith of the savage, who kneels beneath the sun, amid the +wonders of nature, may be at least as pure as that of the priest, +standing before an altar, bound and tied by superstitions of man’s +creation. Had Juxon been a scholar, he would probably have uttered the +consoling words of Philemon the dramatist, “If thou couldst only know +the evils which others suffer, thou wouldst gladly submit to thine +own.” +</p> + +<p> +Four hours later Juxon was hurrying from a suburban station, between +parallel rows of lamp-posts, along numerous streets, past endless red +villas exasperatingly alike. In a street, which differed from others +only in name, he drew up before a house which was made dissimilar to +its neighbours by the possession of a distinctive number. He knocked, +waited impatiently, and knocked again; and then an elderly woman, +attired in the uniform of a nurse, admitted him to the little house, +and ushered him into a tiny room, where pretty four-year-old child was +sitting up in her cot playing with a doll’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“Daddy!” cried the child in an ecstasy, holding out two pink arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he is again,” laughed the stockbroker. “Like a bad old battered +shilling.” +</p> + +<p> +The tiny lady, who was already wonderfully like Maude in appearance, +received his caresses, returned them with interest, and straightway +demanded with odd severity: +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Mummy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Far away in the country, little Peggy,” said the father. “Only Daddy +left. Are you glad to see him, sweetheart?” +</p> + +<p> +“Vewy,” lisped the dainty miss. “Here’s a wose-bud for you.” She +collected a white rose, somewhat the worse for ill-treatment, from the +quilt, and lifted it laughing to his lips. “Put it in you coat. Here’s +one for Mummy, a pwettier one, but Mummy won’t have it. You shall have +it instead, Daddy. My Mummy is pwettier than my Daddy,” she announced +generally to a family of small dolls. “But I love my Daddy most, +’cause he comes to see me, and my Mummy don’t. Oh, Daddy!” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon a pair of cherubic lips parted, and a chocolate disappeared +between two rows of pretty teeth. “But you must have one too—the +greatest one,” came from the little mouth in action. +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid you would be asleep, my Daisy,” said the father. “How +you are growing, miss! You are getting quite a giantess. Do you know +what a giantess is, darling?” +</p> + +<p> +The fair curls were shaken violently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a giantess is a great tall lady, who has to stoop whenever she +comes into a house, lest she should knock the roof off. If you go on +growing so fast, you will be like that some day, Miss Peggy, and you +will look down, and pat me on the head, and say, ‘Poor old Daddy, what +a long way down you are.’ Now, Daisy, shut your eyes, and open your +mouth just as wide as ever you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell Nursie,” adjured the smallest of the transgressors. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not. It would never do to be caught by Nurse, or she might +slap us both. What were you doing before I came, sweetheart?” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking to my dollies,” said Peggy, munching busily and pointing to +the doll’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“You was answering me lots, but Mummy wouldn’t speak. Naughty Mummy!” +She picked up a little pink doll, with flaxen hair and scarlet cheeks, +and scolded it scrupulously. “And Mummy don’t stand up nice a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t she stand up, Peggy?” asked the father. +</p> + +<p> +“I stooded her up, and down she went—so! It is silly of her, isn’t +it? P’raps she ain’t vewy stwong, poor Mummy! I’ll put her on the +sofa. She looks pwetty on the sofa, doing nothing, cept laugh. This is +you, Daddy. You’re so drefful busy you ain’t got time to talk much, +and when you laugh it’s quick—so! And then you go on working.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is quite true, Peggy. You see I have you and Mummy to work for, +so I mustn’t be idle. And now I must run off again, and work, and +work.” +</p> + +<p> +There were protestations and tearful blue eyes, but the former were +checked by the promise of a visit the very next evening, and the +latter were kissed bright again. But before the stockbroker left his +little daughter, he bent over her, and said in a whisper, “When I am +gone, Daisy, say over and over again, until you go to sleep, ‘God help +Mummy.’ ” +</p> + +<p> +“God help dear Daddy and Mummy,” a small voice amended. +</p> + +<p> +The honest man caught his treasure in his arms and kissed her many +times. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, sweet Daisy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come again vewy quick, Daddy.” +</p> + +<p> +When in the street again there was an elasticity in Juxon’s step which +had not been apparent earlier in the evening. There were heavy odds +facing him. Many men would have shrunk from the difficult task of +restoring the ruined fabric. A few cowards might even have sought the +easiest way out; but quiet Mr. Juxon was prepared to go on playing the +game. Although outwardly commonplace, and lacking in originality, he +was not an ordinary man. His character could not be better revealed +than by the statement that he did not entertain a single bitter +thought towards his absent wife. +</p> + +<p> +He did not intend that she should hear the truth, and he was resolved +that she should not want even the least of those luxuries which she +had hitherto enjoyed. He argued that she had a right to look to him +for these things, and because he was true of heart he determined she +should have them, if only he could avert that imminent and final +disaster by hard work. +</p> + +<p> +He reached his lonely office in the deserted city, leaving far behind +the voices of paper-vendors screaming in malicious enjoyment the news +of the bank failure. He turned up the gas, removed his coat, and +wrapped a moistened handkerchief round his forehead. He smiled at the +excessive plainness of his careworn face when it met his eyes in the +glass. Was it possible that any woman could care for him, if he were +poor? That smile was still upon his lips when he sat down to his desk. +“There is still a chance,” he muttered. “The veriest loophole, but I +may struggle through yet. I can fight, and I will fight, and I will go +down, if that be my destiny, fighting all the time.” +</p> + +<p> +It was close upon midnight when Juxon pushed aside his business books +and papers, and began the composition of a letter to a client who was +encumbered with wealth in very much the same proportion as Egypt was +once troubled with flies. Upon this letter much depended, as without +financial assistance he would have to declare himself a defaulter. All +the securities which he had to offer were hidden in his safe. They +were not so valuable as he could have wished, but he believed they +might prove sufficient for his purpose. He wrote quickly, the pen held +loosely in his tired fingers, winking his eyes often to dispel the +black spots which rose persistently between his face and the sheet of +paper. +</p> + +<p> +The clocks chimed over the city of Mammon, which was empty, but not +silent. Wind was howling along the deserted streets, and a heavy rain +lashed the window. The noise of business was not there, but while men +slept Nature awoke to traffic in storm and tempest. Instead of the +rolling of carts came the rush of rain water, and the cries of the +wind arose in the stead of the voices of men. Round the corners, where +by day traffic crushed, nature in wet garments shouted and bustled; +and in that one room, which made an eye of light in the solitude of +buildings, Juxon went on writing. +</p> + +<p> +How exhausted he was he did not know, until the knowledge came that he +had lost control over his pen, which for some moments had scratched +upon the paper without any apparent assistance from his hand. There +was a coldness in his arm. He dropped the pen and rose, opening and +closing his stiffened fingers. Then he brought the paper up to his +tired eyes and read what he had written. +</p> + +<p> +It was an ordinary business letter. There was nothing remarkable about +it until he came to the last sentence; and there the writer must have +lost control over his pen for a few moments. He was very tired. He had +hardly known whether he was writing sense or nonsense. Certainly he +had not the slightest idea that he had concluded his letter with the +extraordinary sentence, “Go to the Strath.” These four words however +were staring at him from the paper. There was no sense in them. He did +not know what they meant. He had no memory of having written them. He +only knew that they were there in his own crabbed handwriting. +</p> + +<p> +“I must be careful,” Juxon whispered. “This sort of thing won’t do. +This is what some people might call insanity. I have been working too +much.” +</p> + +<p> +He went into the corner of the office, dipped the hot handkerchief +which had been around his forehead into cold water, wrung it out, and +replaced it. Then he said:— +</p> + +<p> +“My wife is living in the country, and in the neighbourhood stands a +house about which strange things are said. That house is called the +Strath.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="a4s2"> +Scene II.—LYRICAL DITHYRAMB +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +It often happens that those who try to avoid their fate run directly +upon it.—<i>Titus Livius</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The day of Maude’s introduction to the Strath arrived. The careless +little lady, to whom the future state was a terrible black cloud, had +taken it upon herself to fix a date for their festivities within that +house; and as the day was near she deemed it necessary to attend in +person and make arrangements upon the spot. Accordingly she decked +herself out in a vesture of pink wrought about with divers laces, +drove into Thorlund in usual state, and requisitioned the services of +Dr. Berry as companion and guide. +</p> + +<p> +The scholar was in a silent mood that calm sunless afternoon. His +sleep had been much broken of late, and fear had crept about his bed. +He was exceedingly sensitive to every outside influence, and thus had +foreseen evil impending, but its nature was not revealed. The thought +occurred to the rector that he had wasted his life in selfish +pursuits, that punishment was in store; and therefore he was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +Maude prattled joyously as she walked towards the wall, having, as she +firmly believed, no sins to be sorry for. It was true she trembled +when she set foot inside the garden, and caught at her companion’s +arm; but Flora had told her strange stories concerning that haunted +ground, and for at least the first minute she had a right to be +nervous. It was natural weakness, she assured herself, but she was +relieved when the sensation passed, as it did suddenly; and to show +her relief she laughed, boldly and defiantly, the first foolish laugh +that had sounded in that garden for many more years than any living +man could look back upon. +</p> + +<p> +There was a dead tree lying within the shadow of the house, its trunk +mantled with moss, its few remaining branches smothered in the mud of +the moat. +</p> + +<p> +There Conway was seated. He looked up with vacant eyes when the +visitors approached, and invited them to sit beside him and listen +while he read; and when Maude demurred, after a glance at the heavy +moss, he removed his cloak, a quaint blue garment lined with scarlet +cloth, and spread it across the trunk. Then the little lady +condescended to take her ease, and looked about with disapproval and +disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +“What a dirty tumbling-down old place!” she observed. “I think you +ought to have the garden put into some sort of order; and as for the +house it must be full of rats and spiders. I suppose it looks all +right when it is lighted up, but by daylight—” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please you must not say these things,” Conway interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” Maude laughed. “Why, what nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“You must remember, my friend,” said the scholar gently, “this lady +has a mind superior to ours. The perfect beauty in art alone appeals +to her. She finds her present environment unusual, not having been +here before, but time will bring appreciation. What book is that you +are holding?” +</p> + +<p> +Conway held out the journal, its pages tinted lightly with ink as +yellow as dead grass, and replied, “I will read to you if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see the house,” said Maude. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen a few minutes to a voice from the past,” Conway entreated. +</p> + +<p> +Maude, who was accustomed to having her own way, was about to reply +indignantly, when she heard a rustling against the side of the house, +and turning beheld Drayton gazing at her from between the creepers. +The expression on his face silenced her, and the colour began to leave +her cheeks. Before she was able to assert herself, the master of the +Strath bent his head over the pages which contained the sad record of +Winifred Hooper’s short life, and his voice came into her ears, +ringing sad echoes of the past: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“I have been ill, and have not written in my book for days. I have +been lying on my bed, listening to the wind in the trees, and seeing +by the light of the harvest-moon forms and faces in the mirror +opposite. I am well again now, and wondering why I was so foolish as +to spend so long a time out of the air and sunshine, for indeed +nothing ailed me except sorrow. Already it seems a long time since I +went out, in a white dress, with a thick shawl about me, and my hair +hanging down because I was too sick at heart to bind it, and yet it +was scarce a week ago. Now we are in autumn, cold and blustering, but +is it not always cold when one is sorrowing? +</p> + +<p> +“How true was Mr. Spencer when he wrote, ‘for every dram of honey +found in love a pound of gall doth over it redound.’ I could almost be +sorry that I love you, Geoffrey. Love has visited me of late with +dreams, when I would find myself struggling with my heart up a steep +mountain, knowing that if I might reach the summit I should gain +happiness. But at a certain point my strength would always fail. I +have read that love requited gives perfect rest, but is it so? Wise +Sophocles has better described it as a storm in the heart, which all +must endure, even the gods. This written page can only speak. It +conveys no feeling. I may write down ‘sorrow,’ but what can the word +convey? A lacerated finger, a pain in the head—no more; and I may so +easily, if I will, run my pen through the word, and write instead +‘love,’ and still nothing is conveyed. Love requited becomes a +restless pain, when the loved one is far away. How shall lovers when +separated express their feelings? It is the presence that speaks, not +the tongue. One look is more eloquent than a life of letters. +</p> + +<p> +“My dog has placed his paws upon my knee and looks up with soft brown +eyes. He loves me, and yet speaks only with his eyes. I have seen so +little of the world, and my reading of its doings come but rarely, but +’tis enough to humiliate me into a half-belief that the purest love is +not in us, but in the animals. Have you watched a mother thrush +feeding her fluffy chicks? Or an owl fighting a cotter for the sake of +her offspring? Or a dog dying broken-hearted upon his dead master’s +coat? Are we exceptions, Geoffrey, you and I? Do we love too much, and +is it for that cause we are separated, least we should be too happy +and thus anticipate the joys of Heaven? +</p> + +<p> +“These are wandering and foolish thoughts. I should turn my mind +towards the white hills and the woods, and note the beauty of the +changing leaves; but, when I strive to do so, I see the wind whirling +the dry foliage down the slopes and around the tombs of the old +churchyard. Even when I look across the scenery it is upon the cypress +and yew that my eyes are fixed. And yet so strange a creature am I +that I would rather suffer than forego the privilege of having won +your love. +</p> + +<p> +“I keep this journal in a secret place where my father would not think +to look. I must hide it now more securely than ever before, because I +have done a dangerous and fearful thing. I have given information +against my own father. It is horrible. It is unnatural. It may even +happen that he shall be hanged through me. I shall thank Heaven for +giving me liberty. I shall go forth to seek you, Geoffrey, and to find +you, even if you be in the land of fables known as India. Yesterday I +chanced upon Mr. Price along the highway where the road branches to +Queensmore village; and when he stopped and spoke to me I was unable +to contain my tongue, and before I knew had told him concerning those +dark midnight rides. He heard me with amazement, and when I had done +placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and said, ‘Very well +indeed. We will see to this. A most notorious highwayman has long been +the terror of these roads. To-morrow I will myself ride to town and +place this information before the Sheriff, and promise that the Strath +shall be soon more closely watched than you are now. Do not forget, +child, that Kingsmore house stands open to give you shelter whensoever +you may require it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I supposed that I had passed secure from observation during that +interview with worthy Mr. Price, but I was mistaken. Late last night +a step came upon my passage, the door gave, and the man Reed advanced +one step into my room. He was half-drunken, but I dared not order him +out, menial though he be, for he is master here. He told me that my +father had given orders I was to be confined in the garden, and if I +ventured to disobey I would be brought back and locked within my +chamber. I would not shame myself by showing weakness before him, but +when I was again alone my silly heart seemed to break, and I fell upon +my bed and wept a long hour. No more wanderings upon the solitary +hills. My home is now my prison and my grave. