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<h1>THE WOLVES OF GOD</h1>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<hr class="l2" />

<div class="centered"><div class="bbox">
<p class="center"><i>OTHER WORKS BY<br />
<span class="f14">ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</span></i></p>
<hr class="l3" />
<ul class="lsoff">
<li>JULIUS LE VALLON</li>
<li>THE WAVE: An Egyptian Aftermath</li>
<li>TEN-MINUTE STORIES</li>
<li>DAY AND NIGHT STORIES</li>
<li>THE PROMISE OF AIR</li>
<li>THE GARDEN OF SURVIVAL</li>
<li>THE LISTENER and Other Stories</li>
<li>THE EMPTY HOUSE and Other Stories</li>
<li>THE LOST VALLEY and Other Stories</li>
<li>JOHN SILENCE: Physician Extraordinary</li>
<li>&nbsp;</li>
<li class="center"><i>With Violet Pearn</i></li>
<li>KARMA: A Reincarnation Play</li></ul>
<hr class="l3" />
<p class="center f12">E. P. DUTTON &amp; COMPANY</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="l2" />

<h1><span class="f14">THE WOLVES OF GOD</span><br />
<i>And Other Fey Stories</i></h1>

<p class="tp1">
BY<br />
<span class="f12">ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</span><br />
<span class="f7"><i>Author of &ldquo;The Wave,&rdquo; &ldquo;The Promise of Air,&rdquo; etc</i></span><br />
<span class="f5">AND</span><br />
<span class="f12">WILFRED WILSON</span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/title.png" width="125" height="180" alt="logo" title="" />
</div>

<p class="tp1">NEW YORK<br />
<span class="f12">E. P. DUTTON &amp; COMPANY</span><br />
<span class="smcap">681 Fifth Avenue</span></p>

<hr class="l2" />


<p class="tp2">
Copyright, 1921<br />
By E. P. DUTTON &amp; COMPANY</p>
<hr class="l4" />
<p class="tp3">All rights reserved</p>

<p class="tp3 r12">Printed in the United States of America</p>

<hr class="l2" />

<p class="tp4">TO THE MEMORY<br />
OF<br />
OUR CAMP-FIRES IN THE WILDERNESS</p>
<hr class="l2" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p>


<h2>CONTENTS</h2>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<tr><td class="col2" colspan="2"><span class="f8">CHAPTER</span></td><td align="right"><span class="f8">PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">I.</td><td class="col2">The Wolves of God</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">II.</td><td class="col2">Chinese Magic</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">III.</td><td class="col2">Running Wolf</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">IV.</td><td class="col2">First Hate</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">V.</td><td class="col2">The Tarn of Sacrifice</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">VI.</td><td class="col2">The Valley of the Beasts</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">VII.</td><td class="col2">The Call</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">VIII.</td><td class="col2">Egyptian Sorcery</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">IX.</td><td class="col2">The Decoy</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">X.</td><td class="col2">The Man Who Found Out</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">XI.</td><td class="col2">The Empty Sleeve</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">XII.</td><td class="col2">Wireless Confusion</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">XIII.</td><td class="col2">Confession</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1">XIV.</td><td class="col2">The Lane that ran East and West</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="col1"> XV.</td><td class="col2">&ldquo;Vengeance is Mine&rdquo;</td><td class="col3"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<h1>THE WOLVES OF GOD</h1>

<hr class="l5" />

<h2>I<br />
<br />
THE WOLVES OF GOD</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">As</span> the little steamer entered the bay of Kettletoft in the
Orkneys the beach at Sanday appeared so low that
the houses almost seemed to be standing in the water; and
to the big, dark man leaning over the rail of the upper
deck the sight of them came with a pang of mingled
pain and pleasure. The scene, to his eyes, had not changed.
The houses, the low shore, the flat treeless country beyond,
the vast open sky, all looked exactly the same as
when he left the island thirty years ago to work for the
Hudson Bay Company in distant N. W. Canada. A lad
of eighteen then, he was now a man of forty-eight, old
for his years, and this was the home-coming he had so
often dreamed about in the lonely wilderness of trees where
he had spent his life. Yet his grim face wore an anxious
rather than a tender expression. The return was perhaps
not quite as he had pictured it.</p>

<p>Jim Peace had not done too badly, however, in the
Company&rsquo;s service. For an islander, he would be a rich
man now; he had not married, he had saved the greater
part of his salary, and even in the far-away Post where
he had spent so many years there had been occasional
opportunities of the kind common to new, wild countries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
where life and law are in the making. He had not hesitated
to take them. None of the big Company Posts, it
was true, had come his way, nor had he risen very high
in the service; in another two years his turn would have
come, yet he had left of his own accord before those two
years were up. His decision, judging by the strength
in the features, was not due to impulse; the move had
been deliberately weighed and calculated; he had renounced
his opportunity after full reflection. A man with those
steady eyes, with that square jaw and determined mouth,
certainly did not act without good reason.</p>

<p>A curious expression now flickered over his weather-hardened
face as he saw again his childhood&rsquo;s home, and
the return, so often dreamed about, actually took place at
last. An uneasy light flashed for a moment in the deep-set
grey eyes, but was quickly gone again, and the tanned
visage recovered its accustomed look of stern composure.
His keen sight took in a dark knot of figures on
the landing-pier&mdash;his brother, he knew, among them. A
wave of home-sickness swept over him. He longed to see
his brother again, the old farm, the sweep of open country,
the sand-dunes, and the breaking seas. The smell
of long-forgotten days came to his nostrils with its sweet,
painful pang of youthful memories.</p>

<p>How fine, he thought, to be back there in the old
familiar fields of childhood, with sea and sand about him
instead of the smother of endless woods that ran a thousand
miles without a break. He was glad in particular
that no trees were visible, and that rabbits scampering
among the dunes were the only wild animals he need ever
meet....</p>

<p>Those thirty years in the woods, it seemed, oppressed
his mind; the forests, the countless multitudes of trees,
had wearied him. His nerves, perhaps, had suffered
finally. Snow, frost and sun, stars, and the wind had
been his companions during the long days and endless
nights in his lonely Post, but chiefly&mdash;trees. Trees, trees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
trees! On the whole, he had preferred them in stormy
weather, though, in another way, their rigid hosts, &rsquo;mid
the deep silence of still days, had been equally oppressive.
In the clear sunlight of a windless day they assumed a
waiting, listening, watching aspect that had something
spectral in it, but when in motion&mdash;well, he preferred a
moving animal to one that stood stock-still and stared.
Wind, moreover, in a million trees, even the lightest breeze,
drowned all other sounds&mdash;the howling of the wolves, for
instance, in winter, or the ceaseless harsh barking of the
husky dogs he so disliked.</p>

<p>Even on this warm September afternoon a slight shiver
ran over him as the background of dead years loomed up
behind the present scene. He thrust the picture back,
deep down inside himself. The self-control, the strong,
even violent will that the face betrayed, came into operation
instantly. The background was background; it belonged
to what was past, and the past was over and done
with. It was dead. Jim meant it to stay dead.</p>

<p>The figure waving to him from the pier was his brother.
He knew Tom instantly; the years had dealt easily with
him in this quiet island; there was no startling, no unkindly
change, and a deep emotion, though unexpressed,
rose in his heart. It was good to be home again, he realized,
as he sat presently in the cart, Tom holding the
reins, driving slowly back to the farm at the north end of
the island. Everything he found familiar, yet at the
same time strange. They passed the school where he used
to go as a little bare-legged boy; other boys were now
learning their lessons exactly as he used to do. Through
the open window he could hear the droning voice of the
schoolmaster, who, though invisible, wore the face of Mr.
Lovibond, his own teacher.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lovibond?&rdquo; said Tom, in reply to his question. &ldquo;Oh,
he&rsquo;s been dead these twenty years. He went south, you
know&mdash;Glasgow, I think it was, or Edinburgh. He got
typhoid.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>

<p>Stands of golden plover were to be seen as of old in
the fields, or flashing overhead in swift flight with a whir
of wings, wheeling and turning together like one huge
bird. Down on the empty shore a curlew cried. Its piercing
note rose clear above the noisy clamour of the gulls.
The sun played softly on the quiet sea, the air was keen
but pleasant, the tang of salt mixed sweetly with the clean
smells of open country that he knew so well. Nothing
of essentials had changed, even the low clouds beyond the
heaving uplands were the clouds of childhood.</p>

<p>They came presently to the sand-dunes, where rabbits
sat at their burrow-mouths, or ran helter-skelter across the
road in front of the slow cart.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They&rsquo;re safe till the colder weather comes and trapping
begins,&rdquo; he mentioned. It all came back to him in
detail.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And they know it, too&mdash;the canny little beggars,&rdquo; replied
Tom. &ldquo;Any rabbits out where you&rsquo;ve been?&rdquo; he
asked casually.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not to hurt you,&rdquo; returned his brother shortly.</p>

<p>Nothing seemed changed, although everything seemed
different. He looked upon the old, familiar things, but
with other eyes. There were, of course, changes, alterations,
yet so slight, in a way so odd and curious, that
they evaded him; not being of the physical order, they
reported to his soul, not to his mind. But his soul, being
troubled, sought to deny the changes; to admit them meant
to admit a change in himself he had determined to conceal
even if he could not entirely deny it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Same old place, Tom,&rdquo; came one of his rare remarks.
&ldquo;The years ain&rsquo;t done much to it.&rdquo; He looked into his
brother&rsquo;s face a moment squarely. &ldquo;Nor to you, either,
Tom,&rdquo; he added, affection and tenderness just touching
his voice and breaking through a natural reserve that was
almost taciturnity.</p>

<p>His brother returned the look; and something in that
instant passed between the two men, something of understanding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
that no words had hinted at, much less expressed.
The tie was real, they loved each other, they were loyal,
true, steadfast fellows. In youth they had known no
secrets. The shadow that now passed and vanished left
a vague trouble in both hearts.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The forests,&rdquo; said Tom slowly, &ldquo;have made a silent
man of you, Jim. You&rsquo;ll miss them here, I&rsquo;m thinking.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Maybe,&rdquo; was the curt reply, &ldquo;but I guess not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His lips snapped to as though they were of steel and
could never open again, while the tone he used made Tom
realize that the subject was not one his brother cared to
talk about particularly. He was surprised, therefore, when,
after a pause, Jim returned to it of his own accord. He
was sitting a little sideways as he spoke, taking in the
scene with hungry eyes. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a queer thing,&rdquo; he observed,
&ldquo;to look round and see nothing but clean empty
land, and not a single tree in sight. You see, it don&rsquo;t
look natural quite.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Again his brother was struck by the tone of voice, but
this time by something else as well he could not name.
Jim was excusing himself, explaining. The manner, too,
arrested him. And thirty years disappeared as though
they had not been, for it was thus Jim acted as a boy when
there was something unpleasant he had to say and wished
to get it over. The tone, the gesture, the manner, all were
there. He was edging up to something he wished to say,
yet dared not utter.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve had enough of trees then?&rdquo; Tom said sympathetically,
trying to help, &ldquo;and things?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The instant the last two words were out he realized
that they had been drawn from him instinctively, and that
it was the anxiety of deep affection which had prompted
them. He had guessed without knowing he had guessed,
or rather, without intention or attempt to guess. Jim had
a secret. Love&rsquo;s clairvoyance had discovered it, though not
yet its hidden terms.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began the other, then paused, evidently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
to choose his words with care. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had enough of trees.&rdquo;
He was about to speak of something that his brother had
unwittingly touched upon in his chance phrase, but instead
of finding the words he sought, he gave a sudden
start, his breath caught sharply. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; he exclaimed,
jerking his body round so abruptly that Tom automatically
pulled the reins. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A dog barking,&rdquo; Tom answered, much surprised. &ldquo;A
farm dog barking. Why? What did you think it was?&rdquo;
he asked, as he flicked the horse to go on again. &ldquo;You
made me jump,&rdquo; he added, with a laugh. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re used to
huskies, ain&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It sounded so&mdash;not like a dog, I mean,&rdquo; came the slow
explanation. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s long since I heard a sheep-dog bark, I
suppose it startled me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s a dog all right,&rdquo; Tom assured him comfortingly,
for his heart told him infallibly the kind of tone to
use. And presently, too, he changed the subject in his
blunt, honest fashion, knowing that, also, was the right
and kindly thing to do. He pointed out the old farms
as they drove along, his brother silent again, sitting stiff
and rigid at his side. &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s good to have you back,
Jim, from those outlandish places. There are not too
many of the family left now&mdash;just you and I, as a matter
of fact.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Just you and I,&rdquo; the other repeated gruffly, but in
a sweetened tone that proved he appreciated the ready
sympathy and tact. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll stick together, Tom, eh?
Blood&rsquo;s thicker than water, ain&rsquo;t it? I&rsquo;ve learnt that
much, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The voice had something gentle and appealing in it,
something his brother heard now for the first time. An
elbow nudged into his side, and Tom knew the gesture
was not solely a sign of affection, but grew partly also
from the comfort born of physical contact when the heart
is anxious. The touch, like the last words, conveyed an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
appeal for help. Tom was so surprised he couldn&rsquo;t believe
it quite.</p>

<p>Scared! Jim scared! The thought puzzled and afflicted
him who knew his brother&rsquo;s character inside out,
his courage, his presence of mind in danger, his resolution.
Jim frightened seemed an impossibility, a contradiction
in terms; he was the kind of man who did not
know the meaning of fear, who shrank from nothing,
whose spirits rose highest when things appeared most hopeless.
It must, indeed, be an uncommon, even a terrible
danger that could shake such nerves; yet Tom saw the
signs and read them clearly. Explain them he could not,
nor did he try. All he knew with certainty was that his
brother, sitting now beside him in the cart, hid a secret
terror in his heart. Sooner or later, in his own good time,
he would share it with him.</p>

<p>He ascribed it, this simple Orkney farmer, to those
thirty years of loneliness and exile in wild desolate places,
without companionship, without the society of women, with
only Indians, husky dogs, a few trappers or fur-dealers like
himself, but none of the wholesome, natural influences
that sweeten life within reach. Thirty years was a long,
long time. He began planning schemes to help. Jim
must see people as much as possible, and his mind ran
quickly over the men and women available. In women
the neighbourhood was not rich, but there were several
men of the right sort who might be useful, good fellows
all. There was John Rossiter, another old Hudson Bay
man, who had been factor at Cartwright, Labrador, for
many years, and had returned long ago to spend his last
days in civilization. There was Sandy McKay, also back
from a long spell of rubber-planting in Malay.... Tom
was still busy making plans when they reached the old
farm and presently sat down to their first meal together
since that early breakfast thirty years ago before Jim
caught the steamer that bore him off to exile&mdash;an exile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
that now returned him with nerves unstrung and a secret
terror hidden in his heart.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask no questions,&rdquo; he decided. &ldquo;Jim will tell
me in his own good time. And meanwhile, I&rsquo;ll get him
to see as many folks as possible.&rdquo; He meant it too; yet
not only for his brother&rsquo;s sake. Jim&rsquo;s terror was so vivid
it had touched his own heart too.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah, a man can open his lungs here and breathe!&rdquo; exclaimed
Jim, as the two came out after supper and stood
before the house, gazing across the open country. He drew
a deep breath as though to prove his assertion, exhaling
with slow satisfaction again. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s good to see a clear
horizon and to know there&rsquo;s all that water between&mdash;between
me and where I&rsquo;ve been.&rdquo; He turned his face
to watch the plover in the sky, then looked towards the
distant shore-line where the sea was just visible in the
long evening light. &ldquo;There can&rsquo;t be too much water for
me,&rdquo; he added, half to himself. &ldquo;I guess they can&rsquo;t cross
water&mdash;not that much water at any rate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom stared, wondering uneasily what to make of it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;At the trees again, Jim?&rdquo; he said laughingly. He
had overheard the last words, though spoken low, and
thought it best not to ignore them altogether. To be
natural was the right way, he believed, natural and cheery.
To make a joke of anything unpleasant, he felt, was to
make it less serious. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never seen a tree come across
the Atlantic yet, except as a mast&mdash;dead,&rdquo; he added.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t thinking of the trees just then,&rdquo; was the
blunt reply, &ldquo;but of&mdash;something else. The damned trees
are nothing, though I hate the sight of &rsquo;em. Not of much
account, anyway&rdquo;&mdash;as though he compared them mentally
with another thing. He puffed at his pipe, a moment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They certainly can&rsquo;t move,&rdquo; put in his brother, &ldquo;nor
swim either.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nor another thing,&rdquo; said Jim, his voice thick suddenly,
but not with smoke, and his speech confused, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
the idea in his mind was certainly clear as daylight.
&ldquo;Things can&rsquo;t hide behind &rsquo;em&mdash;can they?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not much cover hereabouts, I admit,&rdquo; laughed Tom,
though the look in his brother&rsquo;s eyes made his laughter as
short as it sounded unnatural.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s so,&rdquo; agreed the other. &ldquo;But what I meant was&rdquo;&mdash;he
threw out his chest, looked about him with an air of
intense relief, drew in another deep breath, and again
exhaled with satisfaction&mdash;&ldquo;if there are no trees, there&rsquo;s no
hiding.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was the expression on the rugged, weathered face
that sent the blood in a sudden gulping rush from his
brother&rsquo;s heart. He had seen men frightened, seen men
afraid before they were actually frightened; he had also
seen men stiff with terror in the face both of natural and
so-called supernatural things; but never in his life before
had he seen the look of unearthly dread that now turned
his brother&rsquo;s face as white as chalk and yet put the glow
of fire in two haunted burning eyes.</p>

<p>Across the darkening landscape the sound of distant
barking had floated to them on the evening wind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s only a farm-dog barking.&rdquo; Yet it was Jim&rsquo;s
deep, quiet voice that said it, one hand upon his brother&rsquo;s
arm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all,&rdquo; replied Tom, ashamed that he had betrayed
himself, and realizing with a shock of surprise
that it was Jim who now played the rôle of comforter&mdash;a
startling change in their relations. &ldquo;Why, what did you
think it was?&rdquo;</p>

<p>He tried hard to speak naturally and easily, but his
voice shook. So deep was the brothers&rsquo; love and intimacy
that they could not help but share.</p>

<p>Jim lowered his great head. &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; he whispered,
his grey beard touching the other&rsquo;s cheek, &ldquo;maybe
it was the wolves&rdquo;&mdash;an agony of terror made both voice
and body tremble&mdash;&ldquo;the Wolves of God!&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>The interval of thirty years had been bridged easily
enough; it was the secret that left the open gap neither
of them cared or dared to cross. Jim&rsquo;s reason for hesitation
lay within reach of guesswork, but Tom&rsquo;s silence
was more complicated.</p>

<p>With strong, simple men, strangers to affectation or
pretence, reserve is a real, almost a sacred thing. Jim
offered nothing more; Tom asked no single question. In
the latter&rsquo;s mind lay, for one thing, a singular intuitive
certainty: that if he knew the truth he would lose his
brother. How, why, wherefore, he had no notion; whether
by death, or because, having told an awful thing, Jim
would hide&mdash;physically or mentally&mdash;he knew not, nor
even asked himself. No subtlety lay in Tom, the Orkney
farmer. He merely felt that a knowledge of the truth involved
separation which was death.</p>

<p>Day and night, however, that extraordinary phrase
which, at its first hearing, had frozen his blood, ran on
beating in his mind. With it came always the original,
nameless horror that had held him motionless where he
stood, his brother&rsquo;s bearded lips against his ear: <em>The
Wolves of God</em>. In some dim way, he sometimes felt&mdash;tried
to persuade himself, rather&mdash;the horror did not belong
to the phrase alone, but was a sympathetic echo of
what Jim felt himself. It had entered his own mind and
heart. They had always shared in this same strange, intimate
way. The deep brotherly tie accounted for it. Of
the possible transference of thought and emotion he knew
nothing, but this was what he meant perhaps.</p>

<p>At the same time he fought and strove to keep it out,
not because it brought uneasy and distressing feelings
to him, but because he did not wish to pry, to ascertain,
to discover his brother&rsquo;s secret as by some kind of subterfuge
that seemed too near to eavesdropping almost. Also,
he wished most earnestly to protect him. Meanwhile, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
spite of himself, or perhaps because of himself, he watched
his brother as a wild animal watches its young. Jim was
the only tie he had on earth. He loved him with a
brother&rsquo;s love, and Jim, similarly, he knew, loved him.
His job was difficult. Love alone could guide him.</p>

<p>He gave openings, but he never questioned:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your letter did surprise me, Jim. I was never so
delighted in my life. You had still two years to run.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;d had enough,&rdquo; was the short reply. &ldquo;God, man, it
was good to get home again!&rdquo;</p>

<p>This, and the blunt talk that followed their first meeting,
was all Tom had to go upon, while those eyes that
refused to shut watched ceaselessly always. There was
improvement, unless, which never occurred to Tom, it was
self-control; there was no more talk of trees and water,
the barking of the dogs passed unnoticed, no reference
to the loneliness of the backwoods life passed his lips;
he spent his days fishing, shooting, helping with the work
of the farm, his evenings smoking over a glass&mdash;he was
more than temperate&mdash;and talking over the days of long
ago.</p>

<p>The signs of uneasiness still were there, but they were
negative, far more suggestive, therefore, than if open and
direct. He desired no company, for instance&mdash;an unnatural
thing, thought Tom, after so many years of loneliness.</p>

<p>It was this and the awkward fact that he had given
up two years before his time was finished, renouncing,
therefore, a comfortable pension&mdash;it was these two big
details that stuck with such unkind persistence in his
brother&rsquo;s thoughts. Behind both, moreover, ran ever the
strange whispered phrase. What the words meant, or
whence they were derived, Tom had no possible inkling.
Like the wicked refrain of some forbidden song, they
haunted him day and night, even his sleep not free from
them entirely. All of which, to the simple Orkney farmer,
was so new an experience that he knew not how to deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
with it at all. Too strong to be flustered, he was at any
rate bewildered. And it was for Jim, his brother, he
suffered most.</p>

<p>What perplexed him chiefly, however, was the attitude
his brother showed towards old John Rossiter. He
could almost have imagined that the two men had met
and known each other out in Canada, though Rossiter
showed him how impossible that was, both in point of
time and of geography as well. He had brought them
together within the first few days, and Jim, silent, gloomy,
morose, even surly, had eyed him like an enemy. Old
Rossiter, the milk of human kindness as thick in his veins
as cream, had taken no offence. Grizzled veteran of the
wilds, he had served his full term with the Company and
now enjoyed his well-earned pension. He was full of
stories, reminiscences, adventures of every sort and kind;
he knew men and values, had seen strange things that
only the true wilderness delivers, and he loved nothing
better than to tell them over a glass. He talked with Jim
so genially and affably that little response was called for
luckily, for Jim was glum and unresponsive almost to
rudeness. Old Rossiter noticed nothing. What Tom noticed
was, chiefly perhaps, his brother&rsquo;s acute uneasiness.
Between his desire to help, his attachment to Rossiter,
and his keen personal distress, he knew not what to do or
say. The situation was becoming too much for him.</p>

<p>The two families, besides&mdash;Peace and Rossiter&mdash;had
been neighbours for generations, had intermarried freely,
and were related in various degrees. He was too fond of
his brother to feel ashamed, but he was glad when the
visit was over and they were out of their host&rsquo;s house.
Jim had even declined to drink with him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They&rsquo;re good fellows on the island,&rdquo; said Tom on
their way home, &ldquo;but not specially entertaining, perhaps.
We all stick together though. You can trust &rsquo;em mostly.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I never was a talker, Tom,&rdquo; came the gruff reply.
&ldquo;You know that.&rdquo; And Tom, understanding more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
he understood, accepted the apology and made generous
allowances.</p>

<p>&ldquo;John likes to talk,&rdquo; he helped him. &ldquo;He appreciates
a good listener.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the kind of talk I&rsquo;m finished with,&rdquo; was the
rejoinder. &ldquo;The Company and their goings-on don&rsquo;t interest
me any more. I&rsquo;ve had enough.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom noticed other things as well with those affectionate
eyes of his that did not want to see yet would not
close. As the days drew in, for instance, Jim seemed
reluctant to leave the house towards evening. Once the
full light of day had passed, he kept indoors. He was
eager and ready enough to shoot in the early morning,
no matter at what hour he had to get up, but he refused
point blank to go with his brother to the lake for an
evening flight. No excuse was offered; he simply declined
to go.</p>

<p>The gap between them thus widened and deepened,
while yet in another sense it grew less formidable. Both
knew, that is, that a secret lay between them for the
first time in their lives, yet both knew also that at the
right and proper moment it would be revealed. Jim only
waited till the proper moment came. And Tom understood.
His deep, simple love was equal to all emergencies.
He respected his brother&rsquo;s reserve. The obvious
desire of John Rossiter to talk and ask questions, for
instance, he resisted staunchly as far as he was able. Only
when he could help and protect his brother did he yield a
little. The talk was brief, even monosyllabic; neither
the old Hudson Bay fellow nor the Orkney farmer ran to
many words:</p>

<p>&ldquo;He ain&rsquo;t right with himself,&rdquo; offered John, taking
his pipe out of his mouth and leaning forward. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
what I don&rsquo;t like to see.&rdquo; He put a skinny hand on Tom&rsquo;s
knee, and looked earnestly into his face as he said it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jim!&rdquo; replied the other. &ldquo;Jim ill, you mean!&rdquo; It
sounded ridiculous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;His mind is sick.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; Tom said, though the truth bit
like rough-edged steel into the brother&rsquo;s heart.</p>

<p>&ldquo;His soul, then, if you like that better.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom fought with himself a moment, then asked him to
be more explicit.</p>

<p>&ldquo;More&rsquo;n I can say,&rdquo; rejoined the laconic old backwoodsman.
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know myself. The woods heal some
men and make others sick.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Maybe, John, maybe.&rdquo; Tom fought back his resentment.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve lived, like him, in lonely places. You
ought to know.&rdquo; His mouth shut with a snap, as though
he had said too much. Loyalty to his suffering brother
caught him strongly. Already his heart ached for Jim.
He felt angry with Rossiter for his divination, but perceived,
too, that the old fellow meant well and was trying
to help him. If he lost Jim, he lost the world&mdash;his all.</p>

<p>A considerable pause followed, during which both men
puffed their pipes with reckless energy. Both, that is,
were a bit excited. Yet both had their code, a code they
would not exceed for worlds.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; added Tom presently, making an effort to meet
the sympathy half way, &ldquo;ain&rsquo;t quite up to the mark, I&rsquo;ll
admit that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was another long pause, while Rossiter kept his
eyes on his companion steadily, though without a trace of
expression in them&mdash;a habit that the woods had taught
him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; he said at length, with an obvious effort, &ldquo;is
skeered. And it&rsquo;s the soul in him that&rsquo;s skeered.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom wavered dreadfully then. He saw that old Rossiter,
experienced backwoodsman and taught by the Company
as he was, knew where the secret lay, if he did not
yet know its exact terms. It was easy enough to put the
question, yet he hesitated, because loyalty forbade.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a dirty outfit somewheres,&rdquo; the old man mumbled
to himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p>

<p>Tom sprang to his feet, &ldquo;If you talk that way,&rdquo; he
exclaimed angrily, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re no friend of mine&mdash;or his.&rdquo;
His anger gained upon him as he said it. &ldquo;Say that
again,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll knock your teeth&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He sat back, stunned a moment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Forgive me, John,&rdquo; he faltered, shamed yet still angry.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s pain to me, it&rsquo;s pain. Jim,&rdquo; he went on, after a
long breath and a pull at his glass, &ldquo;Jim <em>is</em> scared, I know
it.&rdquo; He waited a moment, hunting for the words that he
could use without disloyalty. &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s nothing he&rsquo;s done
himself,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;nothing to his discredit. I know <em>that</em>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Old Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No offence,&rdquo; he said quietly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell me what you know,&rdquo; cried Tom suddenly, standing
up again.</p>

<p>The old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He
laid his pipe aside.</p>

<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;ye really want to hear?&rdquo; he asked in a lowered
voice. &ldquo;Because, if you don&rsquo;t&mdash;why, say so right now.
I&rsquo;m all for justice,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;and always was.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; said Tom, his heart in his mouth. &ldquo;Maybe,
if I knew&mdash;I might help him.&rdquo; The old man&rsquo;s words
woke fear in him. He well knew his passionate, remorseless
sense of justice.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Help him,&rdquo; repeated the other. &ldquo;For a man skeered
in his soul there ain&rsquo;t no help. But&mdash;if you want to hear&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
tell you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; cried Tom. &ldquo;I <em>will</em> help him,&rdquo; while rising
anger fought back rising fear.</p>

<p>John took another pull at his glass.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jest between you and me like.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Between you and me,&rdquo; said Tom. &ldquo;Get on with it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a deep silence in the little room. Only the
sound of the sea came in, the wind behind it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Wolves,&rdquo; whispered old Rossiter. &ldquo;The Wolves
of God.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom sat still in his chair, as though struck in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
face. He shivered. He kept silent and the silence seemed
to him long and curious. His heart was throbbing, the
blood in his veins played strange tricks. All he remembered
was that old Rossiter had gone on talking. The
voice, however, sounded far away and distant. It was
all unreal, he felt, as he went homewards across the bleak,
wind-swept upland, the sound of the sea for ever in his
ears....</p>

<p>Yes, old John Rossiter, damned be his soul, had gone
on talking. He had said wild, incredible things. Damned
be his soul! His teeth should be smashed for that. It
was outrageous, it was cowardly, it was not true.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;my brother, Jim!&rdquo; as he ploughed
his way wearily against the wind. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach him. I&rsquo;ll
teach him to spread such wicked tales!&rdquo; He referred to
Rossiter. &ldquo;God blast these fellows! They come home
from their outlandish places and think they can say anything!
I&rsquo;ll knock his yellow dog&rsquo;s teeth...!&rdquo;</p>

<p>While, inside, his heart went quailing, crying for help,
afraid.</p>

<p>He tried hard to remember exactly what old John had
said. Round Garden Lake&mdash;that&rsquo;s where Jim was located
in his lonely Post&mdash;there was a tribe of Redskins. They
were of unusual type. Malefactors among them&mdash;thieves,
criminals, murderers&mdash;were not punished. They were
merely turned out by the Tribe to die.</p>

<p>But how?</p>

<p>The Wolves of God took care of them. What were
the Wolves of God?</p>

<p>A pack of wolves the Redskins held in awe, a sacred
pack, a spirit pack&mdash;God curse the man! Absurd, outlandish
nonsense! Superstitious humbug! A pack of
wolves that punished malefactors, killing but never eating
them. &ldquo;Torn but not eaten,&rdquo; the words came back to
him, &ldquo;white men as well as red. They could even cross
the sea....&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;He ought to be strung up for telling such wild yarns.
By God&mdash;I&rsquo;ll teach him!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jim! My brother, Jim! It&rsquo;s monstrous.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But the old man, in his passionate cold justice, had
said a yet more terrible thing, a thing that Tom would
never forget, as he never could forgive it: &ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t
keep him here; you must send him away. We cannot have
him on the island.&rdquo; And for that, though he could scarcely
believe his ears, wondering afterwards whether he heard
aright, for that, the proper answer to which was a blow
in the mouth, Tom knew that his old friendship and affection
had turned to bitter hatred.</p>

<p>&ldquo;If I don&rsquo;t kill him, for that cursed lie, may God&mdash;and
Jim&mdash;forgive me!&rdquo;</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>It was a few days later that the storm caught the
islands, making them tremble in their sea-born bed. The
wind tearing over the treeless expanse was terrible, the
lightning lit the skies. No such rain had ever been known.
The building shook and trembled. It almost seemed the
sea had burst her limits, and the waves poured in. Its
fury and the noises that the wind made affected both the
brothers, but Jim disliked the uproar most. It made him
gloomy, silent, morose. It made him&mdash;Tom perceived it
at once&mdash;uneasy. &ldquo;Scared in his soul&rdquo;&mdash;the ugly phrase
came back to him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;God save anyone who&rsquo;s out to-night,&rdquo; said Jim anxiously,
as the old farm rattled about his head. Whereupon
the door opened as of itself. There was no knock. It flew
wide, as if the wind had burst it. Two drenched and
beaten figures showed in the gap against the lurid sky&mdash;old
John Rossiter and Sandy. They laid their fowling pieces
down and took off their capes; they had been up at the lake
for the evening flight and six birds were in the game bag.
So suddenly had the storm come up that they had been
caught before they could get home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>

<p>And, while Tom welcomed them, looked after their
creature wants, and made them feel at home as in duty
bound, no visit, he felt at the same time, could have been
less opportune. Sandy did not matter&mdash;Sandy never did
matter anywhere, his personality being negligible&mdash;but
John Rossiter was the last man Tom wished to see just
then. He hated the man; hated that sense of implacable
justice that he knew was in him; with the slightest excuse
he would have turned him out and sent him on to his own
home, storm or no storm. But Rossiter provided no excuse;
he was all gratitude and easy politeness, more pleasant
and friendly to Jim even than to his brother. Tom
set out the whisky and sugar, sliced the lemon, put the
kettle on, and furnished dry coats while the soaked garments
hung up before the roaring fire that Orkney makes
customary even when days are warm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It might be the equinoctials,&rdquo; observed Sandy, &ldquo;if it
wasn&rsquo;t late October.&rdquo; He shivered, for the tropics had
thinned his blood.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This ain&rsquo;t no ordinary storm,&rdquo; put in Rossiter, drying
his drenched boots. &ldquo;It reminds me a bit&rdquo;&mdash;he jerked
his head to the window that gave seawards, the rush of
rain against the panes half drowning his voice&mdash;&ldquo;reminds
me a bit of yonder.&rdquo; He looked up, as though to find
someone to agree with him, only one such person being
in the room.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sure, it ain&rsquo;t,&rdquo; agreed Jim at once, but speaking
slowly, &ldquo;no ordinary storm.&rdquo; His voice was quiet as a
child&rsquo;s. Tom, stooping over the kettle, felt something
cold go trickling down his back. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s from acrost the
Atlantic too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;All our big storms come from the sea,&rdquo; offered Sandy,
saying just what Sandy was expected to say. His lank
red hair lay matted on his forehead, making him look like
an unhappy collie dog.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no hospitality,&rdquo; Rossiter changed the talk,
&ldquo;like an islander&rsquo;s,&rdquo; as Tom mixed and filled the glasses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
&ldquo;He don&rsquo;t even ask &lsquo;Say when?&rsquo;&rdquo; He chuckled in his
beard and turned to Sandy, well pleased with the compliment
to his host. &ldquo;Now, in Malay,&rdquo; he added dryly,
&ldquo;it&rsquo;s probably different, I guess.&rdquo; And the two men, one
from Labrador, the other from the tropics, fell to bantering
one another with heavy humour, while Tom made
things comfortable and Jim stood silent with his back to
the fire. At each blow of the wind that shook the building,
a suitable remark was made, generally by Sandy:
&ldquo;Did you hear that now?&rdquo; &ldquo;Ninety miles an hour at
least.&rdquo; &ldquo;Good thing you build solid in this country!&rdquo;
while Rossiter occasionally repeated that it was an &ldquo;uncommon
storm&rdquo; and that &ldquo;it reminded&rdquo; him of the
northern tempests he had known &ldquo;out yonder.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Tom said little, one thought and one thought only in
his heart&mdash;the wish that the storm would abate and his
guests depart. He felt uneasy about Jim. He hated Rossiter.
In the kitchen he had steadied himself already with
a good stiff drink, and was now half-way through a second;
the feeling was in him that he would need their help
before the evening was out. Jim, he noticed, had left his
glass untouched. His attention, clearly, went to the wind
and the outer night; he added little to the conversation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; cried Sandy&rsquo;s shrill voice. &ldquo;Did you hear
that? That wasn&rsquo;t wind, I&rsquo;ll swear.&rdquo; He sat up, looking
for all the world like a dog pricking its ears to something
no one else could hear.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The sea coming over the dunes,&rdquo; said Rossiter.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;ll be an awful tide to-night and a terrible sea off
the Swarf. Moon at the full, too.&rdquo; He cocked his head
sideways to listen. The roaring was tremendous, waves
and wind combining with a result that almost shook the
ground. Rain hit the glass with incessant volleys like
duck shot.</p>

<p>It was then that Jim spoke, having said no word for
a long time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s good there&rsquo;s no trees,&rdquo; he mentioned quietly.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad of that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;d be fearful damage, wouldn&rsquo;t there?&rdquo; remarked
Sandy. &ldquo;They might fall on the house too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But it was the tone Jim used that made Rossiter turn
stiffly in his chair, looking first at the speaker, then at
his brother. Tom caught both glances and saw the hard
keen glitter in the eyes. This kind of talk, he decided,
had got to stop, yet how to stop it he hardly knew, for
his were not subtle methods, and rudeness to his guests
ran too strong against the island customs. He refilled
the glasses, thinking in his blunt fashion how best to
achieve his object, when Sandy helped the situation without
knowing it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s my first,&rdquo; he observed, and all burst out laughing.
For Sandy&rsquo;s tenth glass was equally his &ldquo;first,&rdquo; and
he absorbed his liquor like a sponge, yet showed no effects
of it until the moment when he would suddenly collapse
and sink helpless to the ground. The glass in question,
however, was only his third, the final moment still far
away.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Three in one and one in three,&rdquo; said Rossiter, amid
the general laughter, while Sandy, grave as a judge, half
emptied it at a single gulp. Good-natured, obtuse as a
cart-horse, the tropics, it seemed, had first worn out his
nerves, then removed them entirely from his body. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
Malay theology, I guess,&rdquo; finished Rossiter. And the
laugh broke out again. Whereupon, setting his glass down,
Sandy offered his usual explanation that the hot lands had
thinned his blood, that he felt the cold in these &ldquo;arctic
islands,&rdquo; and that alcohol was a necessity of life with him.
Tom, grateful for the unexpected help, encouraged him to
talk, and Sandy, accustomed to neglect as a rule, responded
readily. Having saved the situation, however, he now
unwittingly led it back into the danger zone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A night for tales, eh?&rdquo; he remarked, as the wind
came howling with a burst of strangest noises against the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
house. &ldquo;Down there in the States,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;they&rsquo;d
say the evil spirits were out. They&rsquo;re a superstitious
crowd, the natives. I remember once&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; And he told
a tale, half foolish, half interesting, of a mysterious track
he had seen when following buffalo in the jungle. It ran
close to the spoor of a wounded buffalo for miles, a track
unlike that of any known animal, and the natives, though
unable to name it, regarded it with awe. It was a good
sign, a kill was certain. They said it was a spirit track.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You got your buffalo?&rdquo; asked Tom.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Found him two miles away, lying dead. The mysterious
spoor came to an end close beside the carcass. It
didn&rsquo;t continue.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And that reminds me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began old Rossiter, ignoring
Tom&rsquo;s attempt to introduce another subject. He told
them of the haunted island at Eagle River, and a tale of
the man who would not stay buried on another island
off the coast. From that he went on to describe the strange
man-beast that hides in the deep forests of Labrador, manifesting
but rarely, and dangerous to men who stray too
far from camp, men with a passion for wild life over-strong
in their blood&mdash;the great mythical Wendigo. And
while he talked, Tom noticed that Sandy used each pause
as a good moment for a drink, but that Jim&rsquo;s glass still
remained untouched.</p>

<p>The atmosphere of incredible things, thus, grew in the
little room, much as it gathers among the shadows round
a forest camp-fire when men who have seen strange places
of the world give tongue about them, knowing they will
not be laughed at&mdash;an atmosphere, once established, it is
vain to fight against. The ingrained superstition that
hides in every mother&rsquo;s son comes up at such times to
breathe. It came up now. Sandy, closer by several glasses
to the moment, Tom saw, when he would be suddenly
drunk, gave birth again, a tale this time of a Scottish
planter who had brutally dismissed a native servant for no
other reason than that he disliked him. The man disappeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
completely, but the villagers hinted that he would&mdash;soon
indeed that he had&mdash;come back, though &ldquo;not quite
as he went.&rdquo; The planter armed, knowing that vengeance
might be violent. A black panther, meanwhile, was seen
prowling about the bungalow. One night a noise outside
his door on the veranda roused him. Just in time to see
the black brute leaping over the railings into the compound,
he fired, and the beast fell with a savage growl
of pain. Help arrived and more shots were fired into
the animal, as it lay, mortally wounded already, lashing
its tail upon the grass. The lanterns, however, showed
that instead of a panther, it was the servant they had shot
to shreds.</p>

<p>Sandy told the story well, a certain odd conviction in
his tone and manner, neither of them at all to the liking
of his host. Uneasiness and annoyance had been growing
in Tom for some time already, his inability to control the
situation adding to his anger. Emotion was accumulating
in him dangerously; it was directed chiefly against
Rossiter, who, though saying nothing definite, somehow
deliberately encouraged both talk and atmosphere. Given
the conditions, it was natural enough the talk should take
the turn it did take, but what made Tom more and more
angry was that, if Rossiter had not been present, he could
have stopped it easily enough. It was the presence of the
old Hudson Bay man that prevented his taking decided
action. He was afraid of Rossiter, afraid of putting his
back up. That was the truth. His recognition of it made
him furious.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell us another, Sandy McKay,&rdquo; said the veteran.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lot in such tales. They&rsquo;re found the world over&mdash;men
turning into animals and the like.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And Sandy, yet nearer to his moment of collapse, but
still showing no effects, obeyed willingly. He noticed
nothing; the whisky was good, his tales were appreciated,
and that sufficed him. He thanked Tom, who just then
refilled his glass, and went on with his tale. But Tom,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
hatred and fury in his heart, had reached the point where
he could no longer contain himself, and Rossiter&rsquo;s last
words inflamed him. He went over, under cover of a
tremendous clap of wind, to fill the old man&rsquo;s glass. The
latter refused, covering the tumbler with his big, lean
hand. Tom stood over him a moment, lowering his face.
&ldquo;You keep still,&rdquo; he whispered ferociously, but so that no
one else heard it. He glared into his eyes with an intensity
that held danger, and Rossiter, without answering,
flung back that glare with equal, but with a calmer, anger.</p>

<p>The wind, meanwhile, had a trick of veering, and each
time it shifted, Jim shifted his seat too. Apparently, he
preferred to face the sound, rather than have his back
to it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your turn now for a tale,&rdquo; said Rossiter with purpose,
when Sandy finished. He looked across at him, just
as Jim, hearing the burst of wind at the walls behind him,
was in the act of moving his chair again. The same moment
the attack rattled the door and windows facing him.
Jim, without answering, stood for a moment still as death,
not knowing which way to turn.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s beatin&rsquo; up from all sides,&rdquo; remarked Rossiter,
&ldquo;like it was goin&rsquo; round the building.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a moment&rsquo;s pause, the four men listening
with awe to the roar and power of the terrific wind. Tom
listened too, but at the same time watched, wondering
vaguely why he didn&rsquo;t cross the room and crash his fist
into the old man&rsquo;s chattering mouth. Jim put out his
hand and took his glass, but did not raise it to his lips.
And a lull came abruptly in the storm, the wind sinking
into a moment&rsquo;s dreadful silence. Tom and Rossiter
turned their heads in the same instant and stared into
each other&rsquo;s eyes. For Tom the instant seemed enormously
prolonged. He realized the challenge in the other
and that his rudeness had roused it into action. It had
become a contest of wills&mdash;Justice battling against Love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>

<p>Jim&rsquo;s glass had now reached his lips, and the chattering
of his teeth against its rim was audible.</p>

<p>But the lull passed quickly and the wind began again,
though so gently at first, it had the sound of innumerable
swift footsteps treading lightly, of countless hands fingering
the doors and windows, but then suddenly with a
mighty shout as it swept against the walls, rushed across
the roof and descended like a battering-ram against the
farther side.</p>

<p>&ldquo;God, did you hear that?&rdquo; cried Sandy. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s trying
to get in!&rdquo; and having said it, he sank in a heap beside
his chair, all of a sudden completely drunk. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s wolves
or panthersh,&rdquo; he mumbled in his stupor on the floor,
&ldquo;but whatsh&rsquo;s happened to Malay?&rdquo; It was the last thing
he said before unconsciousness took him, and apparently
he was insensible to the kick on the head from a heavy
farmer&rsquo;s boot. For Jim&rsquo;s glass had fallen with a crash and
the second kick was stopped midway. Tom stood spell-bound,
unable to move or speak, as he watched his brother
suddenly cross the room and open a window into the very
teeth of the gale.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Let be! Let be!&rdquo; came the voice of Rossiter, an
authority in it, a curious gentleness too, both of them
new. He had risen, his lips were still moving, but the
words that issued from them were inaudible, as the wind
and rain leaped with a galloping violence into the room,
smashing the glass to atoms and dashing a dozen loose
objects helter-skelter on to the floor.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I saw it!&rdquo; cried Jim, in a voice that rose above the
din and clamour of the elements. He turned and faced
the others, but it was at Rossiter he looked. &ldquo;I saw the
leader.&rdquo; He shouted to make himself heard, although the
tone was quiet. &ldquo;A splash of white on his great chest.
I saw them all!&rdquo;</p>

<p>At the words, and at the expression in Jim&rsquo;s eyes, old
Rossiter, white to the lips, dropped back into his chair as
if a blow had struck him. Tom, petrified, felt his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
heart stop. For through the broken window, above yet
within the wind, came the sound of a wolf-pack running,
howling in deep, full-throated chorus, mad for blood. It
passed like a whirlwind and was gone. And, of the three
men so close together, one sitting and two standing, Jim
alone was in that terrible moment wholly master of himself.</p>

<p>Before the others could move or speak, he turned and
looked full into the eyes of each in succession. His speech
went back to his wilderness days:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I done it,&rdquo; he said calmly. &ldquo;I killed him&mdash;and I got
ter go.&rdquo;</p>

<p>With a look of mystical horror on his face, he took
one stride, flung the door wide, and vanished into the
darkness.</p>

<p>So quick were both words and action, that Tom&rsquo;s
paralysis passed only as the draught from the broken window
banged the door behind him. He seemed to leap
across the room, old Rossiter, tears on his cheeks and
his lips mumbling foolish words, so close upon his heels
that the backward blow of fury Tom aimed at his face
caught him only in the neck and sent him reeling sideways
to the floor instead of flat upon his back.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Murderer! My brother&rsquo;s death upon you!&rdquo; he shouted
as he tore the door open again and plunged out into the
night.</p>

<p>And the odd thing that happened then, the thing that
touched old John Rossiter&rsquo;s reason, leaving him from that
moment till his death a foolish man of uncertain mind
and memory, happened when he and the unconscious,
drink-sodden Sandy lay alone together on the stone floor
of that farm-house room.</p>

<p>Rossiter, dazed by the blow and his fall, but in full
possession of his senses, and the anger gone out of him
owing to what he had brought about, this same John Rossiter
sat up and saw Sandy also sitting up and staring at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
him hard. And Sandy was sober as a judge, his eyes and
speech both clear, even his face unflushed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;John Rossiter,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it was not God who appointed
you executioner. It was the devil.&rdquo; And his
eyes, thought Rossiter, were like the eyes of an angel.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sandy McKay,&rdquo; he stammered, his teeth chattering
and breath failing him. &ldquo;Sandy McKay!&rdquo; It was all
the words that he could find. But Sandy, already sunk
back into his stupor again, was stretched drunk and incapable
upon the farm-house floor, and remained in that
condition till the dawn.</p>

<p>Jim&rsquo;s body lay hidden among the dunes for many
months and in spite of the most careful and prolonged
searching. It was another storm that laid it bare. The
sand had covered it. The clothes were gone, and the
flesh, torn but not eaten, was naked to the December sun
and wind.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>


<h2>II<br />
<br />
CHINESE MAGIC</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Dr. Owen Francis</span> felt a sudden wave of pleasure
and admiration sweep over him as he saw her enter
the room. He was in the act of going out; in fact, he
had already said good-bye to his hostess, glad to make his
escape from the chattering throng, when the tall and graceful
young woman glided past him. Her carriage was superb;
she had black eyes with a twinkling happiness in
them; her mouth was exquisite. Round her neck, in spite
of the warm afternoon, she wore a soft thing of fur or
feathers; and as she brushed by to shake the hand he
had just shaken himself, the tail of this touched his very
cheek. Their eyes met fair and square. He felt as though
her eyes also touched him.</p>

<p>Changing his mind, he lingered another ten minutes,
chatting with various ladies he did not in the least remember,
but who remembered him. He did not, of course,
desire to exchange banalities with these other ladies, yet
did so gallantly enough. If they found him absent-minded
they excused him since he was the famous mental specialist
whom everybody was proud to know. And all the time
his eyes never left the tall graceful figure that allured him
almost to the point of casting a spell upon him.</p>

<p>His first impression deepened as he watched. He was
aware of excitement, curiosity, longing; there was a touch
even of exaltation in him; yet he took no steps to seek the
introduction which was easily enough procurable. He
checked himself, if with an effort. Several times their eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
met across the crowded room; he dared to believe&mdash;he felt
instinctively&mdash;that his interest was returned. Indeed, it
was more than instinct, for she was certainly aware of his
presence, and he even caught her indicating him to a
woman she spoke with, and evidently asking who he was.
Once he half bowed, and once, in spite of himself, he went
so far as to smile, and there came, he was sure, a faint,
delicious brightening of the eyes in answer. There was, he
fancied, a look of yearning in the face. The young woman
charmed him inexpressibly; the very way she moved delighted
him. Yet at last he slipped out of the room without
a word, without an introduction, without even knowing
her name. He chose his moment when her back was
turned. It was characteristic of him.</p>

<p>For Owen Francis had ever regarded marriage, for
himself at least, as a disaster that could be avoided. He
was in love with his work, and his work was necessary to
humanity. Others might perpetuate the race, but he must
heal it. He had come to regard love as the bait wherewith
Nature lays her trap to fulfill her own ends. A man
in love was a man enjoying a delusion, a deluded man.
In his case, and he was nearing forty-five, the theory had
worked admirably, and the dangerous exception that proved
it had as yet not troubled him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s come at last&mdash;I do believe,&rdquo; he thought to himself,
as he walked home, a new tumultuous emotion in his
blood; &ldquo;the exception, quite possibly, has come at last.
I wonder....&rdquo;</p>