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not spoken to my father for more than a week. Last night, +after Reed left me, I heard loud oaths and the sounds of fighting; and +Deborah to-day told me she saw the squire standing in the hall, very +drunk, with blood dripping from his head. There will be violent death +in this house if these brawlings endure. Pray God I shall not see it. +Even the sight of a mouse’s body sets me a-shivering. And so, +Geoffrey, I have taken my last walk into the woods. There is a kind of +wild pleasure in even that thought. When I go forth again, if I do go +forth, you will be at my side, and there will be no winter any more, +but I will be your summer, and you shall be my spring, and we will +stand together once again where the daffodils grow. +</p> + +<p> +“If it be folly to write so, it is a joy to think it. There is a book +already written for each one, with the future set forth. Mine is +indeed a small record, a few pages of love, and then a tomb; but +yours, I like to think, is a long and noble tale, containing very much +that is glorious: victories, rewards, and honours on each page, and +then a sweet home and a loving wife—be very good to her for my +sake—and smiling old age such as Mr. Addison has portrayed. That is +how I read your future, beloved, without the aid of stars or omens. I +desire for you a full and perfect life, flowing steadily on gathering +strength and nobleness, like the river increasing as it nears the sea. +Mine is a little impress upon the sands, which the rising tide smooths +silently away.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Dr. Berry moved suddenly forward, sweeping the book out of Conway’s +hand. Maude had fainted. +</p> + +<p> +Unaided the scholar carried her into the house. He placed his burden +upon a sofa and fanned the white face, until a sigh escaped its lips, +and the eyelids quivered. Another moment and Maude rose stiffly like a +sleep-walker, stared about her with wild eyes, and said in a cold hard +voice, as though in continuation of a tragic conversation which had +been interrupted by her loss of consciousness, “Then there is nothing +left, and I must drown myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to hold her, but she shook him off with a tragic gesture and +moaned, “I see my fate before me. I must go to it. Do not touch me. +Keep away from me. You do not know what I have done.” +</p> + +<p> +She covered her face with her hands, and screamed, “I feel the eyes of +the dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lady,” the scholar interjected. “We are indeed surrounded by the +dead, but they are invisible. Let me lead you into the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand, which was cold and lifeless, and she went with him +into the open air; and there sank down in the long grass, shuddering +and afraid, shrinking from his consoling touch. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a right to share your suffering,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You!” she exclaimed, beating her hands together. “What have you done? +I can only sink into the stream, and die, and be forgotten. Leave me +to myself. Why do you follow me? Why do you touch me? Look at your +hands and see how I have soiled them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beloved sister,” spoke the tragedian. “I will never forsake you. +Remember how our souls were united at the birth of song. You and I, +poetess and poet, are joined together for all time by the double bond +of art and of love. Your sin is mine also. If punishment must fall, +let it fall on us together. It is happiness to suffer with those we +love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me show you,” she gasped, with a laugh, as unlike her own empty +sound of mirth as the storm wind differs from the whirring of a wing. +“Listen! I had a child, and a husband. One night I went into my +daughter’s room. The child slept, one little hand reaching out towards +me, her bright hair tumbling over the pillow, her little bosom rising +and falling gently. I seized the pillow, and pressed it over the +innocent face, and—and I stood looking down upon a little waxen face +which never moved again.” +</p> + +<p> +The choregus bent over her, and returned the philosophic answer which +the laws of the drama required: +</p> + +<p> +“It was the madness of jealousy. Under somewhat similar circumstances +Medea murdered her children. It is as destiny appoints. Nature is +exceedingly cruel. You were merely the instrument called upon to +remove the child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear me out,” she screamed. “I passed from that room to my husband’s +side. He was a good man, noble, unselfish, and kind, having one fault +only and that his love for me. I discovered him at work. He was always +working, that he might provide me with those luxuries which my soul +coveted. When I came near, he looked up and said, ‘Is our little girl +asleep?’ And I smiled at him and said, ‘I have just come from her, and +she is asleep.’ ” +</p> + +<p> +“For a parallel—” the spell-bound listener interposed; but before he +could say more she drowned his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Then my husband said, ‘I have been working all night, and my head +pains me.’ So I took a handkerchief, and tied it round his head, and +went and brought him a cup of wine. He drank it, pressing my hand, and +I watched his head fall forward, and his hands shaking, and his +strength going from him. And then I helped him to his room and left +him, and in the night I heard him call me, but I put my fingers in my +ears and turned away, and left him to die of the poison which I had +given him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said the actor, “these things happened long ago. The +poisoned cup and the suffocation of a sleeper are suggested to us +again and again as orthodox punishments of an enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I myself am guilty,” she raved. “With these hands I killed my husband +and my child. Look at them, and see how the shadow lies upon them. The +sun has not warmed them since.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hands which she had frantically extended. He lifted them +and pressed first one and then the other to his lips with the +adoration of a monk for holy relics. She was staring above the trees +to where the vapoury hills were outlined. This was no longer the +silent country dividing two lonely hamlets, but the resounding hills +of despair rising above the hell of classical belief, and the autumnal +fog was steam escaping from the crater beneath. +</p> + +<p> +“Knowledge of the past comes without study,” the scholar proclaimed. +“Who teaches the new-born child its prehensile grip? We arrive in this +world well equipped. Mind is brought back from beyond, stored with +knowledge. The young see visions, but as time passes, and the cares of +the world enter, memory weakens, and finally there is nothing left but +a craving to learn the future. Yet the past speaks in us all our +lives. We return by the same way that we came. Could we look back we +should understand all things; but, lest we should grow too wise, we +are made to look forward, and so belief declines through half-belief +and superstition to unbelief, and we return less learned than when we +came. The deeds of others live on in us, and their sins are visited +upon our heads.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not speak of hope,” she muttered. “You dare not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even while you speak in despair I see the light of hope dawning in +your eyes,” he answered. “The husband and the child, for whom, in the +tenderness of your heart, you mourn, met their death a very great time +ago by other hands than these, perhaps in lofty Corinth, or amid the +sands of Heliopolis, or beside the stubborn walls of Troy. Can you +believe that to you alone appear these visions? There are sins upon +the souls of all, there are sins upon my soul, the sins of long ago. I +will speak of one. I was then, as now, a priest. It was my duty to +interpret signs, and the inspired words which proceeded from the +mouths of seers; but not as now to instruct the people respecting the +nature of religion. Religion then consisted in the performance of +certain mysteries, the secret of which was handed on from father to +son, and guarded jealously from the people. The ground allotted to me +was small, but beyond was a beautiful garden, wherein I would often +wander to weave poetic fancies. For many years this ground was mine, +but one day I came upon one who told me it was his, and that it was +his intention to cultivate the ground, tear up the flowers, and remove +the arbors. He was a rough unlearned man. When he closed the garden +against me I hated him, and planned how I might destroy him. Night and +day I pondered beside the oracle, watching the incense smoke. At +length I went forth. Moonlight was upon the garden. I saw my enemy and +crept upon him. I seized his neck, and strangled him. The garden was +mine again. Shall I suffer for this memory? Not so. These hands are +not guilty. My soul, less sentient than yours, is also less capable of +suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” she moaned. “Are you indeed my friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your more than friend,” he rapturously replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will obey me. Leave me here.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my duty to watch over you. Alone you may do yourself some +harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may watch me. I will go beneath the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +As the poet followed out her bidding he recited the second antistrophe +of the second stasimon of the Agamemnon, that magnificent song +concerning dreams and destiny in the house. Maude heard and trembled +when the new understanding interpreted for her the meaning of those +words. Genuine suffering was hers at last. She believed that her +husband and child were dead, murdered as she had described. She saw in +that enchanted atmosphere the lines of her fate written across the sky +in letters of fire, even as Alcephron had read his warning in the +flaming gardens of Osiris. No ray of hope lighted the way, and all +that came was the dark assurance of the implacable nature of that +destiny she had fought against. And the advice suggested by the +sinister influence was that she should destroy herself. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, in the very act of punishment, the didactic force brought out all +the moral strength and latent good which might be enshrined within its +victim. Thus Maude, when compelled to fight, manifested powers the +existence of which she had never suspected. She resolutely refused to +take the path of cowardice. She longed to live for better things. +Instead of a hindrance she would become a help. But whom should she +help? At that self-set question she shuddered again, knowing the +resolution to have come too late, because those who had loved her were +gone. Yet there were others who needed assistance, who might be led on +by one so worthless as herself. She would seek them out. She would +cover her pink dress with the sister’s robes of white and black, and +dispense charity for her soul’s sake. So comedy and tragedy went on +fighting over Maude; and the scholar looked on, chanting his lyric +Greek. +</p> + +<p> +Could she awake and find that horror only a dream, her husband and +child yet living, what a world of happiness might still be hers. How +joyously would she tread, though it were on the path of poverty, +towards the life which seeks no recompense beyond a smile. Could it be +that the choregus yonder had spoken the truth? Had the double crime +which wrenched her heart been committed in a past age, by hands long +vanished into earth? +</p> + +<p> +As such questions as these quivered like meteoric flashes across her +brain the heavily-charged atmosphere lifted, the mists dissolved, and +through a golden fissure in a fast-floating cloud a ray of sunlight +darted down the hills. A breath of wind followed, and as the influence +withdrew Maude beheld Drayton standing in the grass, throwing up an +apple, and catching it as it fell. It was the turn of the dramatic +tide. Burlesque was laughing down the tragic frown. +</p> + + +<h2 id="scene-shifting"> +SCENE-SHIFTING +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Time, that sees everything, and hears everything, brings all things to +light.—<i>Sophocles</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The following letter, written by the proprietor of a curiosity shop in +central London, was handed in at the toy-shop of one Emmanuel Falk in +a by-way of the city of Nuremberg, and perused by the light of a +yellow candle:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Dear Mr. Falk. I have pleasure in informing you that copies of the +masks which belonged to the Biron family have come as pledges into my +hands. They are genuine I have no doubt, because I find the name +Joseph Falk engraved upon their backs. Permit me to state the +incidents connected with this discovery. +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday a middle-aged Englishman, well-dressed, but apparently +pressed for money, entered my shop and requested me to make him an +advance, offering as security the pair of masks. Let me tell you he +was well aware of their value. He asked for £5 and when I had handed +him that amount he left hurriedly. I called my boy Jacob, pointed the +man out, and bade him follow. Jacob went after the Englishman to his +home. Very soon the man came out with a bag, which Jacob was permitted +to carry for some coppers to the underground station. Jacob +accompanied the man to Paddington, and standing close behind heard him +ask for a ticket to a small town some distance from the metropolis. +Not having sufficient money upon him to follow the man to his +destination, Jacob returned. In the afternoon I called at the house, +which the Englishman had entered after leaving my shop, told the woman +who answered my ring that I was a tax-collector, and so managed to +discover the name of the man who pawned the masks. +</p> + +<p> +“You know where Mr. Biron can be found. Will you then write to him, +letting him know of my discovery, and telling him that I will grant +further information if he will communicate with me? The masks cannot +leave my shop, as I may be ordered to give them up any day, but if he +can visit me I will produce them for his inspection. I presume that +the reward which he has offered for so long still holds good, if the +information I am able to give may lead to the discovery of the +originals? If you will forward this letter I will pay you five per +cent upon the transaction, should the affair be brought to a +satisfactory conclusion, and to this effect I enclose my commission +note duly signed and stamped. If you are not content with my offer, +remember, I can certainly discover Mr. Biron through advertisements in +the Italian papers; but this would require time, and the masks may be +redeemed to-morrow. I must not fail to produce them, because the +English law is severe. +</p> + +<p> +“I am, my dear sir, your most obedient, humble servant, +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +“Francesco Cerutti.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The old toy-maker spluttered through his beard until the candle +guttered. +</p> + +<p> +“The thief! the rogue!” he shouted, “The son of a dog to offer me his +five per cent. I will not help him. Not for twenty. Let him give me my +fifty per cent, and I will do business. The vampire! How he would suck +my blood. The toad! the fox! Would that I might put him in the Iron +Virgin. Would that I might poison the Pegnitz and make him drink of +the water.” +</p> + +<p> +The candlelight fell with weird effect among stacks of toys, striking +a thousand glassy eyes into a semblance of life. There were legions of +dolls stuffed with mechanism; there were animals, birds, and realistic +reptiles, quivering and mouthing at their long-bearded Frankenstein. +Their eyes were so many points of light glinting all colours, +tawny-red, yellow, black, green, winking and leering and grinning. +These eyes appeared to the toy-maker to expand during the night and to +contract by day. When the sun entered the shop the eyes were small and +yellow, having each one a narrow line of black for pupil. Towards +evening these pupils were enlarged, and by night became round and +far-seeing. Here was a doll whose eyes by the candlelight were unduly +large; they might have been disfigured by the use of drugs. Here was +another with optic nerves shuddering; and there another with eyes +distorted, as it were by some external influence, the refracting +surfaces being marred by a shadow cast across the retina. Emmanuel +Falk loved those glinting glassy eyes. He felt a creator when he +looked at them. He settled himself between the candle and the eyes, +and indited a letter to Signore Eugene Biron, at the Strada Nuova di +Poggio Reale, Napoli. +</p> + +<p> +A fortnight passed without bringing any reply. A month followed, +during which time the Italian Jew and the citizen of Nuremberg +exchanged letters, which were impatient on the one side, and indignant +on the other. But one day a very thin man entered the crooked street, +stopped at the gabled toy-shop, and confronted the proprietor with the +intelligence that his name was Eugene Biron. +</p> + +<p> +The toy-maker thought at first that the Lord of all the Dolls had +taken life and come to haunt him. Mr. Biron did not appear to darken +the doorway as he entered, so hopelessly devoid was he of flesh. He +was so thin that the perfect outline of his skull could be traced +distinctly. For all that his face was pleasant, because it happened to +possess two singularly kind eyes. His head was as bald as an apple. He +had neither eyebrows nor beard. He might have been thirty, or he might +have been seventy. +</p> + +<p> +“By Gott!” whispered the toy-maker. “What a model! I will make a doll +like him by San. Nicholas’ Day. He will make the children scream.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he welcomed the visitor, and brought him into the sanctity of the +work-shop where the toy marvels were planned and composed. Bringing +forward a chair, which with a sweep of the hand he cleared of dolls in +embryo, he begged his guest to be seated, and floundering to a +cupboard produced a bottle of thin wine and two beautiful Venetian +glasses chased in blue. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been travelling lately, and while in this neighbourhood +happened to write to Italy for my letters,” the visitor explained in +fluent German. “Having just received your communication, I take the +earliest opportunity of visiting you, on the chance of your having +some information to add to that which your letter gave.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have nothing,” wailed Emmanuel. “That Jew in London did write +last week and say that the masks were still in bond. I have used +already many postage-stamps upon the man. I did only meet him once, +and then he talked me into an arrangement by which I did lose and he +did gain—may Gott confound him! He calls himself my humble and +obedient servant every time, and next time I write I will sign myself +his lofty and unyielding master, by Gott I will. I will be even with +that Jew. I would give one hundred of my best dolls to choke him in +the Schöne Brunnen. I drink now to your long life, Mr. Biron, and to +the increased prosperity of the toy business.