<p>And it seemed he said it to the tall graceful figure by
his side, who turned up dark eyes smilingly to meet his
own, and whose lips repeated softly his last two words &ldquo;I
wonder....&rdquo;</p>

<p>The experience, being new to him, was baffling. A
part of his nature, long dormant, received the authentic
thrill that pertains actually to youth. He was a man of
chaste, abstemious custom. The reaction was vehement.
That dormant part of him became obstreperous. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
thought of his age, his appearance, his prospects; he
looked thirty-eight, he was not unhandsome, his position
was secure, even remarkable. That gorgeous young
woman&mdash;he called her gorgeous&mdash;haunted him. Never
could he forget that face, those eyes. It was extraordinary&mdash;he
had left her there unspoken to, unknown, when
an introduction would have been the simplest thing in the
world.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But it still is,&rdquo; he replied. And the reflection filled
his being with a flood of joy.</p>

<p>He checked himself again. Not so easily is established
habit routed. He felt instinctively that, at last, he
had met his mate; if he followed it up he was a man in
love, a lost man enjoying a delusion, a deluded man. But
the way she had looked at him! That air of intuitive
invitation which not even the sweetest modesty could conceal!
He felt an immense confidence in himself; also he
felt oddly sure of her.</p>

<p>The presence of that following figure, already precious,
came with him into his house, even into his study at the
back where he sat over a number of letters by the open
window. The pathetic little London garden showed its
pitiful patch. The lilac had faded, but a smell of roses
entered. The sun was just behind the buildings opposite,
and the garden lay soft and warm in summer shadows.</p>

<p>He read and tossed aside the letters; one only interested
him, from Edward Farque, whose journey to China
had interrupted a friendship of long standing. Edward
Farque&rsquo;s work on eastern art and philosophy, on Chinese
painting and Chinese thought in particular, had made its
mark. He was an authority. He was to be back about this
time, and his friend smiled with pleasure. &ldquo;Dear old unpractical
dreamer, as I used to call him,&rdquo; he mused. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s
a success, anyhow!&rdquo; And as he mused, the presence that
sat beside him came a little closer, yet at the same time
faded. Not that he forgot her&mdash;that was impossible&mdash;but
that just before opening the letter from his friend, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
had come to a decision. He had definitely made up his
mind to seek acquaintance. The reality replaced the remembered
substitute.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>&ldquo;As the newspapers may have warned you,&rdquo; ran the
familiar and kinky writing, &ldquo;I am back in England after
what the scribes term my ten years of exile in Cathay.
I have taken a little house in Hampstead for six months,
and am just settling in. Come to us to-morrow night and
let me prove it to you. Come to dinner. We shall have
much to say; we both are ten years wiser. You know
how glad I shall be to see my old-time critic and disparager,
but let me add frankly that I want to ask you
a few professional, or, rather, technical, questions. So
prepare yourself to come as doctor and as friend. I am
writing, as the papers said truthfully, a treatise on Chinese
thought. But&mdash;don&rsquo;t shy!&mdash;it is about Chinese Magic
that I want your technical advice [the last two words were
substituted for &ldquo;professional wisdom,&rdquo; which had been
crossed out] and the benefit of your vast experience. So
come, old friend, come quickly, and come hungry! I&rsquo;ll
feed your body as you shall feed my mind.&mdash;Yours,<br />

<span class="sign">&ldquo;Edward Farque.&rdquo;</span><br /></p>

<p>&ldquo;P.S.&mdash;&lsquo;The coming of a friend from a far-off land&mdash;is
not this true joy?&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
</div>

<p>Dr. Francis laid down the letter with a pleased anticipatory
chuckle, and it was the touch in the final sentence
that amused him. In spite of being an authority, Farque
was clearly the same fanciful, poetic dreamer as of old.
He quoted Confucius as in other days. The firm but
kinky writing had not altered either. The only sign of
novelty he noticed was the use of scented paper, for a
faint and pungent aroma clung to the big quarto sheet.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A Chinese habit, doubtless,&rdquo; he decided, sniffing it
with a puzzled air of disapproval. Yet it had nothing in
common with the scented sachets some ladies use too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
lavishly, so that even the air of the street is polluted by
their passing for a dozen yards. He was familiar with
every kind of perfumed note-paper used in London, Paris,
and Constantinople. This one was difficult. It was delicate
and penetrating for all its faintness, pleasurable too.
He rather liked it, and while annoyed that he could not
name it, he sniffed at the letter several times, as though
it were a flower.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go,&rdquo; he decided at once, and wrote an acceptance
then and there. He went out and posted it. He meant
to prolong his walk into the Park, taking his chief preoccupation,
the face, the eyes, the figure, with him. Already
he was composing the note of inquiry to Mrs. Malleson,
his hostess of the tea-party, the note whose willing
answer should give him the name, the address, the means
of introduction he had now determined to secure. He
visualized that note of inquiry, seeing it in his mind&rsquo;s
eye; only, for some odd reason, he saw the kinky writing of
Farque instead of his own more elegant script. Association
of ideas and emotions readily explained this. Two
new and unexpected interests had entered his life on the
same day, and within half an hour of each other. What
he could not so readily explain, however, was that two
words in his friend&rsquo;s ridiculous letter, and in that kinky
writing, stood out sharply from the rest. As he slipped his
envelope into the mouth of the red pillar-box they shone
vividly in his mind. These two words were &ldquo;Chinese
Magic.&rdquo;</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>It was the warmth of his friend&rsquo;s invitation as much
as his own state of inward excitement that decided him
suddenly to anticipate his visit by twenty-four hours. It
would clear his judgment and help his mind, if he spent
the evening at Hampstead rather than alone with his own
thoughts. &ldquo;A dose of China,&rdquo; he thought, with a smile,
&ldquo;will do me good. Edward won&rsquo;t mind. I&rsquo;ll telephone.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>

<p>He left the Park soon after six o&rsquo;clock and acted upon
his impulse. The connexion was bad, the wire buzzed and
popped and crackled; talk was difficult; he did not hear
properly. The Professor had not yet come in, apparently.
Francis said he would come up anyhow on the chance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Velly pleased,&rdquo; said the voice in his ear, as he rang
off.</p>

<p>Going into his study, he drafted the note that should
result in the introduction that was now, it appeared, the
chief object of his life. The way this woman with the
black, twinkling eyes obsessed him was&mdash;he admitted it
with joy&mdash;extraordinary. The draft he put in his pocket,
intending to re-write it next morning, and all the way up
to Hampstead Heath the gracious figure glided silently
beside him, the eyes were ever present, his cheek still
glowed where the feather boa had touched his skin. Edward
Farque remained in the background. In fact, it
was on the very door-step, having rung the bell, that
Francis realized he must pull himself together. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve
come to see old Farque,&rdquo; he reminded himself, with a
smile. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got to be interested in him and his, and,
probably, for an hour or two, to talk Chinese&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; when
the door opened noiselessly, and he saw facing him, with
a grin of celestial welcome on his yellow face, a China-man.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; he said, with a start. He had not expected a
Chinese servant.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Velly pleased,&rdquo; the man bowed him in.</p>

<p>Dr. Francis stared round him with astonishment he
could not conceal. A great golden idol faced him in the
hall, its gleaming visage blazing out of a sort of miniature
golden palanquin, with a grin, half dignified, half cruel.
Fully double human size, it blocked the way, looking so
life-like that it might have moved to meet him without too
great a shock to what seemed possible. It rested on a
throne with four massive legs, carved, the doctor saw,
with serpents, dragons, and mythical monsters generally.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
Round it on every side were other things in keeping.
Name them he could not, describe them he did not try.
He summed them up in one word&mdash;China: pictures,
weapons, cloths and tapestries, bells, gongs, and figures of
every sort and kind imaginable.</p>

<p>Being ignorant of Chinese matters, Dr. Francis stood
and looked about him in a mental state of some confusion.
He had the feeling that he had entered a Chinese
temple, for there was a faint smell of incense hanging
about the house that was, to say the least, un-English.
Nothing English, in fact, was visible at all. The matting
on the floor, the swinging curtains of bamboo beads that
replaced the customary doors, the silk draperies and pictured
cushions, the bronze and ivory, the screens hung with
fantastic embroideries, everything was Chinese. Hampstead
vanished from his thoughts. The very lamps were
in keeping, the ancient lacquered furniture as well. The
value of what he saw, an expert could have told him, was
considerable.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You likee?&rdquo; queried the voice at his side.</p>

<p>He had forgotten the servant. He turned sharply.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very much; it&rsquo;s wonderfully done,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Makes
you feel at home, John, eh?&rdquo; he added tactfully, with a
smile, and was going to ask how long all this preparation
had taken, when a voice sounded on the stairs beyond. It
was a voice he knew, a note of hearty welcome in its deep
notes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The coming of a friend from a far-off land, even from
Harley Street&mdash;is not this true joy?&rdquo; he heard, and the
next minute was shaking the hand of his old and valued
friend. The intimacy between them had always been of
the truest.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I almost expected a pigtail,&rdquo; observed Francis, looking
him affectionately up and down, &ldquo;but, really&mdash;why,
you&rsquo;ve hardly changed at all!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Outwardly, not as much, perhaps, as Time expects,&rdquo;
was the happy reply, &ldquo;but inwardly&mdash;&mdash;!&rdquo; He scanned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
appreciatively the burly figure of the doctor in his turn.
&ldquo;And I can say the same of you,&rdquo; he declared, still holding
his hand tight. &ldquo;This is a real pleasure, Owen,&rdquo; he
went on in his deep voice, &ldquo;to see you again is a joy
to me. Old friends meeting again&mdash;there&rsquo;s nothing like
it in life, I believe, nothing.&rdquo; He gave the hand another
squeeze before he let it go. &ldquo;And we,&rdquo; he added, leading
the way into a room across the hall, &ldquo;neither of us is
a fugitive from life. We take what we can, I mean.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor smiled as he noted the un-English turn of
language, and together they entered a sitting-room that
was, again, more like some inner chamber of a Chinese
temple than a back room in a rented Hampstead house.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I only knew ten minutes ago that you were coming,
my dear fellow,&rdquo; the scholar was saying, as his friend
gazed round him with increased astonishment, &ldquo;or I would
have prepared more suitably for your reception. I was out
till late. All this&rdquo;&mdash;he waved his hand&mdash;&ldquo;surprises you,
of course, but the fact is I have been home some days
already, and most of what you see was arranged for me
in advance of my arrival. Hence its apparent completion.
I say &lsquo;apparent,&rsquo; because, actually, it is far from faithfully
carried out. Yet to exceed,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;is as bad as
to fall short.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor watched him while he listened to a somewhat
lengthy explanation of the various articles surrounding
them. The speaker&mdash;he confirmed his first impression&mdash;had
changed little during the long interval; the same
enthusiasm was in him as before, the same fire and dreaminess
alternately in the fine grey eyes, the same humour
and passion about the mouth, the same free gestures, and
the same big voice. Only the lines had deepened on the
forehead, and on the fine face the air of thoughtfulness
was also deeper. It was Edward Farque as of old, scholar,
poet, dreamer and enthusiast, despiser of western civilization,
contemptuous of money, generous and upright, a type
of value, an individual.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve done well, done splendidly, Edward, old
man,&rdquo; said his friend presently, after hearing of Chinese
wonders that took him somewhat beyond his depth perhaps.
&ldquo;No one is more pleased than I. I&rsquo;ve watched your
books. You haven&rsquo;t regretted England, I&rsquo;ll be bound?&rdquo;
he asked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The philosopher has no country, in any case,&rdquo; was
the reply, steadily given. &ldquo;But out there, I confess, I&rsquo;ve
found my home.&rdquo; He leaned forward, a deeper earnestness
in his tone and expression. And into his face, as he
spoke, came a glow of happiness. &ldquo;My heart,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;is in China.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see it is, I see it is,&rdquo; put in the other, conscious that
he could not honestly share his friend&rsquo;s enthusiasm. &ldquo;And
you&rsquo;re fortunate to be free to live where your treasure is,&rdquo;
he added after a moment&rsquo;s pause. &ldquo;You must be a happy
man. Your passion amounts to nostalgia, I suspect. Already
yearning to get back there, probably?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Farque gazed at him for some seconds with shining
eyes. &ldquo;You remember the Persian saying, I&rsquo;m sure,&rdquo; he
said. &ldquo;&lsquo;You see a man drink, but you do not see his
thirst.&rsquo; Well,&rdquo; he added, laughing happily, &ldquo;you may see
me off in six months&rsquo; time, but you will not see my happiness.&rdquo;</p>

<p>While he went on talking, the doctor glanced round
the room, marvelling still at the exquisite taste of everything,
the neat arrangement, the perfect matching of form
and colour. A woman might have done this thing, occurred
to him, as the haunting figure shifted deliciously
into the foreground of his mind again. The thought of her
had been momentarily replaced by all he heard and saw.
She now returned, filling him with joy, anticipation and
enthusiasm. Presently, when it was his turn to talk, he
would tell his friend about this new, unimagined happiness
that had burst upon him like a sunrise. Presently,
but not just yet. He remembered, too, with a passing
twinge of possible boredom to come, that there must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
some delay before his own heart could unburden itself in
its turn. Farque wanted to ask some professional questions,
of course. He had for the moment forgotten that
part of the letter in his general interest and astonishment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Happiness, yes....&rdquo; he murmured, aware that his
thoughts had wandered, and catching at the last word he
remembered hearing. &ldquo;As you said just now in your own
queer way&mdash;you haven&rsquo;t changed a bit, let me tell you,
in your picturesqueness of quotation, Edward&mdash;one must
not be fugitive from life; one must seize happiness when
and where it offers.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He said it lightly enough, hugging internally his own
sweet secret; but he was a little surprised at the earnestness
of his friend&rsquo;s rejoinder: &ldquo;Both of us, I see,&rdquo; came
the deep voice, backed by the flash of the far-seeing grey
eyes, &ldquo;have made some progress in the doctrine of life
and death.&rdquo; He paused, gazing at the other with sight
that was obviously turned inwards upon his own thoughts.
&ldquo;Beauty,&rdquo; he went on presently, his tone even more serious,
&ldquo;has been my lure; yours, Reality....&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t flatter either of us, Edward. That&rsquo;s too
exclusive a statement,&rdquo; put in the doctor. He was becoming
every minute more and more interested in the workings
of his friend&rsquo;s mind. Something about the signs
offered eluded his understanding. &ldquo;Explain yourself, old
scholar-poet. I&rsquo;m a dull, practical mind, remember, and
can&rsquo;t keep pace with Chinese subtleties.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>You&rsquo;ve</em> left out Beauty,&rdquo; was the quiet rejoinder,
&ldquo;while <em>I</em> left out Reality. That&rsquo;s neither Chinese nor
subtle. It is simply true.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A bit wholesale, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; laughed Francis. &ldquo;A big
generalization, rather.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A bright light seemed to illuminate the scholar&rsquo;s face.
It was as though an inner lamp was suddenly lit. At the
same moment the sound of a soft gong floated in from
the hall outside, so soft that the actual strokes were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
distinguishable in the wave of musical vibration that
reached the ear.</p>

<p>Farque rose to lead the way in to dinner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What if I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;have combined the
two?&rdquo; And upon his face was a look of joy that reached
down into the other&rsquo;s own full heart with its unexpectedness
and wonder. It was the last remark in the world
he had looked for. He wondered for a moment whether
he interpreted it correctly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;By Jove...!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Edward, what d&rsquo;you
mean?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You shall hear&mdash;after dinner,&rdquo; said Farque, his voice
mysterious, his eyes still shining with his inner joy. &ldquo;I
told you I have some questions to ask you&mdash;professionally.&rdquo;
And they took their seats round an ancient, marvellous
table, lit by two swinging lamps of soft green jade,
while the Chinese servant waited on them with the silent
movements and deft neatness of his imperturbable celestial
race.</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>To say that he was bored during the meal were an
over-statement of Dr. Francis&rsquo;s mental condition, but to
say that he was half-bored seemed the literal truth; for
one-half of him, while he ate his steak and savoury and
watched Farque manipulating <i lang="zh" xml:lang="zh">chou chop suey</i> and <i lang="zh" xml:lang="zh">chou
om dong</i> most cleverly with chop-sticks, was too pre-occupied
with his own romance to allow the other half to give
its full attention to the conversation.</p>

<p>He had entered the room, however, with a distinct
quickening of what may be termed his instinctive and infallible
sense of diagnosis. That last remark of his friend&rsquo;s
had stimulated him. He was aware of surprise, curiosity,
and impatience. Willy-nilly, he began automatically to
study him with a profounder interest. Something, he gathered,
was not quite as it should be in Edward Farque&rsquo;s
mental composition. There was what might be called an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
elusive emotional disturbance. He began to wonder and
to watch.</p>

<p>They talked, naturally, of China and of things Chinese,
for the scholar responded to little else, and Francis listened
with what sympathy and patience he could muster. Of art
and beauty he had hitherto known little, his mind was
practical and utilitarian. He now learned that all art was
derived from China, where a high, fine, subtle culture had
reigned since time immemorial. Older than Egypt was
their wisdom. When the western races were eating one
another, before Greece was even heard of, the Chinese had
reached a level of knowledge and achievement that few
realized. Never had they, even in earliest times, been deluded
by anthropomorphic conceptions of the Deity, but
perceived in everything the expressions of a single whole
whose giant activities they reverently worshipped. Their
contempt for the western scurry after knowledge, wealth,
machinery, was justified, if Farque was worthy of belief.
He seemed saturated with Chinese thought, art, philosophy,
and his natural bias towards the celestial race had
hardened into an attitude to life that had now become
ineradicable.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They deal, as it were, in essences,&rdquo; he declared;
&ldquo;they discern the essence of everything, leaving out the
superfluous, the unessential, the trivial. Their pictures
alone prove it. Come with me,&rdquo; he concluded, &ldquo;and see
the &lsquo;Earthly Paradise,&rsquo; now in the British Museum. It
is like Botticelli, but better than anything Botticelli ever
did. It was painted&rdquo;&mdash;he paused for emphasis&mdash;&ldquo;600
years B.C.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The wonder of this quiet, ancient civilization, a sense
of its depth, its wisdom, grew upon his listener as the
enthusiastic poet described its charm and influence upon
himself. He willingly allowed the enchantment of the
other&rsquo;s Paradise to steal upon his own awakened heart.
There was a good deal Francis might have offered by way
of criticism and objection, but he preferred on the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
to keep his own views to himself, and to let his friend
wander unhindered through the mazes of his passionate
evocation. All men, he well knew, needed a dream to
carry them through life&rsquo;s disappointments, a dream that
they could enter at will and find peace, contentment, happiness.
Farque&rsquo;s dream was China. Why not? It was
as good as another, and a man like Farque was entitled
to what dream he pleased.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And their women?&rdquo; he inquired at last, letting both
halves of his mind speak together for the first time.</p>

<p>But he was not prepared for the expression that leaped
upon his friend&rsquo;s face at the simple question. Nor for
his method of reply. It was no reply, in point of fact.
It was simply an attack upon all other types of woman,
and upon the white, the English, in particular&mdash;their emptiness,
their triviality, their want of intuitive imagination,
of spiritual grace, of everything, in a word, that should
constitute woman a meet companion for man, and a little
higher than the angels into the bargain. The doctor
listened spellbound. Too humorous to be shocked, he was,
at any rate, disturbed by what he heard, displeased a little,
too. It threatened too directly his own new tender dream.</p>

<p>Only with the utmost self-restraint did he keep his
temper under, and prevent hot words he would have regretted
later from tearing his friend&rsquo;s absurd claim into
ragged shreds. He was wounded personally as well. Never
now could he bring himself to tell his own secret to him.
The outburst chilled and disappointed him. But it had
another effect&mdash;it cooled his judgment. His sense of diagnosis
quickened. He divined an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">idée fixe</i>, a mania possibly.
His interest deepened abruptly. He watched. He
began to look about him with more wary eyes, and a sense
of uneasiness, once the anger passed, stirred in his friendly
and affectionate heart.</p>

<p>They had been sitting alone over their port for some
considerable time, the servant having long since left the
room. The doctor had sought to change the subject many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
times without much success, when suddenly Farque
changed it for him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he announced, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you something,&rdquo; and
Francis guessed that the professional questions were on
the way at last. &ldquo;We must pity the living, remember, and
part with the dead. Have you forgotten old Shan-Yu?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The forgotten name came back to him, the picturesque
East End dealer of many years ago. &ldquo;The old merchant
who taught you your first Chinese? I do recall him dimly;
now you mention it. You made quite a friend of him,
didn&rsquo;t you? He thought very highly of you&mdash;ah, it comes
back to me now&mdash;he offered something or other very wonderful
in his gratitude, unless my memory fails me?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;His most valuable possession,&rdquo; Farque went on, a
strange look deepening on his face, an expression of
mysterious rapture, as it were, and one that Francis recognized
and swiftly pigeon-holed in his now attentive mind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Which was?&rdquo; he asked sympathetically. &ldquo;You told
me once, but so long ago that really it&rsquo;s slipped my mind.
Something magical, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; He watched closely for
his friend&rsquo;s reply.</p>

<p>Farque lowered his voice to a whisper almost devotional:</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,&rdquo; he murmured,
with an expression in his eyes as though the mere
recollection gave him joy. &ldquo;&lsquo;Burn it,&rsquo; he told me, &lsquo;in a
brazier; then inhale. You will enter the Valley of a
Thousand Temples wherein lies the Garden of Happiness,
and there you will meet your Love. You will have seven
years of happiness with your Love before the Waters of
Separation flow between you. I give this to you who
alone of men here have appreciated the wisdom of my land.
Follow my body towards the Sunrise. You, an eastern
soul in a barbarian body, will meet your Destiny.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor&rsquo;s attention, such is the power of self-interest,
quickened amazingly as he heard. His own romance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
flamed up with power. His friend&mdash;it dawned upon him
suddenly&mdash;loved a woman.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said Farque, rising quietly, &ldquo;we will go into
the other room, and I will show you what I have shown to
but one other in the world before. You are a doctor,&rdquo; he
continued, as he led the way to the silk-covered divan
where golden dragons swallowed crimson suns, and
wonderful jade horses hovered near. &ldquo;You understand
the mind and nerves. States of consciousness you also
can explain, and the effect of drugs is, doubtless, known
to you.&rdquo; He swung to the heavy curtains that took the
place of door, handed a lacquered box of cigarettes to his
friend, and lit one himself. &ldquo;Perfumes, too,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;you probably have studied, with their extraordinary evocative
power.&rdquo; He stood in the middle of the room, the
green light falling on his interesting and thoughtful face,
and for a passing second Francis, watching keenly,
observed a change flit over it and vanish. The eyes grew
narrow and slid tilted upwards, the skin wore a shade of
yellow underneath the green from the lamp of jade, the
nose slipped back a little, the cheek-bones forward.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perfumes,&rdquo; said the doctor, &ldquo;no. Of perfumes I
know nothing, beyond their interesting effect upon the
memory. I cannot help you there. But, you, I suspect,&rdquo;
and he looked up with an inviting sympathy that concealed
the close observation underneath, &ldquo;you yourself, I
feel sure, can tell me something of value about them?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; was the calm reply, &ldquo;perhaps, for I have
smelt the perfume of the Garden of Happiness, and I have
been in the Valley of a Thousand Temples.&rdquo; He spoke
with a glow of joy and reverence almost devotional.</p>

<p>The doctor waited in some suspense, while his friend
moved towards an inlaid cabinet across the room. More
than broad-minded, he was that much rarer thing, an
open-minded man, ready at a moment&rsquo;s notice to discard
all preconceived ideas, provided new knowledge that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
necessitated the holocaust were shown to him. At present,
none the less, he held very definite views of his own.
&ldquo;Please ask me any questions you like,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;All
I know is entirely yours, as always.&rdquo; He was aware of
suppressed excitement in his friend that betrayed itself in
every word and look and gesture, an excitement intense,
and not as yet explained by anything he had seen or heard.</p>

<p>The scholar, meanwhile, had opened a drawer in the
cabinet and taken from it a neat little packet tied up with
purple silk. He held it with tender, almost loving care, as
he came and sat down on the divan beside his friend.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This,&rdquo; he said, in a tone, again, of something between
reverence and worship, &ldquo;contains what I have to
show you first.&rdquo; He slowly unrolled it, disclosing a yet
smaller silken bag within, coloured a deep rich orange.
There were two vertical columns of writing on it, painted
in Chinese characters. The doctor leaned forward to examine
them. His friend translated:</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,&rdquo; he read
aloud, tracing the letters of the first column with his
finger. &ldquo;The Destroyer of Honourable Homes,&rdquo; he finished,
passing to the second, and then proceeded to unwrap
the little silken bag. Before it was actually open,
however, and the pale shredded material resembling
coloured chaff visible to the eyes, the doctor&rsquo;s nostrils had
recognized the strange aroma he had first noticed about
his friend&rsquo;s letter received earlier in the day. The same
soft, penetrating odour, sharply piercing, sweet and delicate,
rose to his brain. It stirred at once a deep emotional
pleasure in him. Having come to him first when he was
aglow with his own unexpected romance, his mind and
heart full of the woman he had just left, that delicious,
torturing state revived in him quite naturally. The evocative
power of perfume with regard to memory is compelling.
A livelier sympathy towards his friend, and towards
what he was about to hear, awoke in him spontaneously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>

<p>He did not mention the letter, however. He merely
leaned over to smell the fragrant perfume more easily.</p>

<p>Farque drew back the open packet instantly, at the
same time holding out a warning hand. &ldquo;Careful,&rdquo; he
said gravely, &ldquo;be careful, my old friend&mdash;unless you desire
to share the rapture and the risk that have been mine.
To enjoy its full effect, true, this dust must be burned in a
brazier and its smoke inhaled; but even sniffed, as you
now would sniff it, and you are in danger&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of what?&rdquo; asked Francis, impressed by the other&rsquo;s
extraordinary intensity of voice and manner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of Heaven; but, possibly, of Heaven before your
time.&rdquo;</p>


<h3>4</h3>

<p>The tale that Farque unfolded then had certainly a
strange celestial flavour, a glory not of this dull world;
and as his friend listened, his interest deepened with every
minute, while his bewilderment increased. He watched
closely, expert that he was, for clues that might guide his
deductions aright, but for all his keen observation and
experience he could detect no inconsistency, no weakness,
nothing that betrayed the smallest mental aberration. The
origin and nature of what he already decided was an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">idée
fixe</i>, a mania, evaded him entirely. This evasion piqued
and vexed him; he had heard a thousand tales of similar
type before; that this one in particular should baffle his
unusual skill touched his pride. Yet he faced the position
honestly, he confessed himself baffled until the end of the
evening. When he went away, however, he went away
satisfied, even forgetful&mdash;because a new problem of yet
more poignant interest had replaced the first.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was after three years out there,&rdquo; said Farque, &ldquo;that
a sense of my loneliness first came upon me. It came upon
me bitterly. My work had not then been recognized; obstacles
and difficulties had increased; I felt a failure; I had
accomplished nothing. And it seemed to me I had misjudged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
my capacities, taken a wrong direction, and wasted
my life accordingly. For my move to China, remember,
was a radical move, and my boats were burnt behind me.
This sense of loneliness was really devastating.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Francis, already fidgeting, put up his hand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;One question, if I may,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll not interrupt
again.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;By all means,&rdquo; said the other patiently, &ldquo;what is it?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Were you&mdash;we are such old friends&rdquo;&mdash;he apologized&mdash;&ldquo;were
you still celibate as ever?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Farque looked surprised, then smiled. &ldquo;My habits had
not changed,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I was, as always, celibate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; murmured the doctor, and settled down to listen.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And I think now,&rdquo; his friend went on, &ldquo;that it was
the lack of companionship that first turned my thoughts
towards conscious disappointment. However that may be,
it was one evening, as I walked homewards to my little
house, that I caught my imagination lingering upon English
memories, though chiefly, I admit, upon my old
Chinese tutor, the dead Shan-Yu.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was dusk, the stars were coming out in the pale
evening air, and the orchards, as I passed them, stood
like wavering ghosts of unbelievable beauty. The effect
of thousands upon thousands of these trees, flooding the
twilight of a spring evening with their sea of blossom, is
almost unearthly. They seem transparencies, their colour
hangs sheets upon the very sky. I crossed a small wooden
bridge that joined two of these orchards above a stream,
and in the dark water I watched a moment the mingled
reflection of stars and flowering branches on the quiet surface.
It seemed too exquisite to belong to earth, this
fairy garden of stars and blossoms, shining faintly in the
crystal depths, and my thought, as I gazed, dived suddenly
down the little avenue that memory opened into former
days. I remembered Shan-Yu&rsquo;s present, given to me when
he died. His very words came back to me: The Garden
of Happiness in the Valley of the Thousand Temples,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
with its promise of love, of seven years of happiness, and
the prophecy that I should follow his body towards the
Sunrise and meet my destiny.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This memory I took home with me into my lonely
little one-storey house upon the hill. My servants did not
sleep there. There was no one near. I sat by the open
window with my thoughts, and you may easily guess that
before very long I had unearthed the long-forgotten packet
from among my things, spread a portion of its contents
on a metal tray above a lighted brazier, and was comfortably
seated before it, inhaling the light blue smoke with
its exquisite and fragrant perfume.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A light air entered through the window, the distant
orchards below me trembled, rose and floated through the
dusk, and I found myself, almost at once, in a pavilion of
flowers; a blue river lay shining in the sun before me, as
it wandered through a lovely valley where I saw groves
of flowering trees among a thousand scattered temples.
Drenched in light and colour, the Valley lay dreaming
amid a peaceful loveliness that woke what seemed impossible,
unrealizable, longings in my heart. I yearned towards
its groves and temples, I would bathe my soul in
that flood of tender light, and my body in the blue coolness
of that winding river. In a thousand temples must I worship.
Yet these impossible yearnings instantly were satisfied.
I found myself there at once ... and the time that
passed over my head you may reckon in centuries, if not
in ages. I was in the Garden of Happiness and its marvellous
perfume banished time and sorrow, there was no
end to chill the soul, nor any beginning, which is its foolish
counterpart.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nor was there loneliness.&rdquo; The speaker clasped his
thin hands, and closed his eyes a moment in what was
evidently an ecstasy of the sweetest memory man may ever
know. A slight trembling ran through his frame, communicating
itself to his friend upon the divan beside him&mdash;this
understanding, listening, sympathetic friend, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
eyes had never once yet withdrawn their attentive gaze
from the narrator&rsquo;s face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was not alone,&rdquo; the scholar resumed, opening his
eyes again, and smiling out of some deep inner joy. &ldquo;Shan-Yu
came down the steps of the first temple and took my
hand, while the great golden figures in the dim interior
turned their splendid shining heads to watch. Then,
breathing the soul of his ancient wisdom in my ear, he led
me through all the perfumed ways of that enchanted garden,
worshipping with me at a hundred deathless shrines,
led me, I tell you, to the sound of soft gongs and gentle
bells, by fragrant groves and sparkling streams, mid a
million gorgeous flowers, until, beneath that unsetting sun,
we reached the heart of the Valley, where the source of the
river gushed forth beneath the lighted mountains. He
stopped and pointed across the narrow waters. I saw the
woman&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>The</em> woman,&rdquo; his listener murmured beneath his
breath, though Farque seemed unaware of interruption.</p>

<p>&ldquo;She smiled at me and held her hands out, and while
she did so, even before I could express my joy and wonder
in response, Shan-Yu, I saw, had crossed the narrow
stream and stood beside her. I made to follow then, my
heart burning with inexpressible delight. But Shan-Yu
held up his hand, as they began to move down the flowered
bank together, making a sign that I should keep pace with
them, though on my own side.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Thus, side by side, yet with the blue sparkling stream
between us, we followed back along its winding course,
through the heart of that enchanted valley, my hands
stretched out towards the radiant figure of my Love, and
hers stretched out towards me. They did not touch, but
our eyes, our smiles, our thoughts, these met and mingled
in a sweet union of unimagined bliss, so that the absence
of physical contact was unnoticed and laid no injury on
our marvellous joy. It was a spirit union, and our kiss a
spirit kiss. Therein lay the subtlety and glory of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
Chinese wonder, for it was our <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">essences</i> that met, and for
such union there is no satiety and, equally, no possible
end. The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness is an
essence. We were in Eternity.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The stream, meanwhile, widened between us, and as
it widened, my Love grew farther from me in space,
smaller, less visibly defined, yet ever essentially more perfect,
and never once with a sense of distance that made
our union less divinely close. Across the widening reaches
of blue, sunlit water I still knew her smile, her eyes, the
gestures of her radiant being; I saw her exquisite reflection
in the stream; and, mid the music of those soft gongs
and gentle bells, the voice of Shan-Yu came like a melody
to my ears:</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You have followed me into the sunrise, and have
found your destiny. Behold now your Love. In this Valley
of a Thousand Temples you have known the Garden
of Happiness, and its Perfume your soul now inhales.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I am bathed,&rsquo; I answered, &lsquo;in a happiness divine. It
is forever.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;The Waters of Separation,&rsquo; his answer floated like
a bell, &lsquo;lie widening between you.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I moved nearer to the bank, impelled by the pain in
his words to take my Love and hold her to my breast.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;But I would cross to her,&rsquo; I cried, and saw that, as
I moved, Shan-Yu and my Love came likewise closer to the
water&rsquo;s edge across the widening river. They both obeyed,
I was aware, my slightest wish.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Seven years of Happiness you may know,&rsquo; sang his
gentle tones across the brimming flood, &lsquo;if you would
cross to her. Yet the Destroyer of Honourable Homes lies
in the shadows that you must cast outside.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I heard his words, I noticed for the first time that in
the blaze of this radiant sunshine we cast no shadows on
the sea of flowers at our feet, and&mdash;I stretched out my
arms towards my Love across the river.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I accept my destiny,&rsquo; I cried, &lsquo;I will have my seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
years of bliss,&rsquo; and stepped forward into the running flood.
As the cool water took my feet, my Love&rsquo;s hands stretched
out both to hold me and to bid me stay. There was acceptance
in her gesture, but there was warning too.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I did not falter. I advanced until the water bathed
my knees, and my Love, too, came to meet me, the stream
already to her waist, while our arms stretched forth above
the running flood towards each other.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The change came suddenly. Shan-Yu first faded behind
her advancing figure into air; there stole a chill upon
the sunlight; a cool mist rose from the water, hiding the
Garden and the hills beyond; our fingers touched, I gazed
into her eyes, our lips lay level with the water&mdash;and the
room was dark and cold about me. The brazier stood
extinguished at my side. The dust had burnt out, and no
smoke rose. I slowly left my chair and closed the window,
for the air was chill.&rdquo;</p>


<h3>5</h3>

<p>It was difficult at first to return to Hampstead and the
details of ordinary life about him. Francis looked round
him slowly, freeing himself gradually from the spell his
friend&rsquo;s words had laid even upon his analytical temperament.
The transition was helped, however, by the details
that everywhere met his eye. The Chinese atmosphere
remained. More, its effect had gained, if anything. The
embroideries of yellow gold, the pictures, the lacquered
stools and inlaid cabinets, above all, the exquisite figures
in green jade upon the shelf beside him, all this, in the
shimmering pale olive light the lamps shed everywhere,
helped his puzzled mind to bridge the gulf from the Garden
of Happiness into the decorated villa upon Hampstead
Heath.</p>

<p>There was silence between the two men for several
minutes. Far was it from the doctor&rsquo;s desire to injure his
old friend&rsquo;s delightful fantasy. For he called it fantasy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
although something in him trembled. He remained, therefore,
silent. Truth to tell, perhaps, he knew not exactly
what to say.</p>

<p>Farque broke the silence himself. He had not moved
since the story ended; he sat motionless, his hands tightly
clasped, his eyes alight with the memory of his strange
imagined joy, his face rapt and almost luminous, as though
he still wandered through the groves of the Enchanted
Garden and inhaled the perfume of its perfect happiness
in the Valley of the Thousand Temples.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was two days later,&rdquo; he went on suddenly in his
quiet voice, &ldquo;only two days afterwards, that I met her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You met her? You met the woman of your dream?&rdquo;
Francis&rsquo;s eyes opened very wide.</p>

<p>&ldquo;In that little harbour town,&rdquo; repeated Farque calmly,
&ldquo;I met her in the flesh. She had just landed in a steamer
from up the coast. The details are of no particular interest.
She knew me, of course, at once. And, naturally, I
knew her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor&rsquo;s tongue refused to act as he heard. It
dawned upon him suddenly that his friend was married.
He remembered the woman&rsquo;s touch about the house; he
recalled, too, for the first time that the letter of invitation
to dinner had said &ldquo;come to <em>us</em>.&rdquo; He was full of a bewildered
astonishment.</p>

<p>The reaction upon himself was odd, perhaps, yet wholly
natural. His heart warmed towards his imaginative
friend. He could now tell him his own new strange
romance. The woman who haunted him crept back into
the room and sat between them. He found his tongue.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You married her, Edward?&rdquo; he exclaimed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;She is my wife,&rdquo; was the reply, in a gentle, happy
voice.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A Ch&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he could not bring himself to say the
word. &ldquo;A foreigner?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My wife is a Chinese woman,&rdquo; Farque helped him
easily, with a delighted smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>

<p>So great was the other&rsquo;s absorption in the actual moment,
that he had not heard the step in the passage that
his host had heard. The latter stood up suddenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hear her now,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad she&rsquo;s come
back before you left.&rdquo; He stepped towards the door.</p>

<p>But before he reached it, the door was opened and in
came the woman herself. Francis tried to rise, but something
had happened to him. His heart missed a beat.
Something, it seemed, broke in him. He faced a tall,
graceful young English woman with black eyes of sparkling
happiness, the woman of his own romance. She still wore
the feather boa round her neck. She was no more Chinese
than he was.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My wife,&rdquo; he heard Farque introducing them, as he
struggled to his feet, searching feverishly for words of
congratulation, normal, everyday words he ought to use,
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m so pleased, oh, so pleased,&rdquo; Farque was saying&mdash;he
heard the sound from a distance, his sight was blurred
as well&mdash;&ldquo;my two best friends in the world, my English
comrade and my Chinese wife.&rdquo; His voice was absolutely
sincere with conviction and belief.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But we have already met,&rdquo; came the woman&rsquo;s delightful
voice, her eyes full upon his face with smiling pleasure,
&ldquo;I saw you at Mrs. Malleson&rsquo;s tea only this afternoon.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And Francis remembered suddenly that the Mallesons
were old acquaintances of Farque&rsquo;s as well as of himself.
&ldquo;And I even dared to ask who you were,&rdquo; the voice went
on, floating from some other space, it seemed, to his ears,
&ldquo;I had you pointed out to me. I had heard of you from
Edward, of course. But you vanished before I could be
introduced.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor mumbled something or other polite and, he
hoped, adequate. But the truth had flashed upon him with
remorseless suddenness. She had &ldquo;heard of&rdquo; him&mdash;the
famous mental specialist. Her interest in him was cruelly
explained, cruelly both for himself and for his friend.
Farque&rsquo;s delusion lay clear before his eyes. An awakening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
to reality might involve dislocation of the mind. <em>She</em>,
too, moreover, knew the truth. She was involved as well.
And her interest in himself was&mdash;consultation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Seven years we&rsquo;ve been married, just seven years to-day,&rdquo;
Farque was saying thoughtfully, as he looked at
them. &ldquo;Curious, rather, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very,&rdquo; said Francis, turning his regard from the
black eyes to the grey.</p>

<p>Thus it was that Owen Francis left the house a little
later with a mind in a measure satisfied, yet in a measure
forgetful too&mdash;forgetful of his own deep problem, because
another of even greater interest had replaced it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why undeceive him?&rdquo; ran his thought. &ldquo;He need
never know. It&rsquo;s harmless anyhow&mdash;I can tell her that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But, side by side with this reflection, ran another that
was oddly haunting, considering his type of mind:
&ldquo;Destroyer of Honourable Homes,&rdquo; was the form of words
it took. And with a sigh he added &ldquo;Chinese Magic.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>


<h2>III<br />
<br />
RUNNING WOLF</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> man who enjoys an adventure outside the general
experience of the race, and imparts it to others, must
not be surprised if he is taken for either a liar or a fool,
as Malcolm Hyde, hotel clerk on a holiday, discovered in
due course. Nor is &ldquo;enjoy&rdquo; the right word to use in
describing his emotions; the word he chose was probably
&ldquo;survive.&rdquo;</p>

<p>When he first set eyes on Medicine Lake he was struck
by its still, sparkling beauty, lying there in the vast Canadian
backwoods; next, by its extreme loneliness; and,
lastly&mdash;a good deal later, this&mdash;by its combination of
beauty, loneliness, and singular atmosphere, due to the
fact that it was the scene of his adventure.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s fairly stiff with big fish,&rdquo; said Morton of the
Montreal Sporting Club. &ldquo;Spend your holiday there&mdash;up
Mattawa way, some fifteen miles west of Stony Creek.
You&rsquo;ll have it all to yourself except for an old Indian who&rsquo;s
got a shack there. Camp on the east side&mdash;if you&rsquo;ll take
a tip from me.&rdquo; He then talked for half an hour about
the wonderful sport; yet he was not otherwise very communicative,
and did not suffer questions gladly, Hyde
noticed. Nor had he stayed there very long himself. If
it was such a paradise as Morton, its discoverer and the
most experienced rod in the province, claimed, why had
he himself spent only three days there?</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ran short of grub,&rdquo; was the explanation offered; but
to another friend he had mentioned briefly, &ldquo;flies,&rdquo; and to
a third, so Hyde learned later, he gave the excuse that his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
half-breed &ldquo;took sick,&rdquo; necessitating a quick return to
civilization.</p>

<p>Hyde, however, cared little for the explanations; his
interest in these came later. &ldquo;Stiff with fish&rdquo; was the
phrase he liked. He took the Canadian Pacific train to
Mattawa, laid in his outfit at Stony Creek, and set off
thence for the fifteen-mile canoe-trip without a care in
the world.</p>

<p>Travelling light, the portages did not trouble him; the
water was swift and easy, the rapids negotiable; everything
came his way, as the saying is. Occasionally he saw
big fish making for the deeper pools, and was sorely
tempted to stop; but he resisted. He pushed on between
the immense world of forests that stretched for hundreds
of miles, known to deer, bear, moose, and wolf, but strange
to any echo of human tread, a deserted and primeval wilderness.
The autumn day was calm, the water sang and
sparkled, the blue sky hung cloudless over all, ablaze with
light. Toward evening he passed an old beaver-dam,
rounded a little point, and had his first sight of Medicine
Lake. He lifted his dripping paddle; the canoe shot with
silent glide into calm water. He gave an exclamation of
delight, for the loveliness caught his breath away.</p>

<p>Though primarily a sportsman, he was not insensible
to beauty. The lake formed a crescent, perhaps four miles
long, its width between a mile and half a mile. The
slanting gold of sunset flooded it. No wind stirred its
crystal surface. Here it had lain since the redskin&rsquo;s god
first made it; here it would lie until he dried it up again.
Towering spruce and hemlock trooped to its very edge,
majestic cedars leaned down as if to drink, crimson
sumachs shone in fiery patches, and maples gleamed orange
and red beyond belief. The air was like wine, with the
silence of a dream.</p>

<p>It was here the red men formerly &ldquo;made medicine,&rdquo;
with all the wild ritual and tribal ceremony of an ancient
day. But it was of Morton, rather than of Indians, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
Hyde thought. If this lonely, hidden paradise was really
stiff with big fish, he owed a lot to Morton for the information.
Peace invaded him, but the excitement of the hunter
lay below.</p>

<p>He looked about him with quick, practised eye for a
camping-place before the sun sank below the forests and
the half-lights came. The Indian&rsquo;s shack, lying in full
sunshine on the eastern shore, he found at once; but the
trees lay too thick about it for comfort, nor did he wish
to be so close to its inhabitant. Upon the opposite side,
however, an ideal clearing offered. This lay already in
shadow, the huge forest darkening it toward evening; but
the open space attracted. He paddled over quickly and
examined it. The ground was hard and dry, he found,
and a little brook ran tinkling down one side of it into
the lake. This outfall, too, would be a good fishing spot.
Also it was sheltered. A few low willows marked the
mouth.</p>

<p>An experienced camper soon makes up his mind. It
was a perfect site, and some charred logs, with traces of
former fires, proved that he was not the first to think so.
Hyde was delighted. Then, suddenly, disappointment
came to tinge his pleasure. His kit was landed, and
preparations for putting up the tent were begun, when he
recalled a detail that excitement had so far kept in the
background of his mind&mdash;Morton&rsquo;s advice. But not Morton&rsquo;s
only, for the storekeeper at Stony Creek had reinforced
it. The big fellow with straggling moustache and
stooping shoulders, dressed in shirt and trousers, had
handed him out a final sentence with the bacon, flour, condensed
milk, and sugar. He had repeated Morton&rsquo;s half-forgotten
words:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Put yer tent on the east shore. I should,&rdquo; he had
said at parting.</p>

<p>He remembered Morton, too, apparently. &ldquo;A shortish
fellow, brown as an Indian and fairly smelling of the
woods. Travelling with Jake, the half-breed.&rdquo; That<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
assuredly was Morton. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t stay long, now, did he?&rdquo;
he added in a reflective tone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Going Windy Lake way, are yer? Or Ten Mile Water,
maybe?&rdquo; he had first inquired of Hyde.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Medicine Lake.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is that so?&rdquo; the man said, as though he doubted it
for some obscure reason. He pulled at his ragged moustache
a moment. &ldquo;Is that so, now?&rdquo; he repeated. And
the final words followed him down-stream after a considerable
pause&mdash;the advice about the best shore on which
to put his tent.</p>

<p>All this now suddenly flashed back upon Hyde&rsquo;s mind
with a tinge of disappointment and annoyance, for when
two experienced men agreed, their opinion was not to be
lightly disregarded. He wished he had asked the storekeeper
for more details. He looked about him, he reflected,
he hesitated. His ideal camping-ground lay certainly
on the forbidden shore. What in the world, he
pondered, could be the objection to it?</p>

<p>But the light was fading; he must decide quickly one
way or the other. After staring at his unpacked dunnage
and the tent, already half erected, he made up his mind
with a muttered expression that consigned both Morton
and the storekeeper to less pleasant places. &ldquo;They must
have <em>some</em> reason,&rdquo; he growled to himself; &ldquo;fellows like
that usually know what they&rsquo;re talking about. I guess I&rsquo;d
better shift over to the other side&mdash;for to-night, at any
rate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He glanced across the water before actually reloading.
No smoke rose from the Indian&rsquo;s shack. He had seen no
sign of a canoe. The man, he decided, was away. Reluctantly,
then, he left the good camping-ground and
paddled across the lake, and half an hour later his tent was
up, firewood collected, and two small trout were already
caught for supper. But the bigger fish, he knew, lay waiting
for him on the other side by the little outfall, and
he fell asleep at length on his bed of balsam boughs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
annoyed and disappointed, yet wondering how a mere sentence
could have persuaded him so easily against his own
better judgment. He slept like the dead; the sun was well
up before he stirred.</p>

<p>But his morning mood was a very different one. The
brilliant light, the peace, the intoxicating air, all this was
too exhilarating for the mind to harbour foolish fancies,
and he marvelled that he could have been so weak the night
before. No hesitation lay in him anywhere. He struck
camp immediately after breakfast, paddled back across the
strip of shining water, and quickly settled in upon the
forbidden shore, as he now called it, with a contemptuous
grin. And the more he saw of the spot, the better he
liked it. There was plenty of wood, running water to
drink, an open space about the tent, and there were no flies.
The fishing, moreover, was magnificent. Morton&rsquo;s description
was fully justified, and &ldquo;stiff with big fish&rdquo; for once
was not an exaggeration.</p>

<p>The useless hours of the early afternoon he passed
dozing in the sun, or wandering through the underbrush
beyond the camp. He found no sign of anything unusual.
He bathed in a cool, deep pool; he revelled in the lonely
little paradise. Lonely it certainly was, but the loneliness
was part of its charm; the stillness, the peace, the
isolation of this beautiful backwoods lake delighted him.
The silence was divine. He was entirely satisfied.</p>

<p>After a brew of tea, he strolled toward evening along
the shore, looking for the first sign of a rising fish. A
faint ripple on the water, with the lengthening shadows,
made good conditions. <em>Plop</em> followed <em>plop</em>, as the big
fellows rose, snatched at their food, and vanished into the
depths. He hurried back. Ten minutes later he had
taken his rods and was gliding cautiously in the canoe
through the quiet water.</p>

<p>So good was the sport, indeed, and so quickly did the
big trout pile up in the bottom of the canoe that, despite
the growing lateness, he found it hard to tear himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
away. &ldquo;One more,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and then I really will go.&rdquo;
He landed that &ldquo;one more,&rdquo; and was in act of taking it
off the hook, when the deep silence of the evening was
curiously disturbed. He became abruptly aware that
someone watched him. A pair of eyes, it seemed, were
fixed upon him from some point in the surrounding
shadows.</p>

<p>Thus, at least, he interpreted the odd disturbance in
his happy mood; for thus he felt it. The feeling stole
over him without the slightest warning. He was not alone.
The slippery big trout dropped from his fingers. He sat
motionless, and stared about him.</p>

<p>Nothing stirred; the ripple on the lake had died away;
there was no wind; the forest lay a single purple mass
of shadow; the yellow sky, fast fading, threw reflections
that troubled the eye and made distances uncertain. But
there was no sound, no movement; he saw no figure anywhere.
Yet he knew that someone watched him, and a
wave of quite unreasoning terror gripped him. The nose
of the canoe was against the bank. In a moment, and
instinctively, he shoved it off and paddled into deeper
water. The watcher, it came to him also instinctively, was
quite close to him upon that bank. But where? And
who? Was it the Indian?</p>