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have nothing more to tell me I shall start for England +to-night,” said the man of no nationality. “I have been searching all +my life for these masks, and I may be now on the point of succeeding. +Your great-grandfather made, I believe, several copies from the +originals—” +</p> + +<p> +“And he did die of it,” interrupted the toy-maker excitedly. “Gott in +Heaven! They did kill him. Come up these stairs, and I will show you +at the top of the house a great iron hook where he did hang himself +and die.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid the masks may have killed others besides old Joseph +Falk,” said the visitor solemnly. “That is why I want to discover +them.” +</p> + +<p> +The bearded toy-maker stared at his hairless guest with open mouth and +eyes like two full moons behind his glasses. “And then what you do +with them?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Cremate them,” came the reply. “Or give them Christian burial.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give to them Christian burial. Mine holy Gott!” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you know their history?” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not know,” shouted the toy-maker, snatching up a doll and +screwing off its head, unmindful of the sawdust which snowed upon his +slippers. “I know how Joseph Falk lost his brains and thought himself +an actor, and would stand on these stairs reciting poetry. I know this +old house was once the terror of all the strasse, and those who came +here would sometimes stand and laugh as though the very devil of +comedy was in them, and sometimes they would stamp and frown like +Faustus at the opera. When Joseph Falk hanged himself Mr. Biron came +and took the masks away. I know nothing more, except that these things +happened more than a hundred years ago. Bah! they could not make my +dolls in those days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Falk begged for the masks to be returned to him after he had sold +them,” said Biron slowly, “I believe he was compelled by his +extraordinary nature to love them. He must have been a remarkable man. +He called himself a toy-maker, but his toys were the products of a +diseased and morbid imagination. He made a clock which, instead of +ticking, groaned the seconds, and a candle with machinery attached +which caused the flame to burn blue at midnight. Finally he made the +masks.” +</p> + +<p> +“And they did kill him,” muttered the great-grandson. “But he did sell +them first to Mr. Biron.” +</p> + +<p> +“To my great-grandfather, a man whose mind had suffered through +intercourse with Joseph Falk. But is it possible that you, the present +head of the family, do not know how the masks were made?” +</p> + +<p> +“By Gott, I do know,” cried Emmanuel. “They were made of the skin of +animals, treated with human blood. Bah! I will not talk about it. The +thought gives me cold feelings here.” The toy-maker clapped his hand +upon his spine. +</p> + +<p> +“You are wrong,” said Biron. “They were made of skin certainly, but +not the skin of animals. We will not go closely into details, because, +as I have said, Joseph Falk’s mind was not a healthy one; but it was +the skin of human beings that was used in the making of the masks.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is one big lie,” roared the toy-maker; and as he uttered these +words all the clocks in the establishment, above, around, and below, +struck the hour together solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to say it is true,” said Biron quietly. “My +great-grandfather’s notes leave no doubt on the matter. I will give +you a few details concerning the composition of the masks. The idea +was suggested to Joseph Falk one night at the opera. He was +exceedingly fond of the stage, and his visits were as frequent as +business would permit. One night he was attracted by a representation +of the masks of Tragedy and Comedy modelled upon the proscenium; and +straightway the idea entered his mind of creating two such masks, +which should be influential types of the respective branches of the +drama which they are supposed to represent. You know that he succeeded +in carrying out this project; and you shall now hear how he did so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he, my great-grandfather, was a devil,” cried the toy-maker. “I +will forget him. He is not worthy to lie within a stone’s cast of the +great Dürer. Bah! I will never again pray for him upon All Souls’ +Day, and I will go no more to the cemetery of St. John to put +immortelles upon his grave.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is a story of the eighteenth century,” went on the visitor. “One +of the institutions of this city was the College of Surgeons, which +was placed hard by the prison, and distinguished from the buildings +surrounding it by a gilded globe which satirists were fond of calling +a globule—the only form of medicine which physicians of that day +could, or would, dispense. Superstition ruled the art of healing to +such an extraordinary extent that astrology was one of the important +subjects for examination, and even barbers were required to pass in +surgery before being licensed to shave chins. Anyone could be a +surgeon in those days. It was in fact as easy as enlisting in the +army, or, as a wit has said, as difficult to avoid as the press-gang; +and knowing this you will not be surprised to hear that Joseph Falk +became enrolled a member of the College, not because he wished to +acquire the art of the physicians, but because his membership entitled +him to a place in the dissecting-theatre, which was kept well supplied +with material by the adjacent prison where executions were frequent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not true what I say, that this Joseph Falk prostituted the +noble art of toy-making?” cried the great-grandson appealingly to his +creations. +</p> + +<p> +“Had he turned his talents in the right direction it is certain he +would have produced many useful models of mechanism,” Biron went on. +“Unfortunately his mind was bent towards the horrible. It happened +that fortune favoured him. I do not suppose you have heard of the +criminal Cagliari, who perpetrated his villainies in this and many +another country during the last half of the eighteenth century; but +according to my great-grandfather’s notes he seems to have been the +most inhuman murderer that has ever troubled the world. This man made +a living by decoying youths and young women into secret places, and +killing them for the sake of what money and jewellery they possessed. +It is said that he despatched some twenty victims in this manner, +burying the bodies in a lonely wood which he named the Cagliari +Cemetery. Strangely enough he was a well-educated man, of good +appearance and address, although entirely lacking in all moral sense. +It was however argued at the autopsy that the development of his head +showed that he was not a natural creature. Being at last convicted and +executed, his body was brought in due course to the dissecting-hall of +the College of Surgeons. Joseph Falk managed to secure the +malefactor’s abnormal head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine Gott, I do not yet understand these things,” muttered the +toy-maker. +</p> + +<p> +“From that head he extracted the materials for compounding his mask of +Tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +The listener’s jaw dropped, and his tongue protruded, but no sound +proceeded therefrom. He stared along the vista of glass-eyed dolls, +and the orbs stared back and winked knowingly. +</p> + +<p> +“That same year the body of Quillebeuf came into the hands of old +Falk,” went on the visitor hurriedly. “This man was a little +mountebank of unusual talent, who roamed from country to country, +miming and jesting, and giving entertainments full of drollery by the +way-side. He had never an opportunity of appearing before the better +classes, indeed it is said that he rarely entered the large towns. He +loved the country, and wandered there with tabor and drum, an +itinerant maker of mirth, delighting the simple people by his artistic +foolery. Had he been given a chance of appearing upon the stage, he +must have made his mark as a comedian, but opportunity was not his, +and he died a failure. One day he was arrested on suspicion of theft +and sent to prison; there he was taken ill and died, wearing to the +end a laugh on his comic face. It was subsequently discovered that he +had been innocent of the theft, and to do what poor justice was then +possible a memorial was subscribed for, and set up in the place where +he was born, a memorial which could not have been of any permanent +nature, for when I went to see it a few years ago it had disappeared. +Quillebeuf’s body was sent from the prison to the dissecting-room; and +thus Joseph Falk obtained material for his mask of Comedy. There,” +Biron concluded, “you have the story, as I know it, of the two masks +which your great-grandfather made and mine bought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Find them, I do beseech you, Mr. Biron,” muttered the frightened +little toy-maker. “Bury them deep, and get a holy priest to exorcise +the evil spirits. Holy Gott! There are horrible things in this world. +I shall tremble when I make my dolls. I shall feel that they may go +from my hands with the power to work evil upon the minds of little +children. I will leave my business, Mr. Biron, and come with you. I do +not want my five per cent. I will give it to charity, and more +besides, when you have destroyed those awful things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for your offer of help,” said the visitor, as he rose +carefully from the rickety chair. “But I shall not require it. I am +upon the right track I believe. Unfortunately my great-grandfather’s +notes finish abruptly. There is indeed a tragedy suggested about that +termination, and it is curious that no authenticated record exists in +my family concerning how, when, or where the old man came to his end. +There is however a rumour, entirely unsupported by proof, to the +effect that Mr. Biron went to live for a time in a manor-house +situated in a lonely English valley, and there left the masks built up +inside a cellar, and the harmless copies made by Joseph Falk disposed +about the rooms. The latter point is of the greatest importance, for, +if there be any truth in the rumour, this pledging of the copies may +well lead to the discovery of the originals. England is not a large +country, but there are many lonely valleys about the island, and +thousands of manor-houses. My grandfather and father both searched in +vain for the masks, and bequeathed the duty to me. I have done what +little I could, but up to the present without success. Is it not +strange that they should now break through the long silence of more +than a hundred years?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will find them, Mr. Biron,” said the toy-maker with religious +confidence. “Cerutti the Jew knows more than he has told to me, and +his mouth will open when you show him money. He would not rest until +he had found out everything. By this time he has discovered that +house, and can point out to you the cellar where the masks are hidden, +and directly you go into his shop he will bring before you a receipt +for five hundred pounds English money, the reward which your father +offered, and you renewed, and will say to you, ‘I have the information +you require. Give me my money.’ Yes, by Gott, he will, and he will not +give me my five per cent unless I frighten him with the law.” +</p> + +<p> +The toy-maker of Nuremberg unfairly judged the London dealer in +curios, but he was prejudiced against the man who had once got the +better of him in trade. His estimation of the Jew’s shrewdness was, +how ever, not at fault. When, less than a week later, the shadowy +figure of Biron flitted across the threshold of the curiosity shop and +revealed its identity the shrewd Italian made no mention of the +reward, but merely bowed obsequiously, and in a business-like manner +produced from his pocket a slip of paper, which he handed to the +visitor with a second obeisance deeper than the first. Across this +piece of paper was written the three pregnant words, “Thorlund. The +Strath.” +</p> + + +<h2 id="a5"> +ACT V. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="a5s1"> +Scene I.—MORALITY +</h3> + +<blockquote> + +<p class=" stanza ch_ep"> +<span class="i0">Leave things so prostitute,</span><br> +<span class="i0">And take th’ Alcaic lute,</span><br> +<span class="i0">Or thine own Homer, or Anacreon’s lyre.—<i>Ben Jonson</i>.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +It was the day of the dance at the Strath. Early in the morning mist +rose before the sun, and a hollow silence prevailed upon the hills. +Windy sighs followed, and the trees began to shake, and dead leaves +scurried along the roads, and the cart-ridges were brimming with black +water. At noon dark clouds raced over the valley to the sound of an +anapaestic march. Then a deep haze settled, and the atmosphere was +heavy with odours of decaying vegetation. +</p> + +<p> +Never had the valley of Thorlund looked more lonely. Early in the +afternoon Maude came to the hamlet and found the rector conducting a +funeral. He saw her and with the solemn words of the office upon his +lips smiled dreamily. She passed on alone into the Strath, without +fear, for the place had lost its terror. She could not remember the +incidents connected with her first visit; she only understood that she +had suffered of late, but the cause of that suffering and its definite +nature she had yet to learn. She called herself the same, both +outwardly and inwardly, being unwilling to confess that she had +changed; although her glass revealed a face where the white +predominated over the pink, and her inner vision might have shown a +picture, had she cared to contemplate it, of a mind which had been +awakened. She went again, and willingly, to the Strath, not dreaming +that she too had fallen beneath the influence of the goat-song, to +suffer there as one may suffer when a frost-bitten limb is being +restored gradually to vitality; but whenever she left the house she +believed that this suffering was caused by the troublesome world, and +so longed for the Strath where she might be at peace. +</p> + +<p> +A few ordinary preparations had been made for the forthcoming party. +The young women had made ready certain delicacies which had been +brought from Kingsmore that morning; they had also been occupied over +their costumes, and had made themselves masks of silk and lace. +</p> + +<p> +But within the Strath all designs were brought to nothing. Not an +article of furniture had been removed from the saloon, the ragged +carpet still cumbered the floor, and the impossible harpsichord had +not been replaced by any modern instrument of music. Conway was +upstairs dreaming, Drayton sat and worked in the ante-room, Nancy Reed +sang her old ballads. +</p> + +<p> +Maude entered full of schemes, but when the house had received her she +forgot the world and the approaching festivities which she had +arranged, and seating herself before the pictures of Hogarth’s +Marriage <i>à la Mode</i> wondered why destiny handled her victims so +roughly, so like a thoughtless child breaking her toys and flinging +them aside. +</p> + +<p> +She heard the moaning of wind, and dead leaves creeping upon the stone +floor of the hall. She passed into the room opposite, and stood +between the brown masks, which had watched the recluse Biron ruining +mind and body with morbid fancies, and the struggles of the unknown +family of Branscombe, before the solitude of a century had come to +fill their blank eyes with dust. +</p> + +<p> +The wind was strong on that side of the house. Gloom had already +settled. She began to long for a companion, not for Flora who lately +had drifted from her, but rather for a strong man who might protect +her against that terrible depression, or for a child whom she might +call her own, that she might show the spirit of the house how willing +she was to conform to the dramatic laws. She thought of Peggy vaguely. +As for the man whose name she bore, why he, the voice assured her, had +grown tired of her insincerity and had found consolation elsewhere. +She stood quite alone and a great fear fell upon her. When Dr. Berry +entered in his noiseless fashion he discovered her kneeling, white and +shivering. +</p> + +<p> +He came and lifted her by the hands. The dim light fell upon his +silvered head and invested each feature of his handsome face with a +rare softness: +</p> + +<p> +“The summer is over,” he said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“The wind begins to bite. No more long days to walk and think. The +time of imagination has gone. The winter comes when we must work.” +</p> + +<p> +“That poem I read to you,” gasped Maude. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you it was my own, but that was a lie. I copied it, word for +word. You have been very much mistaken in me. I am a wicked worthless +woman, and have always deceived you.” +</p> + +<p> +The scholar shook his head with a wondering smile, and answered her, +“Are we not all foolish, dear sister? We are not the masters of +ourselves. He who is wisest among us is but a copyist. We poets sing +as the influence directs. The song is not our own, because nothing +that we have is ours. The tongue is a loan, and the mind itself but +the tenant of a short-lived body. There is truth therefore in your +sublime humility. Your verses are copies, and so are mine; but let us +console ourselves with the knowledge that to few is given even +sufficient power to repeat an old tale well. No, you shall not answer +me. No barrier of false humility should be raised between a brother +and sister of Mount Parnassus.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not understand,” she cried. “I have no learning—none at +all. I could not even understand the meaning of those lines I read to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still upon that strain,” he murmured. “Why then, I must answer you. +By your definition I too am false. I am unable to comprehend the great +realities which move around us and bend us to their will. I too have +no learning, because when I take up that which I have written the +finite mind, which has merely suggested the theme, refuses to add an +understanding of the meaning. We aim at the clear sky, and find we +have only struck the earth. The most inspired poet cannot soar higher +than the clouds.” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke Drayton entered, and standing just within the door asked +in a scarcely intelligible voice, “What is the first stage of tragedy +according to the classical model?” +</p> + +<p> +“The prologue,” answered the scholar with his head down. “Why do you +ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“We propose to give a representation of Comedy in this house +to-night,” said Drayton in the same low voice. “I only desire to know +the various stages in which tragic destiny moves, so that I may know +what to expect. This is the prologue. Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Followed by the entry of the chorus and the first continuous song,” +went on the scholar. “Then the first entry of a principal character +followed by the second song, and so on, the entry and song +alternating, until all the characters have been introduced. Later +comes the tragic dirge, sung between a principal and the chorus; +finally the solemn marching out.” +</p> + +<p> +Drayton bent his head, inclining his ear as though to listen for the +repetition of some distant sound, and withdrew, muttering to himself. +His voice died away into the house, and the wind and the rain made the +continuous song. +</p> + +<p> +“I have forgotten why I came,” said Maude, resting her white forehead +upon her hand. “I am miserable. I know I have done wrong, and I cannot +see how to make amends. I do not even know who it is that I have +wronged.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have wronged me a little,” said the voice of the poet. +</p> + +<p> +“I have deceived you. I have made you believe I am good and clever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cease from this perversity,” he cried. “You have wronged me by not +confiding in me, by keeping me at a distance, and in withdrawing, as +you have done lately, the light of your learning from my work. Do you +not see how we suffer when separated, what peace we enjoy when +together? Souls are joined by a look of the eyes and the word +exchanged. For a week I have been idle, and you—confess now you too +have put aside the pen. See how unprofitable the parting has been.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she cried. “I have tried to think of my duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which is twofold,” he urged. “The duty of song and the duty of love. +By neglecting both you have wronged yourself and me. Do you not +remember our first meeting on the warm hillside? I worshipped you then +as you appeared before me in clinging white, with the fire of poetry +in your eyes. My heart sang to you and yours answered. Let our songs +be lyrics always. Let us not descend. Be to me now, as then, as you +stood in the sun on the side of the hill.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” she murmured, half rising and sinking back. +</p> + +<p> +“It is spiritual love. Perfect love,” the poet whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Tragic love,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +The wind came moaning into the house and the dry leaves were whirled +about the hall, and after that a door closed with a hollow sound. Both +dreamers were awakened. Both saw themselves. What the man saw was a +cold empty life spent among books, with eyes on crabbed characters and +fingers upon pen, a life which had never tasted the heady wine of +passion nor sought after companionship, an unprofitable life of +body-starving, of brain-glutting, of groping after communion with +unseen powers. +</p> + +<p> +And the woman saw the wasted heartless career of a butterfly, flitting +from flower to flower, neglecting all things but pleasure, making no +provision for the future. She saw her husband, knowing that he was her +husband, bent by work and lined with care, starting from his +occupation of business when she spoke scoldingly, and answering with a +kindly word; she saw her little daughter playing alone, asking often +in the perplexing manner of childhood why her mother never came. This +was a part of her punishment. First the Strath had shown her what +might have occurred, had she allowed the evil in her to mature fully; +now it put before her the simple truth, shedding across it its own +sombre light. Still she saw the captured butterfly struggling to +escape, and as she looked all its bright plumage was rubbed away, and +there escaped a grey little creature, which somehow seemed a more +beautiful object than the pink and white beauty which had been held +and bruised. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the love of the soul,” a voice said into her ear; and the door +fluttered as though with the touch of the eager tragic wind. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” she cried. “It is getting late, and it is dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot see the light which you shed around,” answered the scholar +in rapt tones. “And what is time with us? We are lovers, and for us +time and place are of no account. This shall become our brightest day, +in spite of the wind and the rain. Beloved, do not tell me you are +blind. You have seen in my eyes what I have seen in yours. Together we +shall tell the love-tales of the past. And now you shall hear my tale, +and I will listen to yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine you know,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I would hear it from your lips.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall,” Maude cried coldly and sternly, rising and standing in +the darkened room between the masks. “I know a man whose every action +is unselfish, whose only fault is that he loves me. That man has +permitted me to drive him as I would. He has repaid my scorn of him by +kindliness. When I rejected some plan which he made for my comfort he +has immediately taken the blame upon himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did not love this man?” he interrupted in his ringing voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because his soul could never be in tune with yours. Destiny had never +ordained that you and he should meet. The same destiny brought you to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a husband,” she said. “And of him I was speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you not a soul also? That is mine. Day and night it has spoken +to me. You have joined your body to a husband, but your soul you shall +join with mine. There is no mystery in that union. The body wedded to +a body lives under the cypress. The soul united to its affinity soars +above the earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once I might have listened to you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You have come out of the darkness, and the first glimpse of the day +bewilders you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know myself,” she replied. “I have wronged you deeply. I have +flattered you and led you on with lies. I have made you believe I am a +poetess, while I am, as you see me, a very weak and ignorant woman +with nothing to my credit that is good. Pardon my wickedness. I will +go out of your life to-day, and face my duty, and you shall never be +troubled with me again.” +</p> + +<p> +A shudder went through the house as the lyres and flutes of the wind +and rain changed from strophe to final antistrophe. +</p> + +<p> +“You and I at discord,” the scholar muttered. “Would you throw your +life out of tune and mar the harmony of mine? You may go from me, but +you shall not forget me. You will come back to me when I call.” +</p> + +<p> +“You too have neglected your duty,” she said. “You have lived among +the dead and forgotten the living. By much study you have lost the +body. Wake as I awake, and know that you are still a man treading the +stage of life, not a disembodied spirit flying among the hills of +Athens or along the valley of Colonus.” +</p> + +<p> +These were strange words from ignorant Maude. +</p> + +<p> +He came and seized her hands. She was cold and he was burning, and +both were shivering. There was a light in his eyes which she had not +seen there before, and she shrank from the sight, because it seemed to +her that the man and the mind were drifting apart. She struggled a +little, and as her eyes groped into the gloom she saw the door opening +very slowly and noiselessly, and she heard the worm-eaten floor giving +beneath foot-steps. Then Juxon walked in, pale and bent, with his +hands clasped behind. +</p> + +<p> +How ill he looked, she thought. His clothes were hanging to him +loosely, and there was upon his face that grey expression which speaks +of midnight sleeplessness coupled with days of anxiety. His eyes +appeared to glance between them, passing from one mask to the other. +There was the knife, the emblem of tragedy, and this was not the time +to don the cap and bells. How, Maude wildly wondered, would the new +character play his part? There was no good reason for the doubt. Juxon +had maintained a high standard of living; he had not rebelled against +the dramatic laws; therefore the frown of the tragic mask was not for +him. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry looked round when he beheld a hand upon his sleeve. From his +height he looked down upon the man, whom he recognised, neither as the +husband of the woman near him, nor as a principal character. “Who are +you?” he asked sharply. “What brings you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“A caprice,” said the stockbroker. “Fortune has been hard upon me of +late. While I have sat alone during the night a voice has been with +me, calling me to the Strath. Is not this the Strath?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” said the scholar querulously. “Let us have light that +I may see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Juxon stepped forward and lighted a candle. Maude saw his agitated +face and marked the trembling of his hands. She called him in a low +voice, but he did not appear to hear. He lifted his head and faced the +scholar who watched him with hard unreasoning eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I must ask your forgiveness,” said Juxon. “You believe my wife has +done you wrong, but I assure you no blame is to be attached to her. +What she has done she did unwillingly, indeed upon compulsion. I am +the one who has injured you.” +</p> + +<p> +The scholar said nothing. There was vengeance on his face as he looked +round the walls for some weapon, with which he might strike the man +who stood between him and the desire of his soul. +</p> + +<p> +“You may ask why I should wrong one who has never sought to harm me,” +Juxon went on in a steady voice. “Attribute it to the evil which is in +all of us, to an inexplicable longing to make a fellow-creature +suffer. I have only to confess my sin and clear the character of my +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +While he spoke the man was battling with the horrible inclination, +which bade him fling himself upon his enemy. He steadied himself by a +great effort. All his determination and strength were required. Had he +spent in the past an evil life nothing could have saved him then. +</p> + +<p> +“My wife came here to recover her health,” he went on hoarsely. “In +her letters she told me of you, describing you as a clever poet, +completely enwrapped in yourself and your work. I was brutal enough to +ask her if she thought she could lure you sufficiently out of your +work to make you admire her, and she replied, yet only in jest you +must understand, that she believed it would be possible.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude comprehended her husband’s plan. It was correct. The drama +required it. He was sacrificing himself for her. +</p> + +<p> +“In an idle moment I made a wager with a friend, who knew my wife, to +the effect that she would succeed in making you believe she possessed +knowledge equal to yours. My friend, averring it to be impossible, +accepted the wager. I wrote to my wife and entreated her to make the +attempt, instructing her to flatter and admire you—in short to make a +fool of you—until she had attained my object. I need hardly say she +was horrified at the suggestion. She begged me not to press her. The +idea was utterly distasteful to her loyal mind. But I refused to spare +her. She yielded at last, with what results you know. I won my wager +at the cost of my wife’s reputation. I dare not ask you to forgive me. +I know it must be impossible for you to feel anything but hatred for +so mean a creature as he who stands before you. All that I ask is your +forgiveness for my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Juxon broke off with a gasp. Dr. Berry towered above him, his face +malignant, and its features contorted into a horrid semblance of one +of the hanging masks. Suddenly he darted forward, and seizing a +candlestick hurled it at the stockbroker. Juxon started aside, and as +the missile clattered into a corner snatched his wife’s hand and +pulled her to the door. The scholar hurled himself against it and the +rotten panels shivered into fragments; but the Juxons were gone, into +the garden and the wind. +</p> + + +<h3 id="a5s2"> +Scene II.—MASQUE +</h3> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +And let the Masquers, or any other, that are to come down from the +Scene, have some motions, upon the Scene itself, before their comming +down: For it drawes the Eye strangely, and makes it with great +pleasure, to desire to see that, it cannot perfectly +discerne.—<i>Bacon</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The squire of Kingsmore and the rector of Thorlund stood in the +latter’s study. The clock pointed to forty minutes past seven. Mr. +Price looked more solemn than usual, while his companion was haggard +and agitated. +</p> + +<p> +“I know now you have spoken the truth,” the scholar was saying. “All +along you have maintained that the Strath was haunted by an unholy +influence, and I would not believe, because I could not feel it. What +has come to me now I do not know. I am afraid of the place.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and striding across the room snatched a volume of old +English poetry from a shelf. “I was drawn there this afternoon. The +house fought against me,” he went on. “I was punished there. I was +warned that with the falling of the house I too must fall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Berry,” muttered the old squire. “During all the years of our +acquaintance you have strained your brain upon thankless work. I do +not know what to say about the Strath. One time I am certain it is +badly haunted. Another time I have my doubts. Nothing has frightened +me when I have been there, so far as I know, but—and this is the +point—after leaving the place it has been impossible to remember what +has happened there.” +</p> + +<p> +The scholar was not listening. He bent the book of poetry open, so +roughly that the binding broke, and cried, “ ‘Go, bid the world with +all its trash farewell.’ Do you hear that? She has deceived me, +laughed at me, mocked me. ‘Leave it, I say, and bid the world +farewell.’ I trusted her. Can you not tell me what happened in the +Strath this afternoon?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you one thing,” said the squarson. “You are doing yourself +a lot of harm. Leave your poetry and get out into the air. Why, man, +you are shivering from head to foot.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to the Strath,” Dr. Berry muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Price. “I don’t want to go, and Flora does +not want to go either. My sister has the excuse of rheumatism, and she +is the best off. It’s a regular wild night, dark as pitch, with a +howling wind. If there are phantoms at the Strath they will show +themselves to-night. I’ll order the carriage and go home. Flora!” he +called, going to the door. “Here, Flora! We will go back.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl came out of the drawing-room with a mask dangling from her +gloved hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to go now, uncle,” she said firmly. “Besides we must. There +will be nobody there except ourselves, and Maude—and Dr. Berry.” She +added the scholar’s name as he revealed himself. +</p> + +<p> +“He must not go,” said Mr. Price decidedly. “He is going to bed. I’ll +tell Mr. Conway he is not well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming,” said the poet. +</p> + +<p> +It was, as the old squire had said, a wild night, full of wind and +strange cries. They groped through the churchyard, found the door in +the wall, and entered the garden. A heavy beam of light fell from the +house and guided their steps. The bridge across the moat swayed +perceptibly. The hall door stood ajar. They passed in and saw candles +glowing in the saloon. Nance was kneeling in the great hall, warming +her hands by a fire of logs, and looking up met Flora’s eyes without +flinching. +</p> + +<p> +“The wind is rough,” said Mr. Price in a melodramatic voice, +responding as far as his simple nature allowed to the dominant +influence. +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke a tall figure crossed the hall, passing from one room to +another, clad in close-fitting black with ruffles of yellow lace at +its wrists and throat, its face hidden behind a brown mask. This +tragic figure went towards the saloon with a dejected step, casting +furtive glances to right and left as it disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Abandoned and accursed,” muttered Dr. Berry. He turned and strode +away into the silence of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Come aside with me,” said Flora in a thrilling voice, seizing her +uncle and drawing him back. “Put on your mask,” she whispered. “They +must not suspect who we are. I can trust you? You are my relative. You +will not fail me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will serve you as I can,” said the old gentleman, with a wild +shiver. “But let us be discreet, let us be watchful. Methinks our +plans may be overheard. We will go to some more secret place, but let +us carry ourselves boldly, so that no one may suspect we have anything +on hand.” He stepped away from her and bowed low. “Will it please you +to walk with me and study the pictures?” he said; and when she had +accepted his invitation they walked away into the gloom, two tragic +puppets, like all the other beings who were to cross, or had crossed, +the threshold of the house that night. +</p> + +<p> +Presently a little lady in Arcadian costume appeared, and beside her a +stout man closely muffled. They were the Juxons. They had been called +and could not refuse to come. Strange had been the feeling between +husband and wife during the drive homeward after that remarkable +meeting at the Strath. On Maude’s side there was a novel content; upon +Juxon’s a sense of happiness. He understood that his wife had changed. +While they rattled through the wind she talked, with none of the empty +vivaciousness of former days; and had never a scolding word, nor any +impatient frown. She inquired after his health with genuine +solicitude, and asked fondly after Peggy, stating her intention of +returning forthwith to devote herself to her child. And he, jealous of +this new-found happiness, did not venture to confess that he had no +home, that his business was almost ruined. +</p> + +<p> +She had gained in beauty, he thought, with that pale seriousness. As +he felt the wind sweeping in life-giving strength across the hills, he +made for the hundredth time the resolution of another effort for her +sake. His pretty little wife should have all that she had been +accustomed to. As for the scene which had so recently closed it was +gone from them both; but Maude knew that Dr. Berry would never +fascinate her again. Juxon was not aware that he had been put to the +ordeal, that his nature had triumphed, that his character had stood +firm for his wife’s defence. He only knew that he had gone to the +Strath, in obedience to the message, and that his wife had been +restored to him there. +</p> + +<p> +The group of tragic characters made a sombre party. The actors were +six in number, for the two wearers of the brown masks had ceased to be +human entities. They had become conflicting influences. The guests, +who had been led to the house under the pretext of a dance, found +themselves playing the part of conspirators. They instinctively +mistrusted one another. In the saloon Mr. Price was gambling with the +figure of tragedy. Upstairs Dr. Berry paced the corridors, biting his +fingers, and planning vengeance. Juxon, the object of his hatred, +stood with his dazed wife near the fireplace in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +He had told her everything, and to his story of defeat and failure +added the words: +</p> + +<p> +“I have played my last card. There is nothing left with which to start +afresh. I understand it all now,” he went on firmly. “No man can +struggle against destiny. It was never intended that I should be +wealthy, and though riches were for the time forced upon me it was +only that they might be taken away. I am a poor man now, with only +these hands, a clear conscience, and a strong head left to aid me in +the struggle for existence.