<p>Here, in deeper water, and some twenty yards from
the shore, he paused and strained both sight and hearing
to find some possible clue. He felt half ashamed, now
that the first strange feeling passed a little. But the certainty
remained. Absurd as it was, he felt positive that
someone watched him with concentrated and intent regard.
Every fibre in his being told him so; and though he could
discover no figure, no new outline on the shore, he could
even have sworn in which clump of willow bushes the
hidden person crouched and stared. His attention seemed
drawn to that particular clump.</p>

<p>The water dripped slowly from his paddle, now lying
across the thwarts. There was no other sound. The canvas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
of his tent gleamed dimly. A star or two were out.
He waited. Nothing happened.</p>

<p>Then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling passed,
and he knew that the person who had been watching him
intently had gone. It was as if a current had been turned
off; the normal world flowed back; the landscape emptied
as if someone had left a room. The disagreeable feeling
left him at the same time, so that he instantly turned the
canoe in to the shore again, landed, and, paddle in hand,
went over to examine the clump of willows he had singled
out as the place of concealment. There was no one there,
of course, nor any trace of recent human occupancy. No
leaves, no branches stirred, nor was a single twig displaced;
his keen and practised sight detected no sign of
tracks upon the ground. Yet, for all that, he felt positive
that a little time ago someone had crouched among
these very leaves and watched him. He remained absolutely
convinced of it. The watcher, whether Indian,
hunter, stray lumberman, or wandering half-breed, had
now withdrawn, a search was useless, and dusk was falling.
He returned to his little camp, more disturbed perhaps
than he cared to acknowledge. He cooked his supper,
hung up his catch on a string, so that no prowling animal
could get at it during the night, and prepared to make
himself comfortable until bedtime. Unconsciously, he built
a bigger fire than usual, and found himself peering over
his pipe into the deep shadows beyond the firelight, straining
his ears to catch the slightest sound. He remained
generally on the alert in a way that was new to him.</p>

<p>A man under such conditions and in such a place need
not know discomfort until the sense of loneliness strikes
him as too vivid a reality. Loneliness in a backwoods
camp brings charm, pleasure, and a happy sense of calm
until, and unless, it comes too near. It should remain an
ingredient only among other conditions; it should not be
directly, vividly noticed. Once it has crept within short
range, however, it may easily cross the narrow line between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
comfort and discomfort, and darkness is an undesirable
time for the transition. A curious dread may easily
follow&mdash;the dread lest the loneliness suddenly be disturbed,
and the solitary human feel himself open to attack.</p>

<p>For Hyde, now, this transition had been already accomplished;
the too intimate sense of his loneliness had
shifted abruptly into the worse condition of no longer
being quite alone. It was an awkward moment, and the
hotel clerk realized his position exactly. He did not quite
like it. He sat there, with his back to the blazing logs,
a very visible object in the light, while all about him the
darkness of the forest lay like an impenetrable wall. He
could not see a foot beyond the small circle of his camp-fire;
the silence about him was like the silence of the dead.
No leaf rustled, no wave lapped; he himself sat motionless
as a log.</p>

<p>Then again he became suddenly aware that the person
who watched him had returned, and that same intent and
concentrated gaze as before was fixed upon him where he
lay. There was no warning; he heard no stealthy tread
or snapping of dry twigs, yet the owner of those steady
eyes was very close to him, probably not a dozen feet away.
This sense of proximity was overwhelming.</p>

<p>It is unquestionable that a shiver ran down his spine.
This time, moreover, he felt positive that the man crouched
just beyond the firelight, the distance he himself could
see being nicely calculated, and straight in front of him.
For some minutes he sat without stirring a single muscle,
yet with each muscle ready and alert, straining his eyes
in vain to pierce the darkness, but only succeeding in
dazzling his sight with the reflected light. Then, as he
shifted his position slowly, cautiously, to obtain another
angle of vision, his heart gave two big thumps against his
ribs and the hair seemed to rise on his scalp with the sense
of cold that shot horribly up his spine. In the darkness
facing him he saw two small and greenish circles that
were certainly a pair of eyes, yet not the eyes of Indian,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
hunter, or of any human being. It was a pair of animal
eyes that stared so fixedly at him out of the night. And
this certainly had an immediate and natural effect upon
him.</p>

<p>For, at the menace of those eyes, the fears of millions
of long dead hunters since the dawn of time woke in him.
Hotel clerk though he was, heredity surged through him
in an automatic wave of instinct. His hand groped for
a weapon. His fingers fell on the iron head of his small
camp axe, and at once he was himself again. Confidence
returned; the vague, superstitious dread was gone. This
was a bear or wolf that smelt his catch and came to steal
it. With beings of that sort he knew instinctively how
to deal, yet admitting, by this very instinct, that his original
dread had been of quite another kind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll damned quick find out what it is,&rdquo; he exclaimed
aloud, and snatching a burning brand from the fire, he
hurled it with good aim straight at the eyes of the beast
before him.</p>

<p>The bit of pitch-pine fell in a shower of sparks that lit
the dry grass this side of the animal, flared up a moment,
then died quickly down again. But in that instant of
bright illumination he saw clearly what his unwelcome visitor
was. A big timber wolf sat on its hindquarters, staring
steadily at him through the firelight. He saw its legs
and shoulders, he saw its hair, he saw also the big hemlock
trunks lit up behind it, and the willow scrub on each
side. It formed a vivid, clear-cut picture shown in clear
detail by the momentary blaze. To his amazement, however,
the wolf did not turn and bolt away from the burning
log, but withdrew a few yards only, and sat there
again on its haunches, staring, staring as before. Heavens,
how it stared! He &ldquo;shoo-ed&rdquo; it, but without effect; it
did not budge. He did not waste another good log on it,
for his fear was dissipated now; a timber wolf was a timber
wolf, and it might sit there as long as it pleased, provided
it did not try to steal his catch. No alarm was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
him any more. He knew that wolves were harmless in
the summer and autumn, and even when &ldquo;packed&rdquo; in the
winter, they would attack a man only when suffering desperate
hunger. So he lay and watched the beast, threw
bits of stick in its direction, even talked to it, wondering
only that it never moved. &ldquo;You can stay there for ever,
if you like,&rdquo; he remarked to it aloud, &ldquo;for you cannot get
at my fish, and the rest of the grub I shall take into the
tent with me!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The creature blinked its bright green eyes, but made
no move.</p>

<p>Why, then, if his fear was gone, did he think of certain
things as he rolled himself in the Hudson Bay
blankets before going to sleep? The immobility of the
animal was strange, its refusal to turn and bolt was still
stranger. Never before had he known a wild creature that
was not afraid of fire. Why did it sit and watch him, as
with purpose in its dreadful eyes? How had he felt its
presence earlier and instantly? A timber wolf, especially
a solitary timber wolf, was a timid thing, yet this one
feared neither man nor fire. Now, as he lay there
wrapped in his blankets inside the cosy tent, it sat outside
beneath the stars, beside the fading embers, the wind chilly
in its fur, the ground cooling beneath its planted paws,
watching him, steadily watching him, perhaps until the
dawn.</p>

<p>It was unusual, it was strange. Having neither imagination
nor tradition, he called upon no store of racial
visions. Matter of fact, a hotel clerk on a fishing holiday,
he lay there in his blankets, merely wondering and puzzled.
A timber wolf was a timber wolf and nothing more. Yet
this timber wolf&mdash;the idea haunted him&mdash;was different. In
a word, the deeper part of his original uneasiness remained.
He tossed about, he shivered sometimes in his broken
sleep; he did not go out to see, but he woke early and
unrefreshed.</p>

<p>Again, with the sunshine and the morning wind, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
the incident of the night before was forgotten, almost
unreal. His hunting zeal was uppermost. The tea and
fish were delicious, his pipe had never tasted so good, the
glory of this lonely lake amid primeval forests went to
his head a little; he was a hunter before the Lord, and
nothing else. He tried the edge of the lake, and in the
excitement of playing a big fish, knew suddenly that <em>it</em>,
the wolf, was there. He paused with the rod, exactly as
if struck. He looked about him, he looked in a definite
direction. The brilliant sunshine made every smallest
detail clear and sharp&mdash;boulders of granite, burned stems,
crimson sumach, pebbles along the shore in neat, separate
detail&mdash;without revealing where the watcher hid. Then,
his sight wandering farther inshore among the tangled
undergrowth, he suddenly picked up the familiar, half-expected
outline. The wolf was lying behind a granite
boulder, so that only the head, the muzzle, and the eyes
were visible. It merged in its background. Had he not
known it was a wolf, he could never have separated it
from the landscape. The eyes shone in the sunlight.</p>

<p>There it lay. He looked straight at it. Their eyes, in
fact, actually met full and square. &ldquo;Great Scott!&rdquo; he exclaimed
aloud, &ldquo;why, it&rsquo;s like looking at a human being!&rdquo;
From that moment, unwittingly, he established a singular
personal relation with the beast. And what followed
confirmed this undesirable impression, for the animal rose
instantly and came down in leisurely fashion to the shore,
where it stood looking back at him. It stood and stared
into his eyes like some great wild dog, so that he was aware
of a new and almost incredible sensation&mdash;that it courted
recognition.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well! well!&rdquo; he exclaimed again, relieving his feelings
by addressing it aloud, &ldquo;if this doesn&rsquo;t beat everything
I ever saw! What d&rsquo;you want, anyway?&rdquo;</p>

<p>He examined it now more carefully. He had never
seen a wolf so big before; it was a tremendous beast, a
nasty customer to tackle, he reflected, if it ever came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
that. It stood there absolutely fearless and full of confidence.
In the clear sunlight he took in every detail of
it&mdash;a huge, shaggy, lean-flanked timber wolf, its wicked
eyes staring straight into his own, almost with a kind
of purpose in them. He saw its great jaws, its teeth, and
its tongue, hung out, dropping saliva a little. And yet the
idea of its savagery, its fierceness, was very little in him.</p>

<p>He was amazed and puzzled beyond belief. He wished
the Indian would come back. He did not understand this
strange behaviour in an animal. Its eyes, the odd expression
in them, gave him a queer, unusual, difficult feeling.
Had his nerves gone wrong, he almost wondered.</p>

<p>The beast stood on the shore and looked at him. He
wished for the first time that he had brought a rifle.
With a resounding smack he brought his paddle down flat
upon the water, using all his strength, till the echoes rang
as from a pistol-shot that was audible from one end of
the lake to the other. The wolf never stirred. He shouted,
but the beast remained unmoved. He blinked his eyes,
speaking as to a dog, a domestic animal, a creature accustomed
to human ways. It blinked its eyes in return.</p>

<p>At length, increasing his distance from the shore, he
continued fishing, and the excitement of the marvellous
sport held his attention&mdash;his surface attention, at any rate.
At times he almost forgot the attendant beast; yet whenever
he looked up, he saw it there. And worse; when
he slowly paddled home again, he observed it trotting
along the shore as though to keep him company. Crossing
a little bay, he spurted, hoping to reach the other point
before his undesired and undesirable attendant. Instantly
the brute broke into that rapid, tireless lope that, except
on ice, can run down anything on four legs in the woods.
When he reached the distant point, the wolf was waiting
for him. He raised his paddle from the water, pausing
a moment for reflection; for this very close attention&mdash;there
were dusk and night yet to come&mdash;he certainly did
not relish. His camp was near; he had to land; he felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
uncomfortable even in the sunshine of broad day, when,
to his keen relief, about half a mile from the tent, he saw
the creature suddenly stop and sit down in the open. He
waited a moment, then paddled on. It did not follow.
There was no attempt to move; it merely sat and watched
him. After a few hundred yards, he looked back. It was
still sitting where he left it. And the absurd, yet significant,
feeling came to him that the beast divined his
thought, his anxiety, his dread, and was now showing
him, as well as it could, that it entertained no hostile feeling
and did not meditate attack.</p>

<p>He turned the canoe toward the shore; he landed; he
cooked his supper in the dusk; the animal made no sign.
Not far away it certainly lay and watched, but it did not
advance. And to Hyde, observant now in a new way,
came one sharp, vivid reminder of the strange atmosphere
into which his commonplace personality had strayed: he
suddenly recalled that his relations with the beast, already
established, had progressed distinctly a stage further. This
startled him, yet without the accompanying alarm he must
certainly have felt twenty-four hours before. He had an
understanding with the wolf. He was aware of friendly
thoughts toward it. He even went so far as to set out a
few big fish on the spot where he had first seen it sitting
the previous night. &ldquo;If he comes,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;he is
welcome to them. I&rsquo;ve got plenty, anyway.&rdquo; He thought
of it now as &ldquo;he.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Yet the wolf made no appearance until he was in the
act of entering his tent a good deal later. It was close
on ten o&rsquo;clock, whereas nine was his hour, and late at
that, for turning in. He had, therefore, unconsciously
been waiting for him. Then, as he was closing the flap,
he saw the eyes close to where he had placed the fish.
He waited, hiding himself, and expecting to hear sounds
of munching jaws; but all was silence. Only the eyes
glowed steadily out of the background of pitch darkness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
He closed the flap. He had no slightest fear. In ten
minutes he was sound asleep.</p>

<p>He could not have slept very long, for when he woke
up he could see the shine of a faint red light through the
canvas, and the fire had not died down completely. He
rose and cautiously peeped out. The air was very cold;
he saw his breath. But he also saw the wolf, for it had
come in, and was sitting by the dying embers, not two
yards away from where he crouched behind the flap. And
this time, at these very close quarters, there was something
in the attitude of the big wild thing that caught his
attention with a vivid thrill of startled surprise and a
sudden shock of cold that held him spellbound. He
stared, unable to believe his eyes; for the wolf&rsquo;s attitude
conveyed to him something familiar that at first he was
unable to explain. Its pose reached him in the terms of
another thing with which he was entirely at home. What
was it? Did his senses betray him? Was he still asleep
and dreaming?</p>

<p>Then, suddenly, with a start of uncanny recognition,
he knew. Its attitude was that of a dog. Having found
the clue, his mind then made an awful leap. For it was,
after all, no dog its appearance aped, but something nearer
to himself, and more familiar still. Good heavens! It
sat there with the pose, the attitude, the gesture in repose
of something almost human. And then, with a second
shock of biting wonder, it came to him like a revelation.
The wolf sat beside that camp-fire as a man might sit.</p>

<p>Before he could weigh his extraordinary discovery, before
he could examine it in detail or with care, the animal,
sitting in this ghastly fashion, seemed to feel his
eyes fixed on it. It slowly turned and looked him in the
face, and for the first time Hyde felt a full-blooded, superstitious
fear flood through his entire being. He seemed
transfixed with that nameless terror that is said to attack
human beings who suddenly face the dead, finding themselves
bereft of speech and movement. This moment of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
paralysis certainly occurred. Its passing, however, was as
singular as its advent. For almost at once he was aware
of something beyond and above this mockery of human
attitude and pose, something that ran along unaccustomed
nerves and reached his feeling, even perhaps his heart.
The revulsion was extraordinary, its result still more extraordinary
and unexpected. Yet the fact remains. He was
aware of another thing that had the effect of stilling his
terror as soon as it was born. He was aware of appeal,
silent, half expressed, yet vastly pathetic. He saw in the
savage eyes a beseeching, even a yearning, expression that
changed his mood as by magic from dread to natural
sympathy. The great grey brute, symbol of cruel ferocity,
sat there beside his dying fire and appealed for help.</p>

<p>This gulf betwixt animal and human seemed in that
instant bridged. It was, of course, incredible. Hyde,
sleep still possibly clinging to his inner being with the
shades and half shapes of dream yet about his soul,
acknowledged, how he knew not, the amazing fact. He
found himself nodding to the brute in half consent, and
instantly, without more ado, the lean grey shape rose
like a wraith and trotted off swiftly, but with stealthy tread,
into the background of the night.</p>

<p>When Hyde woke in the morning his first impression
was that he must have dreamed the entire incident. His
practical nature asserted itself. There was a bite in the
fresh autumn air; the bright sun allowed no half lights
anywhere; he felt brisk in mind and body. Reviewing
what had happened, he came to the conclusion that it
was utterly vain to speculate; no possible explanation of
the animal&rsquo;s behaviour occurred to him; he was dealing with
something entirely outside his experience. His fear, however,
had completely left him. The odd sense of friendliness
remained. The beast had a definite purpose, and
he himself was included in that purpose. His sympathy
held good.</p>

<p>But with the sympathy there was also an intense curiosity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
&ldquo;If it shows itself again,&rdquo; he told himself, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go
up close and find out what it wants.&rdquo; The fish laid out
the night before had not been touched.</p>

<p>It must have been a full hour after breakfast when
he next saw the brute; it was standing on the edge of the
clearing, looking at him in the way now become familiar.
Hyde immediately picked up his axe and advanced toward
it boldly, keeping his eyes fixed straight upon its
own. There was nervousness in him, but kept well under;
nothing betrayed it; step by step he drew nearer until some
ten yards separated them. The wolf had not stirred a
muscle as yet. Its jaws hung open, its eyes observed him
intently; it allowed him to approach without a sign of
what its mood might be. Then, with these ten yards between
them, it turned abruptly and moved slowly off,
looking back first over one shoulder and then over the
other, exactly as a dog might do, to see if he was following.</p>

<p>A singular journey it was they then made together,
animal and man. The trees surrounded them at once, for
they left the lake behind them, entering the tangled bush
beyond. The beast, Hyde noticed, obviously picked the
easiest track for him to follow; for obstacles that meant
nothing to the four-legged expert, yet were difficult for a
man, were carefully avoided with an almost uncanny skill,
while yet the general direction was accurately kept. Occasionally
there were windfalls to be surmounted; but though
the wolf bounded over these with ease, it was always
waiting for the man on the other side after he had laboriously
climbed over. Deeper and deeper into the heart of
the lonely forest they penetrated in this singular fashion,
cutting across the arc of the lake&rsquo;s crescent, it seemed to
Hyde; for after two miles or so, he recognized the big
rocky bluff that overhung the water at its northern end.
This outstanding bluff he had seen from his camp, one
side of it falling sheer into the water; it was probably the
spot, he imagined, where the Indians held their medicine-making
ceremonies, for it stood out in isolated fashion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
and its top formed a private plateau not easy of access.
And it was here, close to a big spruce at the foot of the
bluff upon the forest side, that the wolf stopped suddenly
and for the first time since its appearance gave audible
expression to its feelings. It sat down on its haunches,
lifted its muzzle with open jaws, and gave vent to a
subdued and long-drawn howl that was more like the wail
of a dog than the fierce barking cry associated with a
wolf.</p>

<p>By this time Hyde had lost not only fear, but caution
too; nor, oddly enough, did this warning howl revive a
sign of unwelcome emotion in him. In that curious sound
he detected the same message that the eyes conveyed&mdash;appeal
for help. He paused, nevertheless, a little startled,
and while the wolf sat waiting for him, he looked about
him quickly. There was young timber here; it had once
been a small clearing, evidently. Axe and fire had done
their work, but there was evidence to an experienced eye
that it was Indians and not white men who had once been
busy here. Some part of the medicine ritual, doubtless,
took place in the little clearing, thought the man, as he
advanced again towards his patient leader. The end of
their queer journey, he felt, was close at hand.</p>

<p>He had not taken two steps before the animal got up
and moved very slowly in the direction of some low bushes
that formed a clump just beyond. It entered these, first
looking back to make sure that its companion watched.
The bushes hid it; a moment later it emerged again.
Twice it performed this pantomime, each time, as it reappeared,
standing still and staring at the man with as
distinct an expression of appeal in the eyes as an animal
may compass, probably. Its excitement, meanwhile, certainly
increased, and this excitement was, with equal certainty,
communicated to the man. Hyde made up his
mind quickly. Gripping his axe tightly, and ready to use
it at the first hint of malice, he moved slowly nearer to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
the bushes, wondering with something of a tremor what
would happen.</p>

<p>If he expected to be startled, his expectation was at
once fulfilled; but it was the behaviour of the beast that
made him jump. It positively frisked about him like a
happy dog. It frisked for joy. Its excitement was intense,
yet from its open mouth no sound was audible. With a
sudden leap, then, it bounded past him into the clump
of bushes, against whose very edge he stood, and began
scraping vigorously at the ground. Hyde stood and
stared, amazement and interest now banishing all his nervousness,
even when the beast, in its violent scraping, actually
touched his body with its own. He had, perhaps, the
feeling that he was in a dream, one of those fantastic
dreams in which things may happen without involving an
adequate surprise; for otherwise the manner of scraping
and scratching at the ground must have seemed an impossible
phenomenon. No wolf, no dog certainly, used its
paws in the way those paws were working. Hyde had the
odd, distressing sensation that it was hands, not paws, he
watched. And yet, somehow, the natural, adequate surprise
he should have felt was absent. The strange action
seemed not entirely unnatural. In his heart some deep
hidden spring of sympathy and pity stirred instead. He
was aware of pathos.</p>

<p>The wolf stopped in its task and looked up into his
face. Hyde acted without hesitation then. Afterwards he
was wholly at a loss to explain his own conduct. It seemed
he knew what to do, divined what was asked, expected of
him. Between his mind and the dumb desire yearning
through the savage animal there was intelligent and intelligible
communication. He cut a stake and sharpened
it, for the stones would blunt his axe-edge. He entered
the clump of bushes to complete the digging his four-legged
companion had begun. And while he worked,
though he did not forget the close proximity of the wolf,
he paid no attention to it; often his back was turned as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
stooped over the laborious clearing away of the hard earth;
no uneasiness or sense of danger was in him any more.
The wolf sat outside the clump and watched the operations.
Its concentrated attention, its patience, its intense
eagerness, the gentleness and docility of the grey, fierce,
and probably hungry brute, its obvious pleasure and satisfaction,
too, at having won the human to its mysterious
purpose&mdash;these were colours in the strange picture that
Hyde thought of later when dealing with the human herd
in his hotel again. At the moment he was aware chiefly
of pathos and affection. The whole business was, of
course, not to be believed, but that discovery came later,
too, when telling it to others.</p>

<p>The digging continued for fully half an hour before
his labour was rewarded by the discovery of a small
whitish object. He picked it up and examined it&mdash;the
finger-bone of a man. Other discoveries then followed
quickly and in quantity. The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cache</i> was laid bare. He
collected nearly the complete skeleton. The skull, however,
he found last, and might not have found at all but
for the guidance of his strangely alert companion. It lay
some few yards away from the central hole now dug, and
the wolf stood nuzzling the ground with its nose before
Hyde understood that he was meant to dig exactly in that
spot for it. Between the beast&rsquo;s very paws his stake
struck hard upon it. He scraped the earth from the bone
and examined it carefully. It was perfect, save for the
fact that some wild animal had gnawed it, the teeth-marks
being still plainly visible. Close beside it lay the rusty
iron head of a tomahawk. This and the smallness of the
bones confirmed him in his judgment that it was the skeleton
not of a white man, but of an Indian.</p>

<p>During the excitement of the discovery of the bones
one by one, and finally of the skull, but, more especially,
during the period of intense interest while Hyde was
examining them, he had paid little, if any, attention to the
wolf. He was aware that it sat and watched him, never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
moving its keen eyes for a single moment from the actual
operations, but of sign or movement it made none at all.
He knew that it was pleased and satisfied, he knew also
that he had now fulfilled its purpose in a great measure.
The further intuition that now came to him, derived, he
felt positive, from his companion&rsquo;s dumb desire, was perhaps
the cream of the entire experience to him. Gathering
the bones together in his coat, he carried them, together
with the tomahawk, to the foot of the big spruce
where the animal had first stopped. His leg actually
touched the creature&rsquo;s muzzle as he passed. It turned its
head to watch, but did not follow, nor did it move a
muscle while he prepared the platform of boughs upon
which he then laid the poor worn bones of an Indian who
had been killed, doubtless, in sudden attack or ambush,
and to whose remains had been denied the last grace of
proper tribal burial. He wrapped the bones in bark; he
laid the tomahawk beside the skull; he lit the circular fire
round the pyre, and the blue smoke rose upward into the
clear bright sunshine of the Canadian autumn morning till
it was lost among the mighty trees far overhead.</p>

<p>In the moment before actually lighting the little fire
he had turned to note what his companion did. It sat
five yards away, he saw, gazing intently, and one of its
front paws was raised a little from the ground. It made
no sign of any kind. He finished the work, becoming so
absorbed in it that he had eyes for nothing but the tending
and guarding of his careful ceremonial fire. It was
only when the platform of boughs collapsed, laying their
charred burden gently on the fragrant earth among the
soft wood ashes, that he turned again, as though to show
the wolf what he had done, and seek, perhaps, some look
of satisfaction in its curiously expressive eyes. But the
place he searched was empty. The wolf had gone.</p>

<p>He did not see it again; it gave no sign of its presence
anywhere; he was not watched. He fished as before, wandered
through the bush about his camp, sat smoking round<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
his fire after dark, and slept peacefully in his cosy little
tent. He was not disturbed. No howl was ever audible
in the distant forest, no twig snapped beneath a stealthy
tread, he saw no eyes. The wolf that behaved like a man
had gone for ever.</p>

<p>It was the day before he left that Hyde, noticing smoke
rising from the shack across the lake, paddled over to
exchange a word or two with the Indian, who had evidently
now returned. The Redskin came down to meet
him as he landed, but it was soon plain that he spoke very
little English. He emitted the familiar grunts at first;
then bit by bit Hyde stirred his limited vocabulary into
action. The net result, however, was slight enough, though
it was certainly direct:</p>

<p>&ldquo;You camp there?&rdquo; the man asked, pointing to the
other side.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wolf come?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You see wolf?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Indian stared at him fixedly a moment, a keen,
wondering look upon his coppery, creased face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You &rsquo;fraid wolf?&rdquo; he asked after a moment&rsquo;s pause.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Hyde, truthfully. He knew it was useless
to ask questions of his own, though he was eager for
information. The other would have told him nothing. It
was sheer luck that the man had touched on the subject at
all, and Hyde realized that his own best rôle was merely to
answer, but to ask no questions. Then, suddenly, the
Indian became comparatively voluble. There was awe in
his voice and manner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Him no wolf. Him big medicine wolf. Him spirit
wolf.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Whereupon he drank the tea the other had brewed for
him, closed his lips tightly, and said no more. His outline
was discernible on the shore, rigid and motionless, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
hour later, when Hyde&rsquo;s canoe turned the corner of the
lake three miles away, and landed to make the portages up
the first rapid of his homeward stream.</p>

<p>It was Morton who, after some persuasion, supplied
further details of what he called the legend. Some hundred
years before, the tribe that lived in the territory
beyond the lake began their annual medicine-making ceremonies
on the big rocky bluff at the northern end; but
no medicine could be made. The spirits, declared the chief
medicine man, would not answer. They were offended.
An investigation followed. It was discovered that a young
brave had recently killed a wolf, a thing strictly forbidden,
since the wolf was the totem animal of the tribe. To
make matters worse, the name of the guilty man was
Running Wolf. The offence being unpardonable, the man
was cursed and driven from the tribe:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Go out. Wander alone among the woods, and if we
see you we slay you. Your bones shall be scattered in the
forest, and your spirit shall not enter the Happy Hunting
Grounds till one of another race shall find and bury them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Which meant,&rdquo; explained Morton laconically, his only
comment on the story, &ldquo;probably for ever.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p>


<h2>IV<br />
<br />
FIRST HATE</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">They</span> had been shooting all day; the weather had been
perfect and the powder straight, so that when they
assembled in the smoking-room after dinner they were
well pleased with themselves. From discussing the day&rsquo;s
sport and the weather outlook, the conversation drifted
to other, though still cognate, fields. Lawson, the crack
shot of the party, mentioned the instinctive recognition
all animals feel for their natural enemies, and gave several
instances in which he had tested it&mdash;tame rats with a
ferret, birds with a snake, and so forth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Even after being domesticated for generations,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;they recognize their natural enemy at once by instinct,
an enemy they can never even have seen before.
It&rsquo;s infallible. They know instantly.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Undoubtedly,&rdquo; said a voice from the corner chair;
&ldquo;and so do we.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The speaker was Ericssen, their host, a great hunter
before the Lord, generally uncommunicative but a good
listener, leaving the talk to others. For this latter reason,
as well as for a certain note of challenge in his voice, his
abrupt statement gained attention.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What do you mean exactly by &lsquo;so do we&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked
three men together, after waiting some seconds to see
whether he meant to elaborate, which he evidently did not.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We belong to the animal kingdom, of course,&rdquo; put
in a fourth, for behind the challenge there obviously lay
a story, though a story that might be difficult to drag out
of him. It was.</p>

<p>Ericssen, who had leaned forward a moment so that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
his strong, humorous face was in clear light, now sank
back again into his chair, his expression concealed by
the red lampshade at his side. The light played tricks,
obliterating the humorous, almost tender lines, while
emphasizing the strength of the jaw and nose. The red
glare lent to the whole a rather grim expression.</p>

<p>Lawson, man of authority among them, broke the little
pause.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re dead right,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;but how do you
know it?&rdquo;&mdash;for John Ericssen never made a positive statement
without a good reason for it. That good reason,
he felt sure, involved a personal proof, but a story Ericssen
would never tell before a general audience. He would
tell it later, however, when the others had left. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
such a thing as instinctive antipathy, of course,&rdquo; he added,
with a laugh, looking around him. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what you mean
probably.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I meant exactly what I said,&rdquo; replied the host bluntly.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s first love. There&rsquo;s first hate, too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hate&rsquo;s a strong word,&rdquo; remarked Lawson.</p>

<p>&ldquo;So is love,&rdquo; put in another.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hate&rsquo;s strongest,&rdquo; said Ericssen grimly. &ldquo;In the animal
kingdom, at least,&rdquo; he added suggestively, and then
kept his lips closed, except to sip his liquor, for the rest
of the evening&mdash;until the party at length broke up, leaving
Lawson and one other man, both old trusted friends of
many years&rsquo; standing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a tale I&rsquo;d tell to everybody,&rdquo; he began, when
they were alone. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s true, for one thing; for another,
you see, some of those good fellows&rdquo;&mdash;he indicated the
empty chairs with an expressive nod of his great head&mdash;&ldquo;some
of &rsquo;em knew him. You both knew him too, probably.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The man you hated,&rdquo; said the understanding Lawson.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And who hated me,&rdquo; came the quiet confirmation.
&ldquo;My other reason,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;for keeping quiet was
that the tale involves my wife.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>

<p>The two listeners said nothing, but each remembered
the curiously long courtship that had been the prelude
to his marriage. No engagement had been announced,
the pair were devoted to one another, there was no known
rival on either side; yet the courtship continued without
coming to its expected conclusion. Many stories were
afloat in consequence. It was a social mystery that
intrigued the gossips.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I may tell you two,&rdquo; Ericssen continued, &ldquo;the reason
my wife refused for so long to marry me. It is hard to
believe, perhaps, but it is true. Another man wished to
make her his wife, and she would not consent to marry
me until that other man was dead. Quixotic, absurd, unreasonable?
If you like. I&rsquo;ll tell you what she said.&rdquo;
He looked up with a significant expression in his face
which proved that he, at least, did not now judge her
reason foolish. &ldquo;&lsquo;Because it would be murder,&rsquo; she told
me. &lsquo;Another man who wants to marry me would kill
you.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;She had some proof for the assertion, no doubt?&rdquo;
suggested Lawson.</p>

<p>&ldquo;None whatever,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;Merely her woman&rsquo;s
instinct. Moreover, <em>I</em> did not know who the other man
was, nor would she ever tell me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Otherwise you might have murdered him instead?&rdquo;
said Baynes, the second listener.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I did,&rdquo; said Ericssen grimly. &ldquo;But without knowing
he was the man.&rdquo; He sipped his whisky and relit his pipe.
The others waited.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Our marriage took place two months later&mdash;just after
Hazel&rsquo;s disappearance.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hazel?&rdquo; exclaimed Lawson and Baynes in a single
breath. &ldquo;Hazel! Member of the Hunters!&rdquo; His mysterious
disappearance had been a nine days&rsquo; wonder some ten
years ago. It had never been explained. They had all
been members of the Hunters&rsquo; Club together.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the chap,&rdquo; Ericssen said. &ldquo;Now I&rsquo;ll tell you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
the tale, if you care to hear it.&rdquo; They settled back in
their chairs to listen, and Ericssen, who had evidently
never told the affair to another living soul except his own
wife, doubtless, seemed glad this time to tell it to two
men.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It began some dozen years ago when my brother Jack
and I came home from a shooting trip in China. I&rsquo;ve
often told you about our adventures there, and you see
the heads hanging up here in the smoking-room&mdash;some of
&rsquo;em.&rdquo; He glanced round proudly at the walls. &ldquo;We were
glad to be in town again after two years&rsquo; roughing it,
and we looked forward to our first good dinner at the
club, to make up for the rotten cooking we had endured
so long. We had ordered that dinner in anticipatory detail
many a time together. Well, we had it and enjoyed it up
to a point&mdash;the point of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrée</i>, to be exact.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Up to that point it was delicious, and we let ourselves
go, I can tell you. We had ordered the very wine we
had planned months before when we were snow-bound and
half starving in the mountains.&rdquo; He smacked his lips as
he mentioned it. &ldquo;I was just starting on a beautifully
cooked grouse,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;when a figure went by our
table, and Jack looked up and nodded. The two exchanged
a brief word of greeting and explanation, and the other
man passed on. Evidently they knew each other just
enough to make a word or two necessary, but enough.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Who&rsquo;s that?&rsquo; I asked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;A new member, named Hazel,&rsquo; Jack told me. &lsquo;A
great shot.&rsquo; He knew him slightly, he explained; he had
once been a client of his&mdash;Jack was a barrister, you remember&mdash;and
had defended him in some financial case or
other. Rather an unpleasant case, he added. Jack did
not &lsquo;care about&rsquo; the fellow, he told me, as he went on
with his tender wing of grouse.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Ericssen paused to relight his pipe a moment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not care about him!&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;It didn&rsquo;t surprise
me, for my own feeling, the instant I set eyes on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
the fellow, was one of violent, instinctive dislike that
amounted to loathing. Loathing! No. I&rsquo;ll give it the
right word&mdash;hatred. I simply couldn&rsquo;t help myself; I
hated the man from the very first go off. A wave of
repulsion swept over me as I followed him down the room
a moment with my eyes, till he took his seat at a distant
table and was out of sight. Ugh! He was a big, fat-faced
man, with an eyeglass glued into one of his pale-blue
cod-like eyes&mdash;out of condition, ugly as a toad, with
a smug expression of intense self-satisfaction on his jowl
that made me long to&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I leave it to you to guess what I would have liked
to do to him. But the instinctive loathing he inspired
in me had another aspect, too. Jack had not introduced
us during the momentary pause beside our table, but as
I looked up I caught the fellow&rsquo;s eye on mine&mdash;he was
glaring at me instead of at Jack, to whom he was talking&mdash;with
an expression of malignant dislike, as keen evidently
as my own. That&rsquo;s the other aspect I meant. He
hated me as violently as I hated him. We were instinctive
enemies, just as the rat and ferret are instinctive enemies.
Each recognized a mortal foe. It was a case&mdash;I swear it&mdash;of
whoever got first chance.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bad as that!&rdquo; exclaimed Baynes. &ldquo;I knew him by
sight. He wasn&rsquo;t pretty, I&rsquo;ll admit.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I knew him to nod to,&rdquo; Lawson mentioned. &ldquo;I never
heard anything particular against him.&rdquo; He shrugged
his shoulders.</p>

<p>Ericssen went on. &ldquo;It was not his character or qualities
I hated,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t even know them. That&rsquo;s
the whole point. There&rsquo;s no reason you fellows should
have disliked him. <em>My</em> hatred&mdash;our mutual hatred&mdash;was
instinctive, as instinctive as first love. A man knows his
natural mate; also he knows his natural enemy. I did,
at any rate, both with him and with my wife. Given the
chance, Hazel would have done me in; just as surely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
given the chance, I would have done him in. No blame
to either of us, what&rsquo;s more, in my opinion.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve felt dislike, but never hatred like that,&rdquo; Baynes
mentioned. &ldquo;I came across it in a book once, though.
The writer did not mention the instinctive fear of the
human animal for its natural enemy, or anything of that
sort. He thought it was a continuance of a bitter feud
begun in an earlier existence. He called it memory.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Possibly,&rdquo; said Ericssen briefly. &ldquo;My mind is not
speculative. But I&rsquo;m glad you spoke of fear. I left that
out. The truth is, I feared the fellow, too, in a way;
and had we ever met face to face in some wild country
without witnesses I should have felt justified in drawing
on him at sight, and he would have felt the same. Murder?
If you like. I should call it self-defence. Anyhow, the
fellow polluted the room for me. He spoilt the enjoyment
of that dinner we had ordered months before in
China.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But you saw him again, of course, later?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lots of times. Not that night, because we went on
to a theatre. But in the club we were always running
across one another&mdash;in the houses of friends at lunch or
dinner; at race meetings; all over the place; in fact, I
even had some trouble to avoid being introduced to him.
And every time we met our eyes betrayed us. He felt in
his heart what I felt in mine. Ugh! He was as loathsome
to me as leprosy, and as dangerous. Odd, isn&rsquo;t it?
The most intense feeling, except love, I&rsquo;ve ever known.
I remember&rdquo;&mdash;he laughed gruffly&mdash;&ldquo;I used to feel quite
sorry for him. If he felt what I felt, and I&rsquo;m convinced
he did, he must have suffered. His one object&mdash;to get
me out of the way for good&mdash;was so impossible. Then
Fate played a hand in the game. I&rsquo;ll tell you how.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My brother died a year or two later, and I went
abroad to try and forget it. I went salmon fishing in
Canada. But, though the sport was good, it was not
like the old times with Jack. The camp never felt the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
same without him. I missed him badly. But I forgot
Hazel for the time; hating did not seem worth while,
somehow.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When the best of the fishing was over on the Atlantic
side, I took a run back to Vancouver and fished there for
a bit. I went up the Campbell River, which was not so
crowded then as it is now, and had some rattling sport.
Then I grew tired of the rod and decided to go after
wapiti for a change. I came back to Victoria and learned
what I could about the best places, and decided finally to
go up the west coast of the island. By luck I happened
to pick up a good guide, who was in the town at the
moment on business, and we started off together in one
of the little Canadian Pacific Railway boats that ply along
that coast.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Outfitting two days later at a small place the steamer
stopped at, the guide said we needed another man to help
pack our kit over portages, and so forth, but the only
fellow available was a Siwash of whom he disapproved.
My guide would not have him at any price; he was lazy,
a drunkard, a liar, and even worse, for on one occasion
he came back without the sportsman he had taken up
country on a shooting trip, and his story was not convincing,
to say the least. These disappearances are always
awkward, of course, as you both know. We preferred,
anyhow, to go without the Siwash, and off we started.</p>

<p>&ldquo;At first our luck was bad. I saw many wapiti, but
no good heads; only after a fortnight&rsquo;s hunting did I
manage to get a decent head, though even that was not so
good as I should have liked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We were then near the head waters of a little river
that ran down into the Inlet; heavy rains had made the
river rise; running downstream was a risky job, what
with old log-jams shifting and new ones forming; and,
after many narrow escapes, we upset one afternoon and
had the misfortune to lose a lot of our kit, amongst it
most of our cartridges. We could only muster a few between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
us. The guide had a dozen; I had two&mdash;just
enough, we considered, to take us out all right. Still, it
was an infernal nuisance. We camped at once to dry out
our soaked things in front of a big fire, and while this
laundry work was going on, the guide suggested my filling
in the time by taking a look at the next little valley, which
ran parallel to ours. He had seen some good heads over
there a few weeks ago. Possibly I might come upon the
herd. I started at once, taking my two cartridges with
me.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was the devil of a job getting over the divide, for
it was a badly bushed-up place, and where there were no
bushes there were boulders and fallen trees, and the going
was slow and tiring. But I got across at last and came
out upon another stream at the bottom of the new valley.
Signs of wapiti were plentiful, though I never came up
with a single beast all the afternoon. Blacktail deer were
everywhere, but the wapiti remained invisible. Providence,
or whatever you like to call that which there is
no escaping in our lives, made me save my two cartridges.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Ericssen stopped a minute then. It was not to light
his pipe or sip his whisky. Nor was it because the remainder
of his story failed in the recollection of any vivid
detail. He paused a moment to think.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell us the lot,&rdquo; pleaded Lawson. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t leave out
anything.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Ericssen looked up. His friend&rsquo;s remark had helped
him to make up his mind apparently. He <em>had</em> hesitated
about something or other, but the hesitation passed. He
glanced at both his listeners.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Right,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you everything. I&rsquo;m not
imaginative, as you know, and my amount of superstition,
I should judge, is microscopic.&rdquo; He took a longer breath,
then lowered his voice a trifle. &ldquo;Anyhow,&rdquo; he went on,
&ldquo;it&rsquo;s true, so I don&rsquo;t see why I should feel shy about
admitting it&mdash;but as I stood there in that lonely valley,
where only the noises of wind and water were audible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
and no human being, except my guide, some miles away,
was within reach, a curious feeling came over me I find
difficult to describe. I felt&rdquo;&mdash;obviously he made an effort
to get the word out&mdash;&ldquo;I felt creepy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You,&rdquo; murmured Lawson, with an incredulous smile&mdash;&ldquo;you
creepy?&rdquo; he repeated under his breath.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I felt creepy and afraid,&rdquo; continued the other, with
conviction. &ldquo;I had the sensation of being seen by someone&mdash;as
if someone, I mean, was watching me. It was
so unlikely that anyone was near me in that God-forsaken
bit of wilderness, that I simply couldn&rsquo;t believe it at first.
But the feeling persisted. I felt absolutely positive somebody
was not far away among the red maples, behind a
boulder, across the little stream, perhaps, somewhere, at
any rate, so near that I was plainly visible to him. It was
not an animal. It was human. Also, it was hostile.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was in danger.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You may laugh, both of you, but I assure you the
feeling was so positive that I crouched down instinctively
to hide myself behind a rock. My first thought, that the
guide had followed me for some reason or other, I at
once discarded. It was not the guide. It was an enemy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, no, I thought of no one in particular. No name,
no face occurred to me. Merely that an enemy was on my
trail, that he saw me, and I did not see him, and that he
was near enough to me to&mdash;well, to take instant action.
This deep instinctive feeling of danger, of fear, of anything
you like to call it, was simply overwhelming.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Another curious detail I must also mention. About
half an hour before, having given up all hope of seeing
wapiti, I had decided to kill a blacktail deer for meat.
A good shot offered itself, not thirty yards away. I aimed.
But just as I was going to pull the trigger a queer emotion
touched me, and I lowered the rifle. It was exactly
as though a voice said, &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t!&rsquo; I heard no voice, mind
you; it was an emotion only, a feeling, a sudden inexplicable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
change of mind&mdash;a warning, if you like. I didn&rsquo;t fire,
anyhow.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But now, as I crouched behind that rock, I remembered
this curious little incident, and was glad I had not
used up my last two cartridges. More than that I cannot
tell you. Things of that kind are new to me. They&rsquo;re
difficult enough to tell, let alone to explain. But they were
<em>real</em>.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I crouched there, wondering what on earth was happening
to me, and, feeling a bit of a fool, if you want to
know, when suddenly, over the top of the boulder, I saw
something moving. It was a man&rsquo;s hat. I peered cautiously.
Some sixty yards away the bushes parted, and
two men came out on to the river&rsquo;s bank, and I knew
them both. One was the Siwash I had seen at the store.
The other was Hazel. Before I had time to think I cocked
my rifle.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hazel. Good Lord!&rdquo; exclaimed the listeners.</p>

<p>&ldquo;For a moment I was too surprised to do anything but
cock that rifle. I waited, for what puzzled me was that,
after all, Hazel had <em>not</em> seen me. It was only the feeling
of his beastly proximity that had made me feel I was seen
and watched by him. There was something else, too, that
made me pause before&mdash;er&mdash;doing anything. Two other
things, in fact. One was that I was so intensely interested
in watching the fellow&rsquo;s actions. Obviously he had
the same uneasy sensation that I had. He shared with
me the nasty feeling that danger was about. His rifle,
I saw, was cocked and ready; he kept looking behind
him, over his shoulder, peering this way and that, and
sometimes addressing a remark to the Siwash at his side.
I caught the laughter of the latter. The Siwash evidently
did not think there was danger anywhere. It was, of
course, unlikely enough&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the other thing that stopped you?&rdquo; urged Lawson,
impatiently interrupting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>

<p>Ericssen turned with a look of grim humour on his
face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Some confounded or perverted sense of chivalry in
me, I suppose,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that made it impossible to shoot
him down in cold blood, or, rather, without letting him
have a chance. For my blood, as a matter of fact, was
far from cold at the moment. Perhaps, too, I wanted the
added satisfaction of letting him know who fired the shot
that was to end his vile existence.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He laughed again. &ldquo;It was rat and ferret in the
human kingdom,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;but I wanted my rat to
have a chance, I suppose. Anyhow, though I had a perfect
shot in front of me at easy distance, I did not fire.
Instead I got up, holding my cocked rifle ready, finger
on trigger, and came out of my hiding place. I called to
him. &lsquo;Hazel, you beast! So there you are&mdash;at last!&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He turned, but turned away from me, offering his
horrid back. The direction of the voice he misjudged.
He pointed down stream, and the Siwash turned to look.
Neither of them had seen me yet. There was a big log-jam
below them. The roar of the water in their ears
concealed my footsteps. I was, perhaps, twenty paces
from them when Hazel, with a jerk of his whole body,
abruptly turned clean round and faced me. We stared
into each other&rsquo;s eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The amazement on his face changed instantly to
hatred and resolve. He acted with incredible rapidity.
I think the unexpected suddenness of his turn made me
lose a precious second or two. Anyhow he was ahead of
me. He flung his rifle to his shoulder. &lsquo;You devil!&rsquo; I
heard his voice. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve got you at last!&rsquo; His rifle cracked,
for he let drive the same instant. The hair stirred just
above my ear.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He had missed!</p>

<p>&ldquo;Before he could draw back his bolt for another shot
I had acted.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You&rsquo;re not fit to live!&rsquo; I shouted, as my bullet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
crashed into his temple. I had the satisfaction, too, of
knowing that he heard my words. I saw the swift expression
of frustrated loathing in his eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He fell like an ox, his face splashing in the stream.
I shoved the body out. I saw it sucked beneath the log-jam
instantly. It disappeared. There could be no inquest
on him, I reflected comfortably. Hazel was gone&mdash;gone
from this earth, from my life, our mutual hatred over at
last.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The speaker paused a moment. &ldquo;Odd,&rdquo; he continued
presently&mdash;&ldquo;very odd indeed.&rdquo; He turned to the others.
&ldquo;I felt quite sorry for him suddenly. I suppose,&rdquo; he
added, &ldquo;the philosophers are right when they gas about
hate being very close to love.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His friends contributed no remark.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then I came away,&rdquo; he resumed shortly. &ldquo;My wife&mdash;well,
you know the rest, don&rsquo;t you? I told her the whole
thing. She&mdash;she said nothing. But she married me, you
see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a moment&rsquo;s silence. Baynes was the first
to break it. &ldquo;But&mdash;the Siwash?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;The
witness?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Lawson turned upon him with something of contemptuous
impatience.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He told you he had <em>two</em> cartridges.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Ericssen, smiling grimly, said nothing at all.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p>


<h2>V<br />
<br />
THE TARN OF SACRIFICE</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">John Holt</span>, a vague excitement in him, stood at the
door of the little inn, listening to the landlord&rsquo;s directions
as to the best way of reaching Scarsdale. He was on
a walking tour through the Lake District, exploring the
smaller dales that lie away from the beaten track and are
accessible only on foot.</p>

<p>The landlord, a hard-featured north countryman, half
innkeeper, half sheep farmer, pointed up the valley. His
deep voice had a friendly burr in it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You go straight on till you reach the head,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;then take to the fell. Follow the &lsquo;sheep-trod&rsquo; past
the Crag. Directly you&rsquo;re over the top you&rsquo;ll strike the
road.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A road up there!&rdquo; exclaimed his customer incredulously.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; was the steady reply. &ldquo;The old Roman road.
The same road,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;the savages came down when
they burst through the Wall and burnt everything right
up to Lancaster&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;They were held&mdash;weren&rsquo;t they&mdash;at Lancaster?&rdquo; asked
the other, yet not knowing quite why he asked it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t rightly know,&rdquo; came the answer slowly.
&ldquo;Some say they were. But the old town has been that
built over since, it&rsquo;s hard to tell.&rdquo; He paused a moment.
&ldquo;At Ambleside,&rdquo; he went on presently, &ldquo;you can still see
the marks of the burning, and at the little fort on the
way to Ravenglass.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Holt strained his eyes into the sunlit distance, for he
would soon have to walk that road and he was anxious to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
be off. But the landlord was communicative and interesting.
&ldquo;You can&rsquo;t miss it,&rdquo; he told him. &ldquo;It runs
straight as a spear along the fell top till it meets the Wall.
You must hold to it for about eight miles. Then you&rsquo;ll
come to the Standing Stone on the left of the track&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Standing Stone, yes?&rdquo; broke in the other a little
eagerly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll see the Stone right enough. It was where the
Romans came. Then bear to the left down another &lsquo;trod&rsquo;
that comes into the road there. They say it was the war-trail
of the folk that set up the Stone.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what did they use the Stone for?&rdquo; Holt inquired,
more as though he asked it of himself than of his companion.</p>