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have been a hindrance to you,” said Maude gently. +</p> + +<p> +“If we have failed to agree perfectly in the past it was the fault of +neither of us,” said Juxon. “Riches have been a curse, both to you and +to me. For the future there will be no barrier to hold us apart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Herbert,” she whispered, with a shudder. “You must go your way alone. +The warning comes to me now that I have not much longer to live. I am +to be punished for my heartlessness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said the man, almost fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“Only stay with me,” Maude entreated. “There is danger here for you, +as well as for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is horror in the very air,” Juxon shivered. “Let us go into the +light.” +</p> + +<p> +They crossed the hall with stealthy movements, and crept into the +saloon, there to discover Mr. Price upon his knees, playing his cards +madly, while the tragic figure opposite shook with laughter as it won +again and again. The squire of Kingsmore had never gambled in his life +before, and now he was losing everything he possessed, his invested +capital, house, farm, and lands. The perspiration stood upon his face. +</p> + +<p> +“I have an assignation which I must not fail to keep,” he cried. “But +I will beat you first.” +</p> + +<p> +Maude seated herself at the harpsichord, and drew from its loose keys +and clogged wires some fantastic sounds, while her husband leaned +beside her, watching and listening, all his faculties keenly alert. +</p> + +<p> +As Mr. Price sent up his defiant cry Flora rushed into the supper +room. Filling a glass with wine, she searched in all the cabinets, +then snatching up the glass turned to the door. A figure appeared +before her with a jingling of bells, a short figure clad in many +colours, with a cap like a cock’s comb upon its head, a flute in its +hand, and the leering mask of Comedy enveloping its face. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me pass,” she screamed. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you seek?” demanded the motley figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Poison,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +With his flute he struck the glass from her hand. “You are one of my +enemies,” he laughed. “You have set before your mind unnatural ideas, +and sought to follow them. You have a friend who has been heartless, +but she has submitted of her own free-will and shall be happy. You +continue to resist and shall be broken. You shall harm no one while I +am near.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora could not recognise the voice of Drayton beneath the comic mask; +but when the figure turned, and the light of the candles fell across +the brown face, she shrank from the shape. Was that a mask? If so, it +was a mask controlled by muscles, trembling with life, heated by +blood: a mask that had grown upon the face like skin, moulding the +features that bore it into its own grinning shape. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry was creeping cat-like about the house. He heard a sound of +music and the wild ejaculations of the man who believed himself +ruined. A smile crossed his face, and he murmured cunningly, “Extreme +circumspection is necessary. I will hide in the ante-room, and behold +what is taking place.” Stealthily descending the stairs he passed +through a side door. An antique lamp was burning low upon a table +which was littered with sheets of manuscript. The curtains which +divided this room from the saloon were closed. The poet halted on the +threshold. It seemed to him that he was standing upon the brink of an +open grave. +</p> + +<p> +Four of the rotten planks which comprised the flooring had been broken +away. Taking the lamp he went to his knees, and lowering the light +perceived a small cellar bricked in like a vault. The damp walls shone +when the light flashed across them. The lamp-bearer saw two iron hooks +driven into the crumbling cement; and to one of them clung a twisted +fragment of what might have been leather, or rope, or even muscle. +</p> + +<p> +“The grave is prepared,” he said craftily. “It remains with me to +supply an occupant.” +</p> + +<p> +He replaced the lamp, and sat in wild thought beside the table. Some +sheets of manuscript lay beneath his eyes. Recognising a portion of +Drayton’s Tragedy, he bent his head to read a fragment, which had been +marked by the author’s hand, “Written when Comedy was in the +ascendant, and therefore worthless.” The fragment ran thus:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +<i>St. James’s. A room in the palace. Enter the King, led by a page, +singing, and beating time with a roll of music.</i> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">They say I’m not the King.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Here, scapegrace! powder-head! let me hear truth!</span><br> +<span class="i1">Who is he whom you lead?</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Page.</i></span><br> +<span class="p1">His Gracious Majesty George the Third, by the Grace of God King of +Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith—</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Defender. Ha! Defender is my name.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Old George was not afraid. He mocked the Pope,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Witheld all justice from the Catholics,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Broke up their churches, chased the cunning priests</span><br> +<span class="i1">Back to their Roman cells. He beat them all.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Did he not, boy?</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Page.</i></span><br> +<span class="p1">Yes, your Majesty.</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Bah! I do hate great men:</span><br> +<span class="i1">These politicians, with their quips and cranks;</span><br> +<span class="i1">These big-wigs, with their tape and rhetoric,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Brass trumpets of sedition. I stand</span><br> +<span class="i1">Free of the highwaymen, that Pitt, that Burke.</span><br> +<span class="i1">I’ll stand alone to fight. I will be king,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Though I lose Colonies. Shall a king kneel,</span><br> +<span class="i1">To beg a favour of his ministers?</span><br> +<span class="i1">A king bow down to seek his subjects’ will,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And crave their gracious leave to wear his crown?</span><br> +<span class="i1">Will he not rather drive the rabble forth,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And swear to all the rout he is the law?</span><br> +<span class="i1">Boy, how long have I reigned?</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Page.</i></span><br> +<span class="p1">’Tis fifty-five years, your Majesty.</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Has any King of England reigned so long?</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Page.</i></span><br> +<span class="p1">No, your Majesty.</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Then get you out,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And call the guard, and bid them cheer the King.</span> +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +<i>Exit Page. King goes to a harpsichord and sings a hymn, accompanying +himself.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Queen enters, kneels at his side, and sings with him. A cheer +from the palace yard, and shouts, God save the King.</i> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Bid them be silent. They have spoilt my hymn.</span><br> +<span class="i1">I am no king. I am a tired old man,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Weighed down with grief. My darling is so quiet!</span><br> +<span class="i1">They snatched her from me. I can smell the flowers</span><br> +<span class="i1">They heaped upon her, and I feel the arms</span><br> +<span class="i1">Of those who drew me from her bed of earth.</span><br> +<span class="i1">That day I lost my crown.</span><br> +<span class="i1">He lifteth up the lowly, and casts down</span><br> +<span class="i1">The great ones to the dust.</span><br> +<span class="i5"><i>Another cheer.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Hark, how they mock me there! Long live the King.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Now let me speak—God grant the King may die.</span> +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +<i>An uproar in the street. Loud cries of</i> “<i>Victory</i>” <i>and</i> +“<i>Wellington.</i>” <i>Queen closes the window.</i> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>King.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">’Tis time to hold my court. See there the troops,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Who fought in Flanders, waiting for review;</span><br> +<span class="i1">A noble band. Soldiers, I’m proud of you.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Fine fellows are ye, disciplined and bold.</span><br> +<span class="i1">March past, my guards; march past, and sound your drums.</span><br> +<span class="i2"><i>Claps his hands as the ghosts pass.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Right, Left! Right, Left! Aye, that’s the English swing,</span><br> +<span class="i1">The tread that startled Louis and his French,</span><br> +<span class="i1">The march that shook the Spaniards. Where are ye?</span><br> +<span class="i1">Gone past already. Soft! What have we here?</span><br> +<span class="i1">I know those faces and those powdered heads:</span><br> +<span class="i1">My House of Commons. I’ll see to them straight!</span><br> +<span class="i1">The stubborn knaves, who would have broke my will.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Oppose me if ye dare. I know the means</span><br> +<span class="i1">To break your party, to unseat each man,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And drive him cringing to his rural poll.</span><br> +<span class="i1">I’ll do it, if ye force me, and refuse</span><br> +<span class="i1">To aid my plans. Traitor is every man</span><br> +<span class="i1">Who power denies to kings.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Out, villains! Out from here!</span><br> +<span class="i1">What! Must I drive ye forth?</span><br> +<span class="i2"><i>Runs among the ghosts, beating at them.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1"><i>Noise in the street continues.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Away, place-seekers! Out of this my court.</span><br> +<span class="i1">I will not hear ye. Look now how they come!</span><br> +<span class="i1">Fawning and sighing, each to kiss my hand,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And seek a favour. Bishops sleek in lawn,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Clergy corrupt, and politicians smooth,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Two-faced, four-handed, Jacobite at night,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Cringing before the man in power by day.</span><br> +<span class="i1">They come on, more and more.</span><br> +<span class="i2"><i>Noise increases.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">And here we have bespangled generals,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Savage for titles. Here bold Whig-patched dames</span><br> +<span class="i1">Crowd on the stairs, and push some favourite up,</span><br> +<span class="i1">To pay his hollow vows to win a post.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Is this a Court? Call it a market-place,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And me a merchant. Hear those whispered words,</span><br> +<span class="i1">“Give me a Bishopric, and loyal I’ll be,”</span><br> +<span class="i1">Or, “Grant me office, and I’ll be your man,”</span><br> +<span class="i1">And there again, “Hand me authority,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And I will preach the justice of the king.”</span><br> +<span class="i1">Is there not here a man? Are these but masks,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Stamped with some semblance of humanity?</span><br> +<span class="i1">Are truth and honour dead and gone? Away,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Trumpets and heraldry, and power and pomp,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And find me here some loyal flesh and blood.</span><br> +<span class="i1">Away, ye mummers! Out, ye titled clowns!</span><br> +<span class="i1">And hide yourselves in graves. I’m still the King.</span> +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +<i>Bursts into tears and falls, fainting. The Queen bears him up. Enter +an officer noisily.</i> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Officer.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Great news, Your Majesties! Napoleon</span><br> +<span class="i1">Has met defeat. His army is destroyed</span><br> +<span class="i1">By the allies, and he, a fugitive,</span><br> +<span class="i1">Must soon be taken.</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Queen.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">Go with your tales of battle,</span><br> +<span class="i1">And shout to them that live.</span><br> +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +<i>Officer goes out sneering. Queen goes to window and opens it.</i> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Queen.</i></span><br> +<span class="i1">They do not look this way. For fifty years</span><br> +<span class="i1">I’ve been the Queen of England. They forget.</span><br> +<span class="i1">The Prince goes on his way to Carlton House;</span><br> +<span class="i1">The crowds close round his carriage, crying out,</span><br> +<span class="i1">“God save the King,” and “Victory.” The King!</span><br> +<span class="i1">There lies the King.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The curtains were drawn apart. The reader started up to behold a +fearful face with drooping mouth, cruel and thin-lipped, narrow +forehead and sunken checks, quivering and palpitating with all the +passions of evil. It was the figure of Conway; but the face was the +face of Tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +“I have ruined the old man yonder,” he mouthed. “Hear him howl! I have +won everything that he possessed, and now all he asks for is a pistol +that he may shoot himself. Tell me, friend, where I may find that +young woman who lately entered this house. I would decoy her outside +to a lonely part of this garden, and there—nay, but I was ever too +free with my tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +“I need your assistance,” muttered the scholar. +</p> + +<p> +“It is yours,” came the answer. “I see you are a brave fellow, +accustomed to use the knife.” +</p> + +<p> +“See that man!” exclaimed the other, pointing out Juxon through a rent +in the curtain. “He has made me a laughing-stock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trust in me, friend. We will despatch him together. Do you go into +the long corridor and conceal yourself, while I engage the man in +conversation. Presently I will bring him that way, and as we pass do +you leap out upon him. I will have him held. He shall not have time to +shout.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will procure a knife,” the poet chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +The garden of the Strath was plunged in total darkness outside the +shafts of light proceeding from the windows. There was no rain, but +the wind howled and worked havoc among the trees and shrubs. The few +labourers of the hamlet, safe inside their shuttered cottages, were +convinced that the Strath had never been so noisy before. +</p> + +<p> +October blasts had howled as fiercely over Thorlund; but the grim +influence of the house had never predominated as upon that night when +all the ways were shaded. +</p> + +<p> +The miserable squire of Kingsmore rushed into the hall, shouting the +one word, “Ruined!” He saw himself a dishonoured man, deprived of the +lands and house which his family had held for generations. He was +half-mad to know that he should have come to this in his old age. True +there were rumours in his family of an ancestor upon whose career the +gambling element had been plainly marked; but even he was never so +deeply dipped as to have forfeited the estate. He hung to Juxon and +implored him for a loan upon easy terms, and when refused sought Dr. +Berry with a like request. The scholar pushed him back with a curse. +When Flora came to him, the miserable old man snatched her hand and +tried to drag the bracelet from her wrist. She caught his hand and +whispered a fierce reminder into his ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! I had forgotten,” he gasped. “Say, child, has she money? Let us +go in search of the trollop.” +</p> + +<p> +A sound of flute-playing entered their ears. They looked up to see +Comedy descending the stairs. Recognising an enemy they shrank back +against the draperies. He cast his grinning eyes upon them and cried, +“Do your will. Do your worst. You shall find me near.” +</p> + +<p> +That instant Tragedy came out and stopped, shivering with fear and +fury, when it saw the motley. During that moment, while the two masks +were glaring at each other, the hearts of the watchers seemed to +cease. Then the fiend slunk abjectly away, and the merry flute piped +onwards like a bird. +</p> + +<p> +The Juxons were alone in the saloon. Maude was clinging to her +husband, still haunted by the terrible prospect of death by violence. +Beside them the table was overturned and the cards were scattered +about the floor. While Juxon was attempting to calm her fears with +words of consolation Nance fled into the saloon pale with terror, and +screaming for help. Flora and Mr. Price pursued her with murder upon +their faces. They caught the girl as she reached the Juxons and bore +her to the floor; but as the old gentleman, whom his own sister could +not then have recognised, hissed out, “Strangle her!” a tinkling of +bells was heard, and Comedy jumped through the curtains with his +mocking laugh. The tragic characters fell back. The figure in motley +lifted the girl and led her away, leering upon the baulked couple and +saying, “Did I not promise I would follow you?