<p>The old man paused to reflect. He spoke at length.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I mind an old fellow who seemed to know about such
things called it a Sighting Stone. He reckoned the sun
shone over it at dawn on the longest day right on to the
little holm in Blood Tarn. He said they held sacrifices in
a stone circle there.&rdquo; He stopped a moment to puff at his
black pipe. &ldquo;Maybe he was right. I have seen stones
lying about that may well be that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The man was pleased and willing to talk to so good
a listener. Either he had not noticed the curious gesture
the other made, or he read it as a sign of eagerness to
start. The sun was warm, but a sharp wind from the
bare hills went between them with a sighing sound. Holt
buttoned his coat about him. &ldquo;An odd name for a mountain
lake&mdash;Blood Tarn,&rdquo; he remarked, watching the landlord&rsquo;s
face expectantly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Aye, but a good one,&rdquo; was the measured reply. &ldquo;When
I was a boy the old folk had a tale that the savages flung
three Roman captives from that crag into the water.
There&rsquo;s a book been written about it; they say it was a
sacrifice, but most likely they were tired of dragging them
along, <em>I</em> say. Anyway, that&rsquo;s what the writer said. One,
I mind, now you ask me, was a priest of some heathen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
temple that stood near the Wall, and the other two were
his daughter and her lover.&rdquo; He guffawed. At least he
made a strange noise in his throat. Evidently, thought
Holt, he was sceptical yet superstitious. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s just an old
tale handed down, whatever the learned folk may say,&rdquo; the
old man added.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A lonely place,&rdquo; began Holt, aware that a fleeting
touch of awe was added suddenly to his interest.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;and a bad spot too. Every
year the Crag takes its toll of sheep, and sometimes a man
goes over in the mist. It&rsquo;s right beside the track and
very slippery. Ninety foot of a drop before you hit the
water. Best keep round the tarn and leave the Crag alone
if there&rsquo;s any mist about. Fishing? Yes, there&rsquo;s some
quite fair trout in the tarn, but it&rsquo;s not much fished.
Happen one of the shepherd lads from Tyson&rsquo;s farm may
give it a turn with an &lsquo;otter,&rsquo;&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;once in a
while, but he won&rsquo;t stay for the evening. He&rsquo;ll clear out
before sunset.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah! Superstitious, I suppose?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a gloomy, chancy spot&mdash;and with the dusk falling,&rdquo;
agreed the innkeeper eventually. &ldquo;None of our folk
care to be caught up there with night coming on. Most
handy for a shepherd, too&mdash;but Tyson can&rsquo;t get a man
to bide there.&rdquo; He paused again, then added significantly:
&ldquo;Strangers don&rsquo;t seem to mind it though. It&rsquo;s only our
own folk&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Strangers!&rdquo; repeated the other sharply, as though
he had been waiting all along for this special bit of information.
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say there are people living
up there?&rdquo; A curious thrill ran over him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; replied the landlord, &ldquo;but they&rsquo;re daft folk&mdash;a
man and his daughter. They come every spring. It&rsquo;s
early in the year yet, but I mind Jim Backhouse, one of
Tyson&rsquo;s men, talking about them last week.&rdquo; He stopped
to think. &ldquo;So they&rsquo;ve come back,&rdquo; he went on decidedly.
&ldquo;They get milk from the farm.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;And what on earth are they doing up there?&rdquo; Holt
asked.</p>

<p>He asked many other questions as well, but the answers
were poor, the information not forthcoming. The landlord
would talk for hours about the Crag, the tarn, the
legends and the Romans, but concerning the two strangers
he was uncommunicative. Either he knew little, or he
did not want to discuss them; Holt felt it was probably
the former. They were educated town-folk, he gathered
with difficulty, rich apparently, and they spent their time
wandering about the fell, or fishing. The man was often
seen upon the Crag, his girl beside him, bare-legged,
dressed as a peasant. &ldquo;Happen they come for their health,
happen the father is a learned man studying the Wall&rdquo;&mdash;exact
information was not forthcoming.</p>

<p>The landlord &ldquo;minded his own business,&rdquo; and inhabitants
were too few and far between for gossip. All Holt
could extract amounted to this: the couple had been in a
motor accident some years before, and as a result they
came every spring to spend a month or two in absolute
solitude, away from cities and the excitement of modern
life. They troubled no one and no one troubled them.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps I may see them as I go by the tarn,&rdquo; remarked
the walker finally, making ready to go. He gave
up questioning in despair. The morning hours were
passing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Happen you may,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;for your track
goes past their door and leads straight down to Scarsdale.
The other way over the Crag saves half a mile, but it&rsquo;s
rough going along the scree.&rdquo; He stopped dead. Then he
added, in reply to Holt&rsquo;s good-bye: &ldquo;In my opinion it&rsquo;s
not worth it,&rdquo; yet what he meant exactly by &ldquo;it&rdquo; was not
quite clear.</p>

<p class="str">*****</p>

<p>The walker shouldered his knapsack. Instinctively he
gave the little hitch to settle it on his shoulders&mdash;much
as he used to give to his pack in France. The pain that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
shot through him as he did so was another reminder of
France. The bullet he had stopped on the Somme still
made its presence felt at times.... Yet he knew, as
he walked off briskly, that he was one of the lucky ones.
How many of his old pals would never walk again, condemned
to hobble on crutches for the rest of their lives!
How many, again, would never even hobble! More terrible
still, he remembered, were the blind.... The dead,
it seemed to him, had been more fortunate....</p>

<p>He swung up the narrowing valley at a good pace
and was soon climbing the fell. It proved far steeper
than it had appeared from the door of the inn, and he
was glad enough to reach the top and fling himself down
on the coarse springy turf to admire the view below.</p>

<p>The spring day was delicious. It stirred his blood. The
world beneath looked young and stainless. Emotion rose
through him in a wave of optimistic happiness. The bare
hills were half hidden by a soft blue haze that made them
look bigger, vaster, less earthly than they really were.
He saw silver streaks in the valleys that he knew were
distant streams and lakes. Birds soared between. The
dazzling air seemed painted with exhilarating light and
colour. The very clouds were floating gossamer that he
could touch. There were bees and dragon-flies and fluttering
thistle-down. Heat vibrated. His body, his physical
sensations, so-called, retired into almost nothing. He
felt himself, like his surroundings, made of air and sunlight.
A delicious sense of resignation poured upon him.
He, too, like his surroundings, was composed of air and
sunshine, of insect wings, of soft, fluttering vibrations that
the gorgeous spring day produced.... It seemed that
he renounced the heavy dues of bodily life, and enjoyed
the delights, momentarily at any rate, of a more ethereal
consciousness.</p>

<p>Near at hand, the hills were covered with the faded
gold of last year&rsquo;s bracken, which ran down in a brimming
flood till it was lost in the fresh green of the familiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
woods below. Far in the hazy distance swam the sea of
ash and hazel. The silver birch sprinkled that lower world
with fairy light.</p>

<p>Yes, it was all natural enough. He could see the road
quite clearly now, only a hundred yards away from where
he lay. How straight it ran along the top of the hill!
The landlord&rsquo;s expression recurred to him: &ldquo;Straight as
a spear.&rdquo; Somehow, the phrase seemed to describe exactly
the Romans and all their works.... The Romans, yes,
and all their works....</p>

<p>He became aware of a sudden sympathy with these
long dead conquerors of the world. With them, he felt
sure, there had been no useless, foolish talk. They had
known no empty words, no bandying of foolish phrases.
&ldquo;War to end war,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Regeneration of the race&rdquo;&mdash;no
hypocritical nonsense of that sort had troubled their minds
and purposes. They had not attempted to cover up the
horrible in words. With them had been no childish, vain
pretence. They had gone straight to their ends.</p>

<p>Other thoughts, too, stole over him, as he sat gazing
down upon the track of that ancient road; strange
thoughts, not wholly welcome. New, yet old, emotions
rose in a tide upon him. He began to wonder.... Had
he, after all, become brutalized by the War? He knew
quite well that the little &ldquo;Christianity&rdquo; he inherited had
soon fallen from him like a garment in France. In his
attitude to Life and Death he had become, frankly, pagan.
He now realized, abruptly, another thing as well: in
reality he had never been a &ldquo;Christian&rdquo; at any time.
Given to him with his mother&rsquo;s milk, he had never accepted,
felt at home with Christian dogmas. To him they had
always been an alien creed. Christianity met none of his
requirements....</p>

<p>But what were his &ldquo;requirements&rdquo;? He found it difficult
to answer.</p>

<p>Something, at any rate, different and more primitive,
he thought....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p>

<p>Even up here, alone on the mountain-top, it was hard
to be absolutely frank with himself. With a kind of
savage, honest determination, he bent himself to the task.
It became suddenly important for him. He must know
exactly where he stood. It seemed he had reached a turning
point in his life. The War, in the objective world,
had been one such turning point; now he had reached
another, in the subjective life, and it was more important
than the first.</p>

<p>As he lay there in the pleasant sunshine, his thoughts
went back to the fighting. A friend, he recalled, had
divided people into those who enjoyed the War and those
who didn&rsquo;t. He was obliged to admit that he had been
one of the former&mdash;he had thoroughly enjoyed it. Brought
up from a youth as an engineer, he had taken to a soldier&rsquo;s
life as a duck takes to water. There had been plenty of
misery, discomfort, wretchedness; but there had been compensations
that, for him, outweighed them. The fierce
excitement, the primitive, naked passions, the wild fury,
the reckless indifference to pain and death, with the loss
of the normal, cautious, pettifogging little daily self all
these involved, had satisfied him. Even the actual
killing....</p>

<p>He started. A slight shudder ran down his back as
the cool wind from the open moorlands came sighing
across the soft spring sunshine. Sitting up straight, he
looked behind him a moment, as with an effort to turn
away from something he disliked and dreaded because it
was, he knew, too strong for him. But the same instant
he turned round again. He faced the vile and dreadful
thing in himself he had hitherto sought to deny, evade.
Pretence fell away. He could not disguise from himself,
that he had thoroughly enjoyed the killing; or, at any
rate, had not been shocked by it as by an unnatural and
ghastly duty. The shooting and bombing he performed
with an effort always, but the rarer moments when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
had been able to use the bayonet ... the joy of feeling
the steel go home....</p>

<p>He started again, hiding his face a moment in his
hands, but he did not try to evade the hideous memories
that surged. At times, he knew, he had gone quite mad
with the lust of slaughter; he had gone on long after he
should have stopped. Once an officer had pulled him up
sharply for it, but the next instant had been killed by a
bullet. He thought he had gone on killing, but he did
not know. It was all a red mist before his eyes and he
could only remember the sticky feeling of the blood on
his hands when he gripped his rifle....</p>

<p>And now, at this moment of painful honesty with himself,
he realized that his creed, whatever it was, must cover
all that; it must provide some sort of a philosophy for it;
must neither apologize nor ignore it. The heaven that
it promised must be a man&rsquo;s heaven. The Christian heaven
made no appeal to him, he could not believe in it. The
ritual must be simple and direct. He felt that in some
dim way he understood why those old people had thrown
their captives from the Crag. The sacrifice of an animal
victim that could be eaten afterwards with due ceremonial
did not shock him. Such methods seemed simple, natural,
effective. Yet would it not have been better&mdash;the horrid
thought rose unbidden in his inmost mind&mdash;better to have
cut their throats with a flint knife ... slowly?</p>

<p>Horror-stricken, he sprang to his feet. These terrible
thoughts he could not recognize as his own. Had he slept
a moment in the sunlight, dreaming them? Was it some
hideous nightmare flash that touched him as he dozed a
second? Something of fear and awe stole over him. He
stared round for some minutes into the emptiness of the
desolate landscape, then hurriedly ran down to the road,
hoping to exorcize the strange sudden horror by vigorous
movement. Yet when he reached the track he knew that
he had not succeeded. The awful pictures were gone perhaps,
but the mood remained. It was as though some new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
attitude began to take definite form and harden within
him.</p>

<p>He walked on, trying to pretend to himself that he
was some forgotten legionary marching up with his fellows
to defend the Wall. Half unconsciously he fell into the
steady tramping pace of his old regiment: the words of
the ribald songs they had sung going to the front came
pouring into his mind. Steadily and almost mechanically
he swung along till he saw the Stone as a black speck on
the left of the track, and the instant he saw it there rose
in him the feeling that he stood upon the edge of an
adventure that he feared yet longed for. He approached
the great granite monolith with a curious thrill of anticipatory
excitement, born he knew not whence.</p>

<p>But, of course, there was nothing. Common sense,
still operating strongly, had warned him there would be,
could be, nothing. In the waste the great Stone stood upright,
solitary, forbidding, as it had stood for thousands
of years. It dominated the landscape somewhat ominously.
The sheep and cattle had used it as a rubbing-stone, and
bits of hair and wool clung to its rough, weather-eaten
edges; the feet of generations had worn a cup-shaped hollow
at its base. The wind sighed round it plaintively.
Its bulk glistened as it took the sun.</p>

<p>A short mile away the Blood Tarn was now plainly
visible; he could see the little holm lying in a direct line
with the Stone, while, overhanging the water as a dark
shadow on one side, rose the cliff-like rock they called &ldquo;the
Crag.&rdquo; Of the house the landlord had mentioned, however,
he could see no trace, as he relieved his shoulders
of the knapsack and sat down to enjoy his lunch. The
tarn, he reflected, was certainly a gloomy place; he could
understand that the simple superstitious shepherds did
not dare to live there, for even on this bright spring day
it wore a dismal and forbidding look. With failing light,
when the Crag sprawled its big lengthening shadow across
the water, he could well imagine they would give it the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
widest possible berth. He strolled down to the shore after
lunch, smoking his pipe lazily&mdash;then suddenly stood still.
At the far end, hidden hitherto by a fold in the ground,
he saw the little house, a faint column of blue smoke rising
from the chimney, and at the same moment a woman
came out of the low door and began to walk towards the
tarn. She had seen him, she was moving evidently in his
direction; a few minutes later she stopped and stood waiting
on the path&mdash;waiting, he well knew, for him.</p>

<p>And his earlier mood, the mood he dreaded yet had
forced himself to recognize, came back upon him with
sudden redoubled power. As in some vivid dream that
dominates and paralyses the will, or as in the first stages
of an imposed hypnotic spell, all question, hesitation,
refusal sank away. He felt a pleasurable resignation steal
upon him with soft, numbing effect. Denial and criticism
ceased to operate, and common sense died with them. He
yielded his being automatically to the deeps of an adventure
he did not understand. He began to walk towards the
woman.</p>

<p>It was, he saw as he drew nearer, the figure of a young
girl, nineteen or twenty years of age, who stood there
motionless with her eyes fixed steadily on his own. She
looked as wild and picturesque as the scene that framed
her. Thick black hair hung loose over her back and
shoulders; about her head was bound a green ribbon; her
clothes consisted of a jersey and a very short skirt which
showed her bare legs browned by exposure to the sun and
wind. A pair of rough sandals covered her feet. Whether
the face was beautiful or not he could not tell; he only
knew that it attracted him immensely and with a strength
of appeal that he at once felt curiously irresistible. She
remained motionless against the boulder, staring fixedly
at him till he was close before her. Then she spoke:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am glad that you have come at last,&rdquo; she said
in a clear, strong voice that yet was soft and even tender.
&ldquo;We have been expecting you.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;You have been expecting me!&rdquo; he repeated, astonished
beyond words, yet finding the language natural, right and
true. A stream of sweet feeling invaded him, his heart
beat faster, he felt happy and at home in some extraordinary
way he could not understand yet did not question.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; she answered, looking straight into his
eyes with welcome unashamed. Her next words thrilled
him to the core of his being. &ldquo;I have made the room
ready for you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Quick upon her own, however, flashed back the landlord&rsquo;s
words, while common sense made a last faint effort
in his thought. He was the victim of some absurd mistake
evidently. The lonely life, the forbidding surroundings,
the associations of the desolate hills had affected her
mind. He remembered the accident.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; he offered, lamely enough, &ldquo;there is
some mistake. I am not the friend you were expecting.
I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped. A thin slight sound as of distant
laughter seemed to echo behind the unconvincing words.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There is no mistake,&rdquo; the girl answered firmly, with
a quiet smile, moving a step nearer to him, so that he
caught the subtle perfume of her vigorous youth. &ldquo;I saw
you clearly in the Mystery Stone. I recognized you at
once.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Mystery Stone,&rdquo; he heard himself saying, bewilderment
increasing, a sense of wild happiness growing
with it.</p>

<p>Laughing, she took his hand in hers. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; she
said, drawing him along with her, &ldquo;come home with me.
My father will be waiting for us; he will tell you everything,
and better far than I can.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He went with her, feeling that he was made of sunlight
and that he walked on air, for at her touch his own
hand responded as with a sudden fierceness of pleasure
that he failed utterly to understand, yet did not question
for an instant. Wildly, absurdly, madly it flashed across<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
his mind: &ldquo;This is the woman I shall marry&mdash;<em>my</em>
woman. I am her man.&rdquo;</p>

<p>They walked in silence for a little, for no words of
any sort offered themselves to his mind, nor did the girl
attempt to speak. The total absence of embarrassment between
them occurred to him once or twice as curious,
though the very idea of embarrassment then disappeared
entirely. It all seemed natural and unforced, the sudden
intercourse as familiar and effortless as though they had
known one another always.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Mystery Stone,&rdquo; he heard himself saying
presently, as the idea rose again to the surface of his
mind. &ldquo;I should like to know more about it. Tell me,
dear.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I bought it with the other things,&rdquo; she replied softly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What other things?&rdquo;</p>

<p>She turned and looked up into his face with a slight
expression of surprise; their shoulders touched as they
swung along; her hair blew in the wind across his coat.
&ldquo;The bronze collar,&rdquo; she answered in the low voice that
pleased him so, &ldquo;and this ornament that I wear in my
hair.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He glanced down to examine it. Instead of a ribbon,
as he had first supposed, he saw that it was a circlet of
bronze, covered with a beautiful green patina and evidently
very old. In front, above the forehead, was a small disk
bearing an inscription he could not decipher at the
moment. He bent down and kissed her hair, the girl
smiling with happy contentment, but offering no sign of
resistance or annoyance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And,&rdquo; she added suddenly, &ldquo;the dagger.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Holt started visibly. This time there was a thrill in
her voice that seemed to pierce down straight into his
heart. He said nothing, however. The unexpectedness
of the word she used, together with the note in her voice
that moved him so strangely, had a disconcerting effect
that kept him silent for a time. He did not ask about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
the dagger. Something prevented his curiosity finding
expression in speech, though the word, with the marked
accent she placed upon it, had struck into him like the
shock of sudden steel itself, causing him an indecipherable
emotion of both joy and pain. He asked instead, presently,
another question, and a very commonplace one: he asked
where she and her father had lived before they came to
these lonely hills. And the form of his question&mdash;his
voice shook a little as he said it&mdash;was, again, an effort
of his normal self to maintain its already precarious
balance.</p>

<p>The effect of his simple query, the girl&rsquo;s reply above
all, increased in him the mingled sensations of sweetness
and menace, of joy and dread, that half alarmed, half
satisfied him. For a moment she wore a puzzled expression,
as though making an effort to remember.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Down by the sea,&rdquo; she answered slowly, thoughtfully,
her voice very low. &ldquo;Somewhere by a big harbour with
great ships coming in and out. It was there we had the
break&mdash;the shock&mdash;an accident that broke us, shattering
the dream we share To-day.&rdquo; Her face cleared a little.
&ldquo;We were in a chariot,&rdquo; she went on more easily and
rapidly, &ldquo;and father&mdash;my father was injured, so that I
went with him to a palace beyond the Wall till he grew
well.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You were in a chariot?&rdquo; Holt repeated. &ldquo;Surely
not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did I say chariot?&rdquo; the girl replied. &ldquo;How foolish
of me!&rdquo; She shook her hair back as though the gesture
helped to clear her mind and memory. &ldquo;That belongs,
of course, to the other dream. No, not a chariot; it was
a car. But it had wheels like a chariot&mdash;the old war-chariots.
You know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Disk-wheels,&rdquo; thought Holt to himself. He did not
ask about the palace. He asked instead where she had
bought the Mystery Stone, as she called it, and the other
things. Her reply bemused and enticed him farther, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
he could not unravel it. His whole inner attitude was
shifting with uncanny rapidity and completeness. They
walked together, he now realized, with linked arms, moving
slowly in step, their bodies touching. He felt the
blood run hot and almost savage in his veins. He was
aware how amazingly precious she was to him, how deeply,
absolutely necessary to his life and happiness. Her words
went past him in the mountain wind like flying birds.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My father was fishing,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;and I was on
my way to join him, when the old woman called me into
her dwelling and showed me the things. She wished to
give them to me, but I refused the present and paid for
them in gold. I put the fillet on my head to see if it
would fit, and took the Mystery Stone in my hand. Then,
as I looked deep into the stone, this present dream died all
away. It faded out. I saw the older dreams again&mdash;<em>our</em>
dreams.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The older dreams!&rdquo; interrupted Holt. &ldquo;Ours!&rdquo; But
instead of saying the words aloud, they issued from his
lips in a quiet whisper, as though control of his voice had
passed a little from him. The sweetness in him became
more wonderful, unmanageable; his astonishment had
vanished; he walked and talked with his old familiar happy
Love, the woman he had sought so long and waited for, the
woman who was his mate, as he was hers, she who alone
could satisfy his inmost soul.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The old dream,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;the very old&mdash;the oldest
of all perhaps&mdash;when we committed the terrible sacrilege.
I saw the High Priest lying dead&mdash;whom my father slew&mdash;and
the other whom <em>you</em> destroyed. I saw you prise
out the jewel from the image of the god&mdash;with your short
bloody spear. I saw, too, our flight to the galley through
the hot, awful night beneath the stars&mdash;and our
escape....&rdquo;</p>

<p>Her voice died away and she fell silent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tell me more,&rdquo; he whispered, drawing her closer
against his side. &ldquo;What had <em>you</em> done?&rdquo; His heart was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
racing now. Some fighting blood surged uppermost. He
felt that he could kill, and the joy of violence and slaughter
rose in him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Have you forgotten so completely?&rdquo; she asked very
low, as he pressed her more tightly still against his heart.
And almost beneath her breath she whispered into his ear,
which he bent to catch the little sound: &ldquo;I had broken
my vows with you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What else, my lovely one&mdash;my best beloved&mdash;what
more did you see?&rdquo; he whispered in return, yet wondering
why the fierce pain and anger that he felt behind still
lay hidden from betrayal.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dream after dream, and always we were punished.
But the last time was the clearest, for it was here&mdash;here
where we now walk together in the sunlight and the wind&mdash;it
was here the savages hurled us from the rock.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A shiver ran through him, making him tremble with
an unaccountable touch of cold that communicated itself
to her as well. Her arm went instantly about his shoulder,
as he stooped and kissed her passionately. &ldquo;Fasten your
coat about you,&rdquo; she said tenderly, but with troubled
breath, when he released her, &ldquo;for this wind is chill
although the sun shines brightly. We were glad, you
remember, when they stopped to kill us, for we were tired
and our feet were cut to pieces by the long, rough journey
from the Wall.&rdquo; Then suddenly her voice grew louder
again and the smile of happy confidence came back into
her eyes. There was the deep earnestness of love in it, of
love that cannot end or die. She looked up into his face.
&ldquo;But soon now,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;we shall be free. For you
have come, and it is nearly finished&mdash;this weary little
present dream.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;shall we get free?&rdquo; A red mist
swam momentarily before his eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My father,&rdquo; she replied at once, &ldquo;will tell you all.
It is quite easy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your father, too, remembers?&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;The moment the collar touches him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;he
is a priest again. See! Here he comes forth already to
meet us, and to bid you welcome.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Holt looked up, startled. He had hardly noticed, so
absorbed had he been in the words that half intoxicated
him, the distance they had covered. The cottage was now
close at hand, and a tall, powerfully built man, wearing a
shepherd&rsquo;s rough clothing, stood a few feet in front of
him. His stature, breadth of shoulder and thick black beard
made up a striking figure. The dark eyes, with fire in
them, gazed straight into his own, and a kindly smile
played round the stern and vigorous mouth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Greeting, my son,&rdquo; said a deep, booming voice, &ldquo;for
I shall call you my son as I did of old. The bond of the
spirit is stronger than that of the flesh, and with us three
the tie is indeed of triple strength. You come, too, at an
auspicious hour, for the omens are favourable and the time
of our liberation is at hand.&rdquo; He took the other&rsquo;s hand
in a grip that might have killed an ox and yet was warm
with gentle kindliness, while Holt, now caught wholly into
the spirit of some deep reality he could not master yet
accepted, saw that the wrist was small, the fingers shapely,
the gesture itself one of dignity and refinement.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Greeting, my father,&rdquo; he replied, as naturally as
though he said more modern words.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Come in with me, I pray,&rdquo; pursued the other, leading
the way, &ldquo;and let me show you the poor accommodation
we have provided, yet the best that we can offer.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He stooped to pass the threshold, and as Holt stooped
likewise the girl took his hand and he knew that his
bewitchment was complete. Entering the low doorway, he
passed through a kitchen, where only the roughest, scantiest
furniture was visible, into another room that was completely
bare. A heap of dried bracken had been spread on
the floor in one corner to form a bed. Beside it lay two
cheap, coloured blankets. There was nothing else.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Our place is poor,&rdquo; said the man, smiling courteously,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
but with that dignity and air of welcome which
made the hovel seem a palace. &ldquo;Yet it may serve, perhaps,
for the short time that you will need it. Our little
dream here is wellnigh over, now that you have come. The
long weary pilgrimage at last draws to a close.&rdquo; The girl
had left them alone a moment, and the man stepped
closer to his guest. His face grew solemn, his voice deeper
and more earnest suddenly, the light in his eyes seemed
actually to flame with the enthusiasm of a great belief.
&ldquo;Why have you tarried thus so long, and where?&rdquo; he
asked in a lowered tone that vibrated in the little space.
&ldquo;We have sought you with prayer and fasting, and she has
spent her nights for you in tears. You lost the way, it
must be. The lesser dreams entangled your feet, I see.&rdquo;
A touch of sadness entered the voice, the eyes held pity in
them. &ldquo;It is, alas, too easy, I well know,&rdquo; he murmured.
&ldquo;It is too easy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I lost the way,&rdquo; the other replied. It seemed suddenly
that his heart was filled with fire. &ldquo;But now,&rdquo; he
cried aloud, &ldquo;now that I have found her, I will never,
never let her go again. My feet are steady and my way is
sure.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;For ever and ever, my son,&rdquo; boomed the happy, yet
almost solemn answer, &ldquo;she is yours. Our freedom is at
hand.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He turned and crossed the little kitchen again, making
a sign that his guest should follow him. They stood together
by the door, looking out across the tarn in silence.
The afternoon sunshine fell in a golden blaze across the
bare hills that seemed to smoke with the glory of the fiery
light. But the Crag loomed dark in shadow overhead,
and the little lake lay deep and black beneath it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Acella, Acella!&rdquo; called the man, the name breaking
upon his companion as with a shock of sweet delicious fire
that filled his entire being, as the girl came the same
instant from behind the cottage. &ldquo;The Gods call me,&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
said her father. &ldquo;I go now to the hill. Protect our guest
and comfort him in my absence.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Without another word, he strode away up the hillside
and presently was visible standing on the summit of the
Crag, his arms stretched out above his head to heaven,
his great head thrown back, his bearded face turned upwards.
An impressive, even a majestic figure he looked,
as his bulk and stature rose in dark silhouette against the
brilliant evening sky. Holt stood motionless, watching
him for several minutes, his heart swelling in his breast,
his pulses thumping before some great nameless pressure
that rose from the depths of his being. That inner attitude
which seemed a new and yet more satisfying attitude
to life than he had known hitherto, had crystallized.
Define it he could not, he only knew that he accepted it as
natural. It satisfied him. The sight of that dignified,
gaunt figure worshipping upon the hill-top enflamed
him....</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have brought the stone,&rdquo; a voice interrupted his
reflections, and turning, he saw the girl beside him. She
held out for his inspection a dark square object that looked
to him at first like a black stone lying against the brown
skin of her hand. &ldquo;The Mystery Stone,&rdquo; the girl added,
as their faces bent down together to examine it. &ldquo;It is
there I see the dreams I told you of.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He took it from her and found that it was heavy, composed
apparently of something like black quartz, with a
brilliant polished surface that revealed clear depths within.
Once, evidently, it had been set in a stand or frame, for
the marks where it had been attached still showed, and
it was obviously of great age. He felt confused, the mind
in him troubled yet excited, as he gazed. The effect upon
him was as though a wind rose suddenly and passed across
his inmost subjective life, setting its entire contents in
rushing motion.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And here,&rdquo; the girl said, &ldquo;is the dagger.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p>