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are foiled, child,” muttered the old gentleman with a ghastly +smile. “But no matter. We can bide our time.” +</p> + +<p> +The atmosphere of the Strath was charged like the thunder-cloud which +is about to break. The two forces, through which destiny works her +will, were fighting for supremacy. In the presence of Comedy, Tragedy +had so far been powerless. Wherever the spirit of destruction went +with its frown, the spirit of protection followed with its laugh. It +was a battle between despair and happiness. It did not occur to any of +the characters that safety might be found in flight. By the laws of +the drama, they were compelled to remain upon the scene, until the +entry of the final character and the exodic march. +</p> + +<p> +A dark figure glided into the saloon. Taking its stand beside the +Juxons, it engaged them in conversation with the subtility of +Mephistopheles. Its tongue was full of flattery, and they yielded to +it. There was a picture in the corridor above which deserved their +attention, and he, the soft speaker, sought the privilege of +conducting them there, having some poor knowledge of the arts, that he +might point out its merits and its beauty. They went with him, and as +the figure stopped in the dimly-lighted corridor and pointed with a +horrible laugh towards a dark copy of The Plague at Athens, Juxon was +held and a cry of exultation rang down the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Blunderer! The knife,” hissed Tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +But the bells again jingled. Through the gloom of the house danced +Comedy, to strike down their hands with his flute and to hunt his +enemy before him; and with the dark figure fled the scholar hand in +hand. +</p> + +<p> +For the greater part of another hour the struggle continued. Maude and +her husband were also absorbed into the maelstrom and sought to be +avenged. The Strath was occupied with conspiracies and stealthily +moving creatures filled with the lust of slaughter. The dark spirit of +tragedy hounded them on. And whenever the blow appeared certain to +fall the bells jingled. Amid the frowns and screams and muttered words +sounded the laugh of the flute-player. And the wind howled and beat +upon the house in a wild chorus heralding the approach of the final +character. +</p> + +<p> +Apart from that final entry the supremacy of one of the opposing +powers was inevitable. Although Tragedy feared its rival, the time +came when repeated defeats goaded it to fury; until it dared to attack +the motley figure, and the characters drew round to watch the fight. +</p> + +<p> +The wind fell and there was silence throughout the garden. The old +house seemed to be aware that its last hour had come. A stranger had +passed through the gates, one who was able for a time to resist the +influence, because he understood the secret of the power and his mind +was not open to receive impressions but resolutely set upon the +removal of the cause. This was the final character, who came in +ignorance as to what was taking place at the crucial moment ordained +by the dramatic laws. +</p> + +<p> +The spectators of the struggle between the rival powers marvelled at +the courage displayed by the last principal character of the drama +when he entered and drove them aside to pass and fling himself upon +the figure of Tragedy. The stranger’s body seemed to them a mere frame +of bones, and his arms were like wire-ropes for strength and +thickness. He held the dark shape upon the floor, one hand clutching +its throat, the fingers of the other tearing at the hot palpitating +mask, raising it by the edges where it adhered less powerfully to the +skin, dragging and peeling it away. Off came the limp horrible face; +and the stranger pressed it upon the fire and held it down, until the +room was full of odours and a nauseous soot, and all its occupants +shivered and grew sick, and the house seemed to thrill with groans. +Then came the turn of comedy; and with the consigning of that mask +also to the flames the power fled from the house, the influence came +to an end; and the two men who had been controlled that night by those +rival influences, which beat with fierce activity upon actors on and +off the stage, were lying unconscious upon the floor, their faces +blistered and their limbs rigid. +</p> + +<p> +Then the wind arose and with it came a noise of thunder. A portion of +the roof had fallen in. The Strath was a rotten carcase. It had lost +its power of evil and its power of good. Biron, for he it was who had +reached Thorlund at the time appointed, turned to the astounded +guests, introduced himself, and briefly explained why he was there, +and how he had served them. +</p> + +<p> +“Destroyed the masks!” exclaimed Mr. Price feebly. “What masks? God +bless my soul! what has been happening?” +</p> + + +<h2 id="proscenium"> +PROSCENIUM +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +Tragedy is an imitation, not only of a completed action, but also of +an action exciting pity and terror.—<i>Aristotle</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Drayton and Conway were carried into the hall where they could receive +the benefit of the cold wind. The little party abandoned the saloon in +silence, Flora being supported by her uncle. Biron, after bending once +more over the charred remains in the fire, joined them, closing and +fastening the door behind him. The late mummers regarded each other +with a curious suspicion, scarcely daring to speak, and feeling as +though they had awakened from a drugged sleep. Already one of the +company was missing. Dr. Berry had gone back to his solitude; and +after a short interval the Juxons followed. +</p> + +<p> +At last the survivors were able to regard the Strath with undistorted +judgment. It appeared to them an impossible residence, damp, windy, +and tottering. It had no more romance than an old barn filled with +curiosities; it was a tumbledown museum, filled with draughts and +dust, a place for owls and rats like the ruined parsonage house of +Queensmore. +</p> + +<p> +Drayton was the first to recover and stand upon his feet. Several more +minutes elapsed before Conway was restored to consciousness. Both were +depressed, troubled by nausea, and tormented by blistered faces. +Neither had the slightest recollection of what he had undergone. +Indeed the entire life of those past months remained a blank sheet +unwritten on by time. There were memories of a dream-like nature, +which could not be framed in words. +</p> + +<p> +Refreshments were placed in the dining-room, and there the company +betook itself, sane, human, and no longer theatrical. Presently Mr. +Biron gave the tale, as he knew it, of the masks, from their creation +by Joseph Falk, toy-maker of Nuremberg, to his own unexpected and +dramatic arrival that night. He told them how his great-grandfather +had entombed the horrible things in the vault—where, owing to decay +of the flooring in the ante-room, Drayton had discovered them—and +then had disappeared leaving the Strath to become impregnated with the +rival influences. “From certain records handed down to me,” Biron +proceeded, “I am convinced that these masks must have exerted a +fearful power. They would have influenced not only this house and +garden, but the surrounding country and its inhabitants also.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have told us a strange story. You must forgive me when I say it +is not easy to accept,” said Mr. Price in a bewildered voice. “I knew +there was something unnatural here, indeed everybody knew that, but +the curious part about it was that no one ever thought of organizing +any active crusade against the Strath. I do not know what has been +going on to-night. I am only painfully conscious of my aching limbs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suggest that my friend and myself have been under the control +of these masks all the summer?” asked Conway. +</p> + +<p> +“I say also you may consider yourselves fortunate in having escaped,” +Biron answered. “Fine weather would have been favourable to you. +During the long dark nights of winter you might have lost your reason +and committed suicide. I speak from my small knowledge of the masks.” +</p> + +<p> +“What brought you here in time to save us?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can answer that,” said Drayton, coming forward, his face still +bearing the comedian’s leer. “I pawned the masks which used to hang in +your room in town. I wanted to tell you, but for some reason or other +could not. It was a mean thing to do, but I wanted to reach you, and +had no money.” +</p> + +<p> +“You could not have rendered your friend a better service,” said +Biron. “It is owing to your action I am here. I had offered a reward +for information which might lead to the discovery of the originals. It +was the least I could do to atone for my ancestor’s irresponsible +conduct—I do him the credit of believing it to have been so. +Unfortunately I was away from my home in Naples when the information +was sent, or I should have been here much earlier.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right when you suggest that this neighbourhood has suffered,” +said Mr. Price thoughtfully. “Everyone has left it, except those who +are tied to the land. A little village yonder called Queensmore lies +in ruins. Sheep-farming has been a failure. As for this valley of +Thorlund, it has remained indifferent to everything. The villagers +could talk of nothing but the Strath.” +</p> + +<p> +Conway moved across to the wall and taking down the wooden copies of +the masks turned them thoughtfully between his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“They are harmless,” said Biron with his cadaverous smile. +</p> + +<p> +Conway made no reply. Removing one of the logs he placed the masks in +the hottest part of the fire and savagely watched the process of +immolation. +</p> + +<p> +“Flora, we must go,” said the old squire, lifting himself stiffly. +“Take your last look at the inside of the Strath, for I doubt if you +will ever see it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed you may not, Miss Neill,” said the owner. “The house is coming +down, and the wilderness outside shall be reclaimed.” +</p> + +<p> +As the uncle and niece were about to take their departure Biron bent +his bony figure to whisper into the squire’s ear, “If this young lady +has been much under the influence of the masks I should advise you to +send her away for a change of scene.” +</p> + +<p> +At that warning the old gentleman looked at his niece and noticed the +heaviness of her eyes. He dimly wondered what would have befallen her, +and himself, had the masks been permitted to live, but dismissed the +thought because it was not a pleasant one. He wished the men +good-night and turned to leave the house for ever. +</p> + +<p> +But Flora as she shook hands with Conway could not refrain from +confessing in a low voice, “I think I have learnt something here.” +</p> + +<p> +Biron, who was near, overheard and said, “I have always believed that +there was good as well as evil in the power—or shall I call it the +teaching?—of the masks. Unfortunately they could only impart that +teaching, or we could only receive it, in a manner that was full of +danger both to body and mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we never knew anything about it,” said Mr. Price solemnly. “That +is the strangest thing of all.” +</p> + +<p> +“We know nothing of the influence which controls us in the state +before birth or in the conditions after bodily death,” said Biron. “I +have discharged the duty of my life,” he went on. “The masks are +destroyed. Results must live after them, but I am content to know they +cannot claim any more victims. I rejoice with all my heart at your +escape.” +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Price and Flora had gone the three men continued to speak +upon the subject which was uppermost in their minds; and presently it +was Biron’s turn to listen while Conway spoke upon his uncle’s fate. +When he had concluded, having indeed very little to state, the +attenuated man took up the matter with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“You tell me your uncle was found dead in this place, under conditions +which precluded the possibility of anyone having placed violent hands +upon him. You say also that the police, after making every effort to +discover a murderer, were forced to relinquish their search for lack +of material upon which to work. But surely the truth is obvious. Your +poor uncle came to Joseph Falk’s end. He destroyed himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” cried both the listeners together, and Conway added, “it was +shown at the inquest he had been strangled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not hanged?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was discovered lying across the threshold of the hall-door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then here we have a mystery,” said Biron. “Some material influence +must have been brought into requisition that night. You must give me +time to think over it. And now with your permission, I will walk +through the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will go with you. It will be as new to us as to you,” said the +owner grimly. +</p> + +<p> +They made a tour of inspection throughout the Strath from cellars to +attics. Upstairs the walls were mildewed and gaping with cracks. Room +after room of the dead house they examined, scarcely venturing to +speak during that solemn survey; until they entered a bedroom which +contained an immense four-post bedstead hung about with a filthy +valance. Part of the wall had broken away, and the wind howled inward, +lashing the ivy against the loosening brickwork. Upon a table they saw +a floriated cross and near it a book in shagreen covers. Conway picked +up the book, and glanced through it idly, and pushed it into his +pocket. Biron drew back the draperies and looked into the bed which +was piled with clothes half-eaten by grubs. “My faith,” he muttered, +“There should be some remote influence haunting this house even now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you what I know of its history, if you will come +downstairs,” said the owner. Then he turned to his friend and asked, +“Drayton, do you think we have been living here without anyone to look +after us? You may remember, but I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t there a girl, or an old woman?” said the writer dubiously. “I +seem to remember a tall girl, with a very serious brown face and +quantity of black hair, and an old woman who was always grumbling.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon going downstairs part of the mystery was solved; for they found +in the kitchen the rachitic dame, who had served them, fast asleep in +a crazy chair. Nancy Reed had gone, and at that time was running with +the wind back to her late home at Kingsmore, a wild girl again, and +her mind in borderland. +</p> + +<p> +Venturing to re-enter the saloon the men found that the atmosphere had +cleared. The fire which had destroyed the last remains of the criminal +and the mountebank was burning low. More logs were piled upon the +rotten irons, and then Conway gave his visitor a true account of the +history of the Strath down to the end of the eighteenth century, +mentioning what he knew of Sir John Hooper’s villainous career and +punishment, and the story of his daughter’s misery. “This book, which +I picked up in the bedroom above, seems to be Winifred Hooper’s +journal,” he concluded. +</p> + +<p> +The guest reached out his arm and having taken the tragic record +passed his eyes hurriedly across its pages. Presently he began to read +extracts aloud. Their interest increased. Biron lingered over a page, +and from that point read on continuously, wherever the writing was +legible. The two men drew closer and leaning forward listened +intently, while the candles guttered down to their sockets, and the +fire burnt to an angry red. +</p> + +<p> +It was midnight, and the wild wind was at its height, rushing overhead +and howling down the passages. Still the three men sat motionless, and +Biron’s voice, enriched by its foreign accent, read on, lifting as it +neared the last pages because of the noises in the house. Occasionally +Conway started, or Drayton averted his eyes hurriedly from the black +window. For the first time the Strath appeared to them haunted indeed. +The shadowy visitor’s voice faltered once, then sounded strongly as it +read: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“And now I am alone with the God who called me upon this scene. My dog +is dead. He has been ailing for many days, and this evening, when I +went to care for him as my poor skill permitted, he lifted his head +and licked my hand, shivered and moaned and died. The body lies beside +me. No longer will he spring up and growl when a footfall sounds along +my passage. No longer will he stand before me to protect me from my +father, snarling and showing his white teeth when he beholds the whip +which is not for him. Dear faithful friend, good-night. +</p> + +<p> +“It is strange that while we cannot by any means foretell the future +we may yet feel the approach of calamity. During this last week, when +listening in the silence of this room, I have felt the nearness of +disaster. Will the omen fail? It matters so little. I am able to bear +misfortune because accustomed to it, but any unexpected happiness +might stop my heart for ever. Were Geoffrey to stand before me now I +should neither laugh nor speak. Like my poor dog I could only kiss his +hand and die. I would embrace a phantom were it his. I am a +philosopher, and my crucible is filled with adversity out of which I +strive all night to win knowledge, not of the world, nor of its hidden +forces, nor of the stars which shine above, but an answer to my heart +which goes on asking, ‘What is love?’ Is it a morning cloud melted by +the sun, or a flower scattered by the breeze, or is it a rock which +defies the storm? Is it made of dreams, loose-clinging stuff, falling +from the body at a touch? Or is it an immortal essence, imbruing the +soul through time and space and change? +</p> + +<p> +“None can answer me, and indeed I care not. I doubt whether +to-morrow’s sun will rise upon the hills. I fail when I try to trust +in life eternal. I resign my confidence in ministering spirits and my +hope in Heaven. I am not even assured of my own existence. I pass to +and fro, without sound, with so little substance, haunting this house +like some unhappy ghost. Have I indeed ceased to be material? Is there +anything that I may believe in? Yes, there is one thing. I believe in +the reality of fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Geoffrey is but the memory of a long past time. I must speak to that +I see and feel and hear, to the indifferent and unresponsive objects +of this daily prison, to the drifting clouds and the whirling wind. +There is life in the wind and strength. It passes on, the same, yet +not the same, changing its cry, now howling, now falling to a sob, now +rushing like a madman, now crawling snake-like. And I can hear the +trees roaring like the sea. So I address the wind, and the trees, and +my poor friend’s body, and all else that I can see and hear, because +faith can do no more. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be hard on midnight. I dare not think what may be taking +place outside. The house is filled with shadows. It is like a cave +beaten by the waves. Walking in the garden to-day I heard voices +beyond the wall, and three strange men rode beside the gates, cloaked +and long-booted, and one had a deep scar along his cheek, and all were +armed. One muttered, as he nodded to this garden, ‘We may trap the old +fox to-night.’ They passed on, along the high road in the direction of +Kingsmore, and I knew it was I who had brought them. The villagers +will not warn my father, because they hate him. His fate rests with +me, his only child, and he is condemned for Geoffrey’s sake. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to the head of the stairs because I thought I heard a +disturbance. Old Deborah is walking about the hall, beating her hands +together. Deborah loves my father, because she nursed him as a boy. +She saw me, and frowned, and began to snuff the candles that she might +persuade me she was not anxious. She muttered, ‘ ’Tis a mighty wind, +and bad luck to him who’s caught in it.’ Then she went to the door and +I heard her say, ‘That’s the coach. And that’s the noise of—get you +to your room,’ she cried, starting back and shaking her hand at me. +‘Get you away.’ So I came back, and am now straining my ears at every +sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I could hear were I stone deaf. The end has come. The terrible +night! First the noise of furious galloping. There was the clang of +the iron gate, the galloping again, and voices shouting; and after +that a lantern flashed its light upon the side of the house. One horse +crossed this light, my father’s mare flecked with foam, then another +and that was Reed’s big grey, and then a third. What have they done? +There has been murder upon the highway. The third horse carried a body +slung across the saddle. They passed, were gone, and then a voice I +know too well shouted, ‘Rub the mare dry, unsaddle her, and turn her +into the field. Here, fool, you have dropped your mask. Burn it, and +throw these pistols into the moat, and clean that sword. Then come +into the house, for you and I must have a word together.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I can hear the beating of my heart. The awful night! Why did I not +escape. Better the cold plantation than my father’s fury. All is +silent now, apart from the wind—but there! It is the door. A wild +voice shouts, ‘Deborah, bring brandy-wine and plenty of hot water.’ +God grant he may forget me. +</p> + +<p> +“Again I have listened in the passage. The hall-door was pushed open +and the man Reed entered—I knew him by his oaths. He was breathing +thickly and struggling with some burden, which he let down upon the +floor, or dropped it rather, for I heard it roll and settle with +dreadful heaviness.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +As Biron spoke that last word, there came from above the sound of a +body, falling heavily, so as to shake the house. Without lifting his +eyes, or moving in his seat, he read calmly on: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Then a brawling began between the man and the master. Their words I +could not often catch, but I heard my father’s voice, shaking with +fear and rage. ‘Burn it,’ he shouted. ‘Or, if there be not time, hide +it away in the girl’s bedroom.’ What Reed replied I could not hear, +but I imagine he told my father there could be no cause for hurry, as +he is a dense besotted creature, with a mind set upon strong liquors, +a man too incapable of feeling to know fear. Their voices became +hoarse mutterings, and now I hear the clinking of glasses and the +rattling of flasks. I can write almost unmoved, and yet that horrible +feeling of calamity impending remains, and when I look upon my bed I +seem to see a cold sheet, and a shape, and a solemn candle burning at +the head. Is that the shape of the poor wretch they have murdered +to-night? No, it is too thin and small, and I think I discover a lock +of fair hair upon the pillow. Well, there is but one more page +remaining to this book. +</p> + +<p> +“Again I hear the note of disagreement. They have always been violent +in their cups. The voices are raised higher. There is none here they +need fear. Still no sound from without. They have been favoured by the +wind and the darkness of the night, and thus have again escaped. But +there—a blow. Surely a blow, and now, ‘Traitor! Spy! Informer!’ There +is death in that voice. The clash of swords! Oh God! they are fighting +like beasts. Let me not be the cause of any man’s death, be he +highwayman or murderer. Now I understand the reason of that fight +which must end in death. My father knows that his guilt has been +discovered. His return was a flight. Those cloaked long-booted men are +perhaps even now upon his track, and he believes that his companion +has betrayed him, and, half-drunk, half-mad, cannot listen to denial. +And I am the informer. And I dare not go down, dare not face him as he +is, dare not tell him that his accomplice is innocent, dare not tell +him it was I. Oh, the clamour, the ringing, the clashing of those +swords! The shrieks of the wind, and that awful breathing! Silence, +but the whole house seems to be shuddering. There is a hollow sound in +the hall, rising and swelling along the passage, louder every moment, +and now, ‘Open, in the King’s name.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Torches are flaring in the garden. The house is surrounded. That +beating upon the door continues, or is it the beating of my heart? But +the same stern voice demands admission, and my wretched father shouts +in terror, as he feels the shadow of the gallows creeping across his +head, and blunders about the saloon, and now into the hall, past the +rebounding door, and now he is upon the stairs, and I can hear a +dragging and a heaving and two dead heels rattling from step to step. +Oh, merciful God! He is coming here to hide the body, and I cannot +bear it, I cannot look upon it. They are breaking down the door, +battering it in with a heavy log, and won it gives with a noise of +thunder, and the avengers rush in shouting at their loudest, +‘Surrender, in the King’s name!’ ” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +The three men started fearfully, but not a sound escaped their lips, +when there rose above the wind a terrific noise in the neighbourhood +of the hall-door, a crashing thunderous riot, as though that door had +indeed been crushed inwards and the human hounds were hunting in the +house. The reader’s thin face quivered, as his tongue concluded the +last wild words upon the final page: +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“Let them seize him upon the stairs. He has reached the corridor, +gasping in his terror. He is dragging no longer, but carrying. He +enters this passage, shouting my name. They hear him. The house rocks +as they rush up the stairs. ‘I have brought him. Take him. Hide him +away.’ What does he mean? Will he reach the roof and fling himself +down? He is here, panting outside my door. Again he is dragging the +dreadful thing, and now I must look upon that, and upon him. He flings +himself against the door…” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +As the record ended with that blotted word, a fearful crash shook the +ground, the house tottered, and suddenly the saloon wall opened +peacefully, and men caught glimpses of a wild watery moon between two +lack shuddering fringes of ivy. +</p> + +<p> +“Run!” shouted Biron, dropping his hands and the time-worn book. “The +house is falling upon us.” +</p> + + +<h2 id="exode"> +EXODE +</h2> + +<p class="ch_ep"> +He had no brains for the Royal Diadem to cover; and if Zeus should +give him his Lightning and Thunder, he would be no more Zeus for +that.—<i>Plutarch</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The vacarme had ceased and the Strath was abandoned to its decay. The +influence had done its work upon the minds of those brought beneath +its sway. Punishment, sharp and summary, had been meted out upon Henry +Reed with the cruelty for which Nature is notorious. A like punishment +was to fall upon Dr. Berry. Both were weak men, although in other +respects eminently dissimilar; the one a dull material creature, the +other a sensitive spiritual being. The former attempted to arrest the +working of the influence, while the latter essayed the equally +impossible task of establishing himself as an active principle of that +power. The active and hostile scepticism of the one was no whit more +dangerous than the complete resignation of the other. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price, a man of very simple nature who clung to his belief, never +adding to it nor subtracting from it, emerged from the ordeal +unchanged. Juxon found himself equipped with a knowledge which had +come unsought. He was further rewarded by the affection and constancy +of his wife. Even when wealth came to him, and he was pointed out with +some awe as a man endowed with uncanny gifts, little Maude kept her +head and her resolutions. The Strath had been kind to her, because her +faults had sprung from weakness and vanity, not, as in Flora’s case, +from a malignant growth. The latter was punished by being compelled to +know herself; and that punishment endured. +</p> + +<p> +Conway had been shown that idleness and debauchery are serious +infringements of the laws of nature. He carried away with him from the +ruined Strath a bitter hatred of his former life. As for Drayton, when +his inheritance came, late in life, he knew he had not himself to +thank. He had always done his best, but the parrot-like nature of his +former labours had stunted his mind, and poverty had sapped his +physical powers. He acknowledged to himself, when his fame as a +dramatic writer became fully established, that those ideas which +enriched his brain had been born in him during the weeks of dream and +languor spent in the garden of the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +After those days of the change Conway found for Lone Nance a congenial +home and a kindly guardianship. In that condition her wild beauty +increased and her face softened, although her mind never recovered the +even balance to which it had attained during her stay in the Strath. +</p> + +<p> +It was Maude’s last day in the country, and she walked—donkeys, cart, +and silver bells having been consigned to the auctioneer—to +Kingsmore, that she might say good-bye to Mr. Price, also to Flora and +her mother who were about to leave. The little lady had sobered down +her exuberance of colour; she wore a grey skirt with coat to match, +and a black hat, where a trace of the old Eve survived in the shape of +a small pink bow nestling as though ashamed beneath the brim. Her +husband had gone away, full of confidence, by reason of the new +strength which had been vouchsafed to him at the Strath; and Maude was +about to follow, having a wild desire to live in two rooms, and cook +her husband’s dinner with her own ignorant hands, and be nurse to +Peggy, and lady of work generally. “For I am going to be a wife now, +Herbert,” she had declared. “And not a caricature. I am very stupid +and shall have to learn everything. If you will just be as good to me +as you have always been, I don’t mind getting old and I won’t be +afraid to lose my looks.” Such was Maude’s new and liberal doctrine. +</p> + +<p> +The squire came riding in from the farm as the little lady entered the +drive and seeing her lowered himself stiffly from his horse. She +noticed for the first time that he was looking old and fragile; his +legs, crooked by years of riding, were weak and unsteady, his +shoulders were bending, his cheeks were growing hollow, and the fringe +of hair above the nape of his neck was as white as wool. She ran +forward and offered him her arm with a pretty smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, young lady!” he cried in his hearty manner. “I did not recognise +you at first. So you have come to say good-bye. Well, I am sorry to +hear that, because at my age it is a serious matter to say farewell. +Do you mean to say you have walked all the way? Come into the house +and rest yourself. Flora is not well, I’m afraid. She will be glad to +see you, and you may cheer her up. There is something on her mind, but +she won’t tell me what it is. I hope and pray she is not going into +religious mania, like my poor eldest sister who went and made a +useless nun of herself. In my young days girls were not allowed to +have opinions. They were given their religion, just as they were given +their husbands, and very much happier and more useful they were.” +</p> + +<p> +“Flora wants a change,” said Maude. “Autumn is so depressing.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t look particularly downcast,” said the old gentleman. “The +autumn seems to agree with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is because I have made a heap of resolutions, and I am going to +stick to them,” said the little lady. “I have done nothing all my +life, except dress and laugh, and now it’s time to work.” +</p> + +<p> +The squire was about to chaff her, but one glance at her face +convinced him that she meant what she had said. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing like work,” he said, with more feeling than was +usual with him. “There is no happiness in life without work. The +preacher, who advised his fellow-creatures to follow the example of +the ant, knew what he was talking about, even if he hadn’t the sense +to put his teaching into practice. I lose money every year over my +farm, but it gives me plenty of healthy work, and it affords a living +to the people of my village. I hope to go on working to the day of my +death and to pass from the saddle to the grave. That is how my +grandfather went. He came in from the hunt at six o’clock, and was +dead by dinner-time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t,” said Maude gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you think we are here for ever,” said the squire. “We all think +so when we are young. But when past seventy we feel the ravages of +time and lose our roast-beef stomachs, as somebody once said. Fill in +your years unselfishly, child. Fill them in with work and laughter, +help those who are in trouble, and do your duty elsewhere, and you +will be happy when you’re old.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man tramped away, gave his horse to a boy, then went round the +yard, ferreting out eggs from the hen-houses, poking his riding-crop +into the sides of fattening porkers, an replacing the hay which +wasteful cows had tugged from their rack and were trampling underfoot. +As he stood in the raw autumn afternoon, with his dogs jumping round +him, and the pigeons fluttering down for a portion of the grain he +always carried in his pockets, he looked what he was, the last of the +plain old squires. +</p> + +<p> +Flora was alone in the drawing-room, lying on a sofa, reading a book, +which she tried to smuggle away when her friend was announced; but +Maude jumped upon the volume and secured it. She merely opened her +eyes a trifle wider when she read the title, “Plato’s education of the +young,” and dropped the book without a word. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you would come, Maude,” said Flora in a heavy voice. “I am +going to Italy with mother next week. I may very likely never see you +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“My girl!” cried Maude. “What do you mean? Why, of course we shall +meet again. Do you know I am going to learn housekeeping—yes, it is +rather late in the day—and when I am proficient you shall come and +stay with me, and I will give you lessons. Herbert is fearfully hard +up just now, but he is going to make heaps of money presently.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may stop in Italy,” said Flora, in the same dull voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall come and worry you,” said Maude with decision. “But, my +dear, you won’t. You will come back in the spring, and marry a nice +husband, and be a nice wife. And then you will be as happy as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you happy?” said Flora. “Really happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Happy enough to whistle on a foggy day,” said the grey lady. +</p> + +<p> +“You have changed, Maude.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have found out Herbert’s good points, and some of my bad ones,” +said Maude. “And you have changed since that day when we sat in the +punt on the river, and you tried to persuade me you were horrid and +unnatural. You have changed all that, haven’t you, girl?” +</p> + +<p> +Flora flushed a little, and by way of reply introduced a fresh topic. +</p> + +<p> +“I have received a letter since I last saw you,” she said hurriedly. +“It is from—well, I need only say that I led him on, he proposed, and +I refused. He must be fond of me if he wants me still.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will say yes?” said Maude softly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have said no.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall, you must, change your mind. Write the letter now. Or let +me send a telegram as I go back through the village. You would be +happy if you were married. And if you had a little girl like my Peggy, +you would be so proud of yourself you would turn up your nose if you +met all the queens in the world at a street-corner.” +</p> + +<p> +Flora had never been demonstrative, therefore when she suddenly flung +her arm round Maude’s neck the little lady was considerably +astonished; but this was nothing compared to her consternation when +she heard the communication which the fair-haired girl proceeded to +whisper into her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Flora!” she exclaimed. “It is not true. You have always been +imaginative. That is your idea because you are not well. When you get +away from here you will soon change all that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know that the neglected faculty dies for want of use?” came +the answer. “I cannot love now. The power is not in me. And without +love I will not marry. I am as cold as any stone and my heart will not +respond. When I read that letter not a pulse in me stirred. I have +repelled the blind boy too long, and now he has left me for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will come back,” said Maude earnestly. “He will come back in the +spring and shoot a sharp arrow right through your poor little heart, +and then you will forget all that has passed, and be a good wife—a +much better one than I have ever been.” +</p> + +<p> +“I called myself an asymptote and tried to live up to the part,” went +on the girl. “Now I am the curve, and Cupid plays the asymptote. And +yet it really matters very little,” she added firmly. “Love and +marriage are, after all, only incidents in life. There is so much +besides.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear! Take away love, and life is a tragedy. But I don’t know +how to preach,” said the little lady with a laugh. “I will just hand +you over to the mercies of time. Only promise that you will come and +stay with me when you return.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I return I will,” replied Flora; and with that delphic utterance +Maude had to be content. +</p> + +<p> +She never saw her friend again. The following year Flora offered her +services to a missionary society, was accepted, and sent to Ceylon to +work among the natives. There she became a Buddhist, accepting the +religion she had gone out to fight against, an action which was +typical of her. Maude gasped with horror when she heard, through Mr. +Price, the news, for Buddhism and cannibalism were with her synonymous +terms. She wrote several frantic letters to Flora, entreating her to +leave the savage state and return to civilization. No answer came. +Mrs. Neill lapsed ungrammatically to the grave; Mr. Price, with tears +in his simple eyes, altered his will; and Flora, the original and +strong-minded, was never heard of again. +</p> + +<p> +Two characters remained upon the scene, the former leader of the +dramatic mysteries, and he who had entered last. Biron would not leave +until the whole of his duty had been accomplished. He conceived it +incumbent upon himself to unravel the mystery of Reed’s end, that he +might atone as completely as possible for the trouble brought upon the +place by his great-grandfather’s actions. The day after Conway’s +departure he drove to Thorlund and entered the dripping garden. There, +hard by the sundial, he encountered the rector, closely muffled, and +walking slowly with the aid of a stick. They greeted one another and +fell into a conversation, which Biron quickly turned towards the +subject he had at heart. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a mournful sight,” he said, indicating what had been the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“And this a hateful wilderness,” replied the scholar weakly, waving +his stick across the garden. “Once, I believe, I loved it.” +</p> + +<p> +There was little remaining to inspire affection. The Strath had +fallen. All that was left of the standing ruins were two blank walls, +one gable, and a mass of ivy. Beyond were heaps of bricks, torn +draperies smeared with mud, and shattered furniture. The unsupported +walls appeared to sway gently, waiting for the blast which should +level them with the ground; and the saloon window, still bearing the +unbroken escutcheon of the Hooper family, stared vacantly across the +unromantic tangle of garden. Illusion had left that haunted ground for +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you nothing,” said the scholar, in answer to his +companion’s question concerning Reed’s death. “Perhaps there are +circumstances which later on I may recall, but at this present time my +mind refuses to work. I have been very ill. There is a pain in my head +as though my brain was wounded. It is strange to know that I was once +so happy here. Now the whole place repels me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is certain that Reed came to a violent end,” urged Biron. “It is +equally certain that no one was suspected of the crime of murder. I +imagined that you, being in this garden so often, might have formed +some theory.” +</p> + +<p> +“He afforded an instance of a man whose folly brought its own +punishment,” answered the rector. “I warned him that it would so +happen, but he laughed at me. I do not believe that any man had a hand +in his death. His life was removed by supernatural powers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those powers of which you speak can only work their will through +human agency,” said Biron. “The masks might have supplied the +influence, but the act could only have been consummated by material +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back with me,” said the scholar restlessly. “This damp wind cuts +through my head.” +</p> + +<p> +The fire was burning low when they entered the study where the scholar +had dreamed his life away. So soon as Biron had seated himself his +host emptied two drawers of a quantity of manuscript, and this mass he +piled upon the glowing cinders, laughing foolishly when the flames +blazed up. “Draw your chair near,” he cried to his guest. “That log of +dry wood will soon warm the room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Log of wood!” Biron muttered, with a quick glance at the scholar’s +white face. “Do you call that paper wood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Paper or wood, the chemical constituents of the two are alike,” came +the answer. “Fire reduces each to carbon. I have finished my work,” he +went on, with a touch of the old dreaminess. “I have nothing more to +do. It is a false heat we find in poetry after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have burnt your work?” suggested the other, his eyes fixed upon +the stooping figure. +</p> + +<p> +“It is wood that is burning there,” said the poet irritably. “Dry, +rotten wood. Let me show you my books. I have some rare books here.” +</p> + +<p> +The short autumnal day drew on, but the visitor did not rise to go. +His host was talking wildly, yet never mentioning the Strath, nor its +owners, nor his own griefs. Psychology was the subject he dilated +upon. So great was his tongue’s activity that Biron was given no +opportunity for replying to the distorted theories which tumbled one +upon the other from the scholar’s mind. He conjured up all manner of +phantasies, delighting himself with them as the child happy with new +toys, diving far into abstruse beliefs, passing from one problem to +another, his mind never seeking after cause, never pausing to grope +for a solution, but glancing off lightly and speeding into fresh +whirlpools of theory. The accumulated learning of a life burst from +his brain, deluging the ears of his listener, who sat amid a library +of books which had been piled around him. +</p> + +<p> +At length Biron was given a chance of speaking. Seizing the +opportunity he opened his lips hastily to put the question, “What are +your theories regarding involuntary action and the secondary +personality?” +</p> + +<p> +Straightway the scholar was started upon fresh roads leading into +stranger realms; but as he talked unceasingly the words “bodily +insensibility” detached themselves from the general outpour and struck +Biron’s ears with a sinister sound. Also the word “sleep” became +bracketed constantly with the phrase “unconscious action,” and the +word “premeditated,” came with an ominous ring in conjunction with +such expressions as “natural fear” and “subliminal self.” +</p> + +<p> +As darkness crept into the room and the firelight grew more pronounced +Dr. Berry’s eloquence failed and he sank back exhausted in his chair. +Then Biron began to talk, but his mood was neither argumentative nor +controversial; he spoke gently and soothingly, avoiding the subject of +the Strath, merely describing certain of the places he had visited in +the course of a life mainly devoted to travel, Venice, the Campagna, +the secret ways of mediæval cities, the ancient castles of the Rhine; +and when he saw that his purpose was likely to be fulfilled his +musical voice went on to picture Athens, the calm Aegean, and the +tombs of Grecian heroes. His voice sank into a whisper when he +understood that the poet had succumbed. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen minutes passed—thirty, but the sleeper made no sign. Biron +watched the white face with its sealed eyes until a mist formed before +his own. Outside, darkness had settled. Within a long flame darted +from the midst of the burnt paper flashing across that set face and +brightening the silvered hair. Forty-five minutes, and no movement, +although the bony watcher still exercised the hypnotic power. When the +hour was proclaimed by a little marble clock some sense of shame +entered Biron’s mind. The knowledge that he was grievously abusing the +laws of hospitality forced itself upon him. Half rising he called +gently, “Doctor Berry,” then sank back with a thrill. The poet was +standing upright before him, his hands swaying loosely at his sides, +his eyes wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Show me what took place upon that night when Reed died,” said the +hypnotist firmly. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry moved to the writing table, and his fingers rustled among +some papers. Then he turned to the window, put out his arms, and at +once evinced what might have been surprise or annoyance when he found +it closed. Biron approached the casements and flung them open. They +passed out, one after the other, the scholar taking the well-trodden +path through the churchyard which led to the Strath, walking quickly +and without hesitation, while Biron groped and blundered behind. +</p> + +<p> +The ragged wall streaming with ivy lifted before them. They reached +the muddy moat, choked with dead leaves and rotting branches, but as +they neared the edge Biron saw that the bridge had disappeared. The +sleeper was walking on. The hypnotist sprang forward and seized him; +there was a slight struggle, and Dr. Berry awoke. +</p> + +<p> +He did not show any surprise at finding himself in that place. He had +in the past awakened beside the sun-dial, or in the orchard, without +any remembrance of having left his study; but he was clearly dismayed +to see the ruins looming out of the gloom, and he was irritated at +discovering Biron close to him, pointing to the handkerchief which he +had twisted like a rope. He laughed unpleasantly when Biron addressed +him, and turned away still laughing; but the traveller stood before +him whichever way he would have gone. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do with that handkerchief?” he demanded. “Why have you +twisted it?” +</p> + +<p> +“To beat back those who follow me,” the scholar shouted, with a sudden +burst of anger, stepping out and flicking Biron across the face. “Why +are you with me now?” Then he laughed again, and said quietly, “Go +your own way, my friend, and I will go mine. The Strath has fallen. I +had resolved never to come here again.” +</p> + +<p> +Biron seized the speaker’s wrists in his bony fingers. “You have much +to forgive my family,” he muttered. “Had my great-grandfather not +lived those masks would never have been here. Had you only been strong +enough to abstain from this garden your mind would not have suffered. +Had Reed not incurred your ill-will he might have been alive to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Folly,” cried Dr. Berry angrily. “That Reed was a monster, who wanted +to turn this place into a farm and keep pigs and poultry. But the +Strath was well able to take care of itself.” +</p> + +<p> +Biron gulped down the answer which was ready on his tongue. “I entreat +you,” he said loudly, “I implore you to leave Thorlund, and that +quickly, and try to forget all that has taken place here.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Berry’s laughter ceased. Taking a match from his pocket he struck +it, and held it above his head without moving, until the flame burnt +his fingers. Then he dropped the glowing fragments, and said in a +choking voice, “Go away! You have frightened me.” +</p> + +<p> +Biron made one step back, then hesitated. Again he advanced and +muttered, “After all there may be nothing to forget. You have been all +these years under the influence of the masks. You are not guilty. It +was the eighteenth century monster Cagliari who controlled your body +and made use of your hands. He alone is guilty, and no man can call +him to account.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go!” shouted the scholar. “You white-faced shivering creature, you +bone-faced ghost!” +</p> + +<p> +He stumbled forward with threatening motions, and Biron backed away, +his feet ploughing through the leaves. That moment the dark clouds +parted and a glimpse of moonlight passed, revealing the wild features +of the one man and the bony face of the other. Suddenly Biron started +round and ran towards the road, alive to the knowledge that alone he +would be unable to restrain the scholar, who began then to comprehend +how that garden and fallen house had used his mind and brain. +</p> + +<p> +Many minutes passed before the rector presented himself at the iron +gates, and passed from that scene for ever. The moon had vanished; the +muddy road wound away like a black river; there was not any creature +in sight, nor within hearing of his mumbled complaint; and upon the +hills all was silent. He walked out. From the gates, beside the +lichened wall, and so round to his home, was a distance of three +hundred yards, past some ruined barns, a deserted farmyard, a standing +pool, and the worn patchwork of turf and mud known as the green; and +so to the churchyard and the mossy little Bethel which was his +official, but had never been his spiritual, charge. +</p> + +<p> +He paced along the centre of this road, his fingers knotted together. +And as he went there flickered across his vision a fantastic object, +something which resembled a small white tassel, shaken violently at +the corner of his eye. When he turned it was gone, but only that it +might appear upon the other side. And opposite the pool his foot trod +upon and snapped a rotten stick, which cried out to him as though in +pain. And when near the churchyard a phantasm started from the wall of +the Strath, and walked beside him. At the lich-gate this apparition +vanished, and the ghostly tassel quivered wildly between his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Later the old housekeeper of the rectory heard strange noises in the +house and a voice which she could not recognise. Lifting the lamp, she +left the kitchen. The study was unoccupied. The sounds proceeded from +the dining-room. And there she discovered her master. He had placed a +chair upon the table, and was seated upon it, with a paper crown on +his head and a ruler in his hand. And as she stood and trembled before +him he bade her have no fear, because he was Zeus, king of gods and of +men, sitting in judgment upon the world. +</p> + +<p> +“Open that door which leads down to the world and you shall hear the +din of cries ascending to me,” he cried. “All are asking for riches, +honour, or long life. Not a single voice supplicates me for wisdom or +for charity. Do you not wonder how I restrain my anger and allow my +thunderbolts to lie idle?” +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +In the grey of the morning, when the wet hills were wrapped in mist +and the valley was full of gossamers, a closed carriage entered +Thorlund, Biron accompanying it, and presently rolled away, removing +Dr. Berry from his charge. The scholar was seated between two grave +black-coated men, who held their hands upon his wrists and only spoke +to humour him. The poet’s mind, which had always sought to soar above +the world, had left it altogether. He was equal with the gods. He was +destiny, able to use men and women according to his will. He had been +lifted to the stars. “I will teach you,” he murmured from time to +time, as the carriage wheels jolted through the mud. “I will lead you +into the ways of happiness. I will be merciful, for I know how weak +you are. I was once a man myself.” +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<span class="sc">Exeunt Omnes</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p> +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. countryfolk/country-folk, +herb-garden/herb garden, etc.) have been preserved. +</p> + +<p class="noindent mt1"> +<b>Alterations to the text</b>: +</p> + +<p> +Add ToC. +</p> + +<p> +Punctuation: quotation mark pairings/nestings, missing periods and +commas, sentences that ended in commas, etc. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Interlude] +</p> + +<p> +Change “intended originally to be in <i>comunication</i> with bells” to +<i>communication</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act II./Scene I.] +</p> + +<p> +“because he resented any allusion to his <i>pecularities</i>” to +<i>peculiarities</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act II./Scene II.] +</p> + +<p> +“shall open at the one hundred and <i>nintieth</i> page” to <i>ninetieth</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act II./Scene III.] +</p> + +<p> +“The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared <i>starlingly</i>” to +<i>startlingly</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III./Scene II.] +</p> + +<p> +“for the delectation of a fat <i>kittten</i>” to <i>kitten</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III. /Scene III.] +</p> + +<p> +“voice still sounding in <i>hid</i> ears. When he came near the +grass-<i>filles</i> road” to <i>his</i> and <i>filled</i>, respectively. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III./Scene IV.] +</p> + +<p> +“and saying atrocious things about your <i>nieghbours</i>” to +<i>neighbours</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III./Scene V.] +</p> + +<p> +“while wiseacres nodded heads of clay <i>an</i> recalled predictions” to +<i>and</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III. /Scene VI.] +</p> + +<p> +“I have <i>ask</i> him to come and visit us” to <i>asked</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act III./Scene VII.] +</p> + +<p> +“delighted in consuming <i>her-baceous</i> plants” to <i>herbaceous</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“One great poet <i>fo</i> the past heard a gentle fluttering” to <i>of</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear sister, put your hands for one moment upon <i>mnie</i>” to <i>mine</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act IV./Scene I.] +</p> + +<p> +“He dropped <i>he</i> pen and rose, opening and closing” to <i>the</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act IV./Scene II.] +</p> + +<p> +“The ground <i>alloted</i> to me was small, but beyond” to <i>allotted</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Act V./Scene II.] +</p> + +<p> +“as far as his simple nature allowed to the <i>dominan</i> influence” to +<i>dominant</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Exode] +</p> + +<p> +“The masks might have supplied the <i>influeuce</i>, but the act could” to +<i>influence</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +[End of text] +</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78162 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78162-h/images/cover.jpg b/78162-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6689198 --- /dev/null +++ b/78162-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, 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. 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