<p>He took from her the short bronze weapon, feeling at
once instinctively its ragged edge, its keen point, sharp
and effective still. The handle had long since rotted
away, but the bronze tongue, and the holes where the
rivets had been, remained, and, as he touched it, the confusion
and trouble in his mind increased to a kind of turmoil,
in which violence, linked to something tameless, wild
and almost savage, was the dominating emotion. He
turned to seize the girl and crush her to him in a passionate
embrace, but she held away, throwing back her lovely head,
her eyes shining, her lips parted, yet one hand stretched
out to stop him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;First look into it with me,&rdquo; she said quietly. &ldquo;Let us
see together.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She sat down on the turf beside the cottage door, and
Holt, obeying, took his place beside her. She remained
very still for some minutes, covering the stone with both
hands as though to warm it. Her lips moved. She seemed
to be repeating some kind of invocation beneath her breath,
though no actual words were audible. Presently her hands
parted. They sat together gazing at the polished surface.
They looked within.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There comes a white mist in the heart of the stone,&rdquo;
the girl whispered. &ldquo;It will soon open. The pictures
will then grow. Look!&rdquo; she exclaimed after a brief pause,
&ldquo;they are forming now.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see only mist,&rdquo; her companion murmured, gazing
intently. &ldquo;Only mist I see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She took his hand and instantly the mist parted. He
found himself peering into another landscape which opened
before his eyes as though it were a photograph. Hills
covered with heather stretched away on every side.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hills, I see,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;The ancient hills&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Watch closely,&rdquo; she replied, holding his hand firmly.</p>

<p>At first the landscape was devoid of any sign of life;
then suddenly it surged and swarmed with moving figures.
Torrents of men poured over the hill-crests and down their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
heathery sides in columns. He could see them clearly&mdash;great
hairy men, clad in skins, with thick shields on their
left arms or slung over their backs, and short stabbing
spears in their hands. Thousands upon thousands poured
over in an endless stream. In the distance he could see
other columns sweeping in a turning movement. A few
of the men rode rough ponies and seemed to be directing
the march, and these, he knew, were the chiefs....</p>

<p>The scene grew dimmer, faded, died away completely.
Another took its place:</p>

<p>By the faint light he knew that it was dawn. The
undulating country, less hilly than before, was still wild
and uncultivated. A great wall, with towers at intervals,
stretched away till it was lost in shadowy distance. On
the nearest of these towers he saw a sentinel clad in
armour, gazing out across the rolling country. The
armour gleamed faintly in the pale glimmering light, as
the man suddenly snatched up a bugle and blew upon it.
From a brazier burning beside him he next seized a brand
and fired a great heap of brushwood. The smoke rose in
a dense column into the air almost immediately, and from
all directions, with incredible rapidity, figures came pouring
up to man the wall. Hurriedly they strung their
bows, and laid spare arrows close beside them on the coping.
The light grew brighter. The whole country was
alive with savages; like the waves of the sea they came
rolling in enormous numbers. For several minutes the
wall held. Then, in an impetuous, fearful torrent, they
poured over....</p>

<p>It faded, died away, was gone again, and a moment
later yet another took its place:</p>

<p>But this time the landscape was familiar, and he recognized
the tarn. He saw the savages upon the ledge that
flanked the dominating Crag; they had three captives with
them. He saw two men. The other was a woman. But
the woman had fallen exhausted to the ground, and a
chief on a rough pony rode back to see what had delayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
the march. Glancing at the captives, he made a fierce
gesture with his arm towards the water far below. Instantly
the woman was jerked cruelly to her feet and
forced onwards till the summit of the Crag was reached.
A man snatched something from her hand. A second later
she was hurled over the brink.</p>

<p>The two men were next dragged on to the dizzy spot
where she had stood. Dead with fatigue, bleeding from
numerous wounds, yet at this awful moment they
straightened themselves, casting contemptuous glances at
the fierce savages surrounding them. They were Romans
and would die like Romans. Holt saw their faces clearly
for the first time.</p>

<p>He sprang up with a cry of anguished fury.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The second man!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You saw the
second man!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The girl, releasing his hand, turned her eyes slowly
up to his, so that he met the flame of her ancient and
undying love shining like stars upon him out of the night
of time.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ever since that moment,&rdquo; she said in a low voice
that trembled, &ldquo;I have been looking, waiting for you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He took her in his arms and smothered her words with
kisses, holding her fiercely to him as though he would
never let her go. &ldquo;I, too,&rdquo; he said, his whole being burning
with his love, &ldquo;I have been looking, waiting for you.
Now I have found you. We have found each other...!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The dusk fell slowly, imperceptibly. As twilight slowly
draped the gaunt hills, blotting out familiar details, so
the strong dream, veil upon veil, drew closer over the soul
of the wanderer, obliterating finally the last reminder of
To-day. The little wind had dropped and the desolate
moors lay silent, but for the hum of distant water falling
to its valley bed. His life, too, and the life of the girl,
he knew, were similarly falling, falling into some deep
shadowed bed where rest would come at last. No details
troubled him, he asked himself no questions. A profound<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
sense of happy peace numbed every nerve and stilled his
beating heart.</p>

<p>He felt no fear, no anxiety, no hint of alarm or uneasiness
vexed his singular contentment. He realized one
thing only&mdash;that the girl lay in his arms, he held her fast,
her breath mingled with his own. They had found each
other. What else mattered?</p>

<p>From time to time, as the daylight faded and the sun
went down behind the moors, she spoke. She uttered
words he vaguely heard, listening, though with a certain
curious effort, before he closed the thing she said with
kisses. Even the fierceness of his blood was gone. The
world lay still, life almost ceased to flow. Lapped in the
deeps of his great love, he was redeemed, perhaps, of
violence and savagery....</p>

<p>&ldquo;Three dark birds,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;pass across the
sky ... they fall beyond the ridge. The omens are
favourable. A hawk now follows them, cleaving the sky
with pointed wings.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A hawk,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;The badge of my old
Legion.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My father will perform the sacrifice,&rdquo; he heard again,
though it seemed a long interval had passed, and the
man&rsquo;s figure was now invisible on the Crag amid the
gathering darkness. &ldquo;Already he prepares the fire. Look,
the sacred island is alight. He has the black cock ready
for the knife.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Holt roused himself with difficulty, lifting his face
from the garden of her hair. A faint light, he saw,
gleamed fitfully on the holm within the tarn. Her father,
then, had descended from the Crag, and had lit the sacrificial
fire upon the stones. But what did the doings of the
father matter now to him?</p>

<p>&ldquo;The dark bird,&rdquo; he repeated dully, &ldquo;the black victim
the Gods of the Underworld alone accept. It is good,
Acella, it is good!&rdquo; He was about to sink back again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
taking her against his breast as before, when she resisted
and sat up suddenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is time,&rdquo; she said aloud. &ldquo;The hour has come.
My father climbs, and we must join him on the summit.
Come!&rdquo;</p>

<p>She took his hand and raised him to his feet, and
together they began the rough ascent towards the Crag.
As they passed along the shore of the Tarn of Blood, he
saw the fire reflected in the ink-black waters; he made
out, too, though dimly, a rough circle of big stones, with
a larger flag-stone lying in the centre. Three small fires
of bracken and wood, placed in a triangle with its apex
towards the Standing Stone on the distant hill, burned
briskly, the crackling material sending out sparks that
pierced the columns of thick smoke. And in this smoke,
peering, shifting, appearing and disappearing, it seemed
he saw great faces moving. The flickering light and twirling
smoke made clear sight difficult. His bliss, his
lethargy were very deep. They left the tarn below them
and hand in hand began to climb the final slope.</p>

<p>Whether the physical effort of climbing disturbed the
deep pressure of the mood that numbed his senses, or
whether the cold draught of wind they met upon the ridge
restored some vital detail of To-day, Holt does not know.
Something, at any rate, in him wavered suddenly, as
though a centre of gravity had shifted slightly. There
was a perceptible alteration in the balance of thought and
feeling that had held invariable now for many hours. It
seemed to him that something heavy lifted, or rather, began
to lift&mdash;a weight, a shadow, something oppressive that
obstructed light. A ray of light, as it were, struggled
through the thick darkness that enveloped him. To him,
as he paused on the ridge to recover his breath, came this
vague suggestion of faint light breaking across the blackness.
It was objective.</p>

<p>&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said the girl in a low voice, &ldquo;the moon is rising.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
It lights the sacred island. The blood-red waters turn to
silver.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He saw, indeed, that a huge three-quarter moon now
drove with almost visible movement above the distant line
of hills; the little tarn gleamed as with silvery armour;
the glow of the sacrificial fires showed red across it. He
looked down with a shudder into the sheer depth that
opened at his feet, then turned to look at his companion.
He started and shrank back. Her face, lit by the moon
and by the fire, shone pale as death; her black hair framed
it with a terrible suggestiveness; the eyes, though brilliant
as ever, had a film upon them. She stood in an attitude
of both ecstasy and resignation, and one outstretched arm
pointed towards the summit where her father stood.</p>

<p>Her lips parted, a marvellous smile broke over her
features, her voice was suddenly unfamiliar: &ldquo;He wears
the collar,&rdquo; she uttered. &ldquo;Come. Our time is here at last,
and we are ready. See, he waits for us!&rdquo;</p>

<p>There rose for the first time struggle and opposition
in him; he resisted the pressure of her hand that had
seized his own and drew him forcibly along. Whence
came the resistance and the opposition he could not tell,
but though he followed her, he was aware that the refusal
in him strengthened. The weight of darkness that oppressed
him shifted a little more, an inner light increased;
The same moment they reached the summit and stood beside&mdash;the
priest. There was a curious sound of fluttering.
The figure, he saw, was naked, save for a rough blanket
tied loosely about the waist.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The hour has come at last,&rdquo; cried his deep booming
voice that woke echoes from the dark hills about them.
&ldquo;We are alone now with our Gods.&rdquo; And he broke then
into a monotonous rhythmic chanting that rose and fell
upon the wind, yet in a tongue that sounded strange; his
erect figure swayed slightly with its cadences; his black
beard swept his naked chest; and his face, turned skywards,
shone in the mingled light of moon above and fire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
below, yet with an added light as well that burned within
him rather than without. He was a weird, magnificent
figure, a priest of ancient rites invoking his deathless
deities upon the unchanging hills.</p>

<p>But upon Holt, too, as he stared in awed amazement,
an inner light had broken suddenly. It came as with a
dazzling blaze that at first paralysed thought and action.
His mind cleared, but too abruptly for movement, either
of tongue or hand, to be possible. Then, abruptly, the
inner darkness rolled away completely. The light in the
wild eyes of the great chanting, swaying figure, he now
knew was the light of mania.</p>

<p>The faint fluttering sound increased, and the voice of
the girl was oddly mingled with it. The priest had ceased
his invocation. Holt, aware that he stood alone, saw the
girl go past him carrying a big black bird that struggled
with vainly beating wings.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Behold the sacrifice,&rdquo; she said, as she knelt before
her father and held up the victim. &ldquo;May the Gods accept
it as presently They shall accept us too!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The great figure stooped and took the offering, and
with one blow of the knife he held, its head was severed
from its body. The blood spattered on the white face of
the kneeling girl. Holt was aware for the first time that
she, too, was now unclothed; but for a loose blanket, her
white body gleamed against the dark heather in the moonlight.
At the same moment she rose to her feet, stood
upright, turned towards him so that he saw the dark hair
streaming across her naked shoulders, and, with a face
of ecstasy, yet ever that strange film upon her eyes, her
voice came to him on the wind:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Farewell, yet not farewell! We shall meet, all three,
in the underworld. The Gods accept us!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Turning her face away, she stepped towards the ominous
figure behind, and bared her ivory neck and breast
to the knife. The eyes of the maniac were upon her own;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
she was as helpless and obedient as a lamb before his
spell.</p>

<p>Then Holt&rsquo;s horrible paralysis, if only just in time,
was lifted. The priest had raised his arm, the bronze
knife with its ragged edge gleamed in the air, with the
other hand he had already gathered up the thick dark
hair, so that the neck lay bare and open to the final blow.
But it was two other details, Holt thinks, that set his
muscles suddenly free, enabling him to act with the swift
judgment which, being wholly unexpected, disconcerted
both maniac and victim and frustrated the awful culmination.
The dark spots of blood upon the face he
loved, and the sudden final fluttering of the dead bird&rsquo;s
wings upon the ground&mdash;these two things, life actually
touching death, released the held-back springs.</p>

<p>He leaped forward. He received the blow upon his
left arm and hand. It was his right fist that sent the
High Priest to earth with a blow that, luckily, felled him
in the direction away from the dreadful brink, and it was
his right arm and hand, he became aware some time afterwards
only, that were chiefly of use in carrying the fainting
girl and her unconscious father back to the shelter of
the cottage, and to the best help and comfort he could
provide....</p>

<p>It was several years afterwards, in a very different
setting, that he found himself spelling out slowly to a
little boy the lettering cut into a circlet of bronze the child
found on his study table. To the child he told a fairy
tale, then dismissed him to play with his mother in the
garden. But, when alone, he rubbed away the verdigris
with great care, for the circlet was thin and frail with age,
as he examined again the little picture of a tripod from
which smoke issued, incised neatly in the metal. Below
it, almost as sharp as when the Roman craftsman cut it
first, was the name Acella. He touched the letters tenderly
with his left hand, from which two fingers were missing,
then placed it in a drawer of his desk and turned the key.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;That curious name,&rdquo; said a low voice behind his
chair. His wife had come in and was looking over his
shoulder. &ldquo;You love it, and I dread it.&rdquo; She sat on the
desk beside him, her eyes troubled. &ldquo;It was the name
father used to call me in his illness.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Her husband looked at her with passionate tenderness,
but said no word.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And this,&rdquo; she went on, taking the broken hand in
both her own, &ldquo;is the price you paid to me for his life.
I often wonder what strange good deity brought you upon
the lonely moor that night, and just in the very nick of
time. You remember...?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The deity who helps true lovers, of course,&rdquo; he said
with a smile, evading the question. The deeper memory,
he knew, had closed absolutely in her since the moment
of the attempted double crime. He kissed her, murmuring
to himself as he did so, but too low for her to hear,
&ldquo;Acella! <em>My</em> Acella...!&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p>


<h2>VI<br />
<br />
THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">As</span> they emerged suddenly from the dense forest the
Indian halted, and Grimwood, his employer, stood
beside him, gazing into the beautiful wooded valley that
lay spread below them in the blaze of a golden sunset.
Both men leaned upon their rifles, caught by the enchantment
of the unexpected scene.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We camp here,&rdquo; said Tooshalli abruptly, after a careful
survey. &ldquo;To-morrow we make a plan.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He spoke excellent English. The note of decision,
almost of authority, in his voice was noticeable, but Grimwood
set it down to the natural excitement of the moment.
Every track they had followed during the last two days,
but one track in particular as well, had headed straight
for this remote and hidden valley, and the sport promised
to be unusual.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s so,&rdquo; he replied, in the tone of one giving an
order. &ldquo;You can make camp ready at once.&rdquo; And he
sat down on a fallen hemlock to take off his moccasin
boots and grease his feet that ached from the arduous
day now drawing to a close. Though under ordinary circumstances
he would have pushed on for another hour or
two, he was not averse to a night here, for exhaustion had
come upon him during the last bit of rough going, his
eye and muscles were no longer steady, and it was doubtful
if he could have shot straight enough to kill. He did
not mean to miss a second time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p>

<p>With his Canadian friend, Iredale, the latter&rsquo;s half-breed,
and his own Indian, Tooshalli, the party had set
out three weeks ago to find the &ldquo;wonderful big moose&rdquo;
the Indians reported were travelling in the Snow River
country. They soon found that the tale was true; tracks
were abundant; they saw fine animals nearly every day,
but though carrying good heads, the hunters expected
better still and left them alone. Pushing up the river
to a chain of small lakes near its source, they then
separated into two parties, each with its nine-foot bark
canoe, and packed in for three days after the yet bigger
animals the Indians agreed would be found in the deeper
woods beyond. Excitement was keen, expectation keener
still. The day before they separated, Iredale shot the
biggest moose of his life, and its head, bigger even than
the grand Alaskan heads, hangs in his house to-day. Grimwood&rsquo;s
hunting blood was fairly up. His blood was of the
fiery, not to say ferocious, quality. It almost seemed he
liked killing for its own sake.</p>

<p>Four days after the party broke into two he came
upon a gigantic track, whose measurements and length of
stride keyed every nerve he possessed to its highest tension.</p>

<p>Tooshalli examined the tracks for some minutes with
care. &ldquo;It is the biggest moose in the world,&rdquo; he said at
length, a new expression on his inscrutable red visage.</p>

<p>Following it all that day, they yet got no sight of
the big fellow that seemed to be frequenting a little marshy
dip of country, too small to be called valley, where willow
and undergrowth abounded. He had not yet scented
his pursuers. They were after him again at dawn. Towards
the evening of the second day Grimwood caught a
sudden glimpse of the monster among a thick clump of
willows, and the sight of the magnificent head that easily
beat all records set his heart beating like a hammer with
excitement. He aimed and fired. But the moose, instead
of crashing, went thundering away through the further
scrub and disappeared, the sound of his plunging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
canter presently dying away. Grimwood had missed, even
if he had wounded.</p>

<p>They camped, and all next day, leaving the canoe
behind, they followed the huge track, but though finding
signs of blood, these were not plentiful, and the shot had
evidently only grazed the animal. The travelling was of
the hardest. Towards evening, utterly exhausted, the spoor
led them to the ridge they now stood upon, gazing down
into the enchanting valley that opened at their feet. The
giant moose had gone down into this valley. He would
consider himself safe there. Grimwood agreed with the
Indian&rsquo;s judgment. They would camp for the night and
continue at dawn the wild hunt after &ldquo;the biggest moose
in the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Supper was over, the small fire used for cooking dying
down, with Grimwood became first aware that the Indian
was not behaving quite as usual. What particular detail
drew his attention is hard to say. He was a slow-witted,
heavy man, full-blooded, unobservant; a fact had to hurt
him through his comfort, through his pleasure, before he
noticed it. Yet anyone else must have observed the
changed mood of the Redskin long ago. Tooshalli had
made the fire, fried the bacon, served the tea, and was
arranging the blankets, his own and his employer&rsquo;s, before
the latter remarked upon his&mdash;silence. Tooshalli had not
uttered a word for over an hour and a half, since he had
first set eyes upon the new valley, to be exact. And his
employer now noticed the unaccustomed silence, because
after food he liked to listen to wood talk and hunting
lore.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tired out, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said big Grimwood, looking
into the dark face across the firelight. He resented the
absence of conversation, now that he noticed it. He was
over-weary himself, he felt more irritable than usual,
though his temper was always vile.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lost your tongue, eh?&rdquo; he went on with a growl, as
the Indian returned his stare with solemn, expressionless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
face. That dark inscrutable look got on his nerves a bit.
&ldquo;Speak up, man!&rdquo; he exclaimed sharply. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s it all
about?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Englishman had at last realized that there was
something to &ldquo;speak up&rdquo; about. The discovery, in his
present state, annoyed him further. Tooshalli stared
gravely, but made no reply. The silence was prolonged
almost into minutes. Presently the head turned sideways,
as though the man listened. The other watched him very
closely, anger growing in him.</p>

<p>But it was the way the Redskin turned his head, keeping
his body rigid, that gave the jerk to Grimwood&rsquo;s
nerves, providing him with a sensation he had never known
in his life before&mdash;it gave him what is generally called
&ldquo;the goose-flesh.&rdquo; It seemed to jangle his entire system,
yet at the same time made him cautious. He did not
like it, this combination of emotions puzzled him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Say something, I tell you,&rdquo; he repeated in a harsher
tone, raising his voice. He sat up, drawing his great body
closer to the fire. &ldquo;Say something, damn it!&rdquo;</p>

<p>His voice fell dead against the surrounding trees, making
the silence of the forest unpleasantly noticeable. Very
still the great woods stood about them; there was no wind,
no stir of branches; only the crackle of a snapping twig
was audible from time to time, as the night-life moved
unwarily sometimes watching the humans round their
little fire. The October air had a frosty touch that nipped.</p>

<p>The Redskin did not answer. No muscle of his neck
nor of his stiffened body moved. He seemed all ears.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; repeated the Englishman, lowering his voice
this time instinctively. &ldquo;What d&rsquo;you hear, God damn it!&rdquo;
The touch of odd nervousness that made his anger grow
betrayed itself in his language.</p>

<p>Tooshalli slowly turned his head back again to its
normal position, the body rigid as before.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hear nothing, Mr. Grimwood,&rdquo; he said, gazing with
quiet dignity into his employer&rsquo;s eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>

<p>This was too much for the other, a man of savage
temper at the best of times. He was the type of Englishman
who held strong views as to the right way of treating
&ldquo;inferior&rdquo; races.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie, Tooshalli, and I won&rsquo;t have you lie to
me. Now what was it? Tell me at once!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hear nothing,&rdquo; repeated the other. &ldquo;I only think.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what is it you&rsquo;re pleased to think?&rdquo; Impatience
made a nasty expression round the mouth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I go not,&rdquo; was the abrupt reply, unalterable decision
in the voice.</p>

<p>The man&rsquo;s rejoinder was so unexpected that Grimwood
found nothing to say at first. For a moment he
did not take its meaning; his mind, always slow, was confused
by impatience, also by what he considered the foolishness
of the little scene. Then in a flash he understood;
but he also understood the immovable obstinacy of the race
he had to deal with. Tooshalli was informing him that
he refused to go into the valley where the big moose had
vanished. And his astonishment was so great at first that
he merely sat and stared. No words came to him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; said the Indian, but used a native term.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that mean?&rdquo; Grimwood found his tongue,
but his quiet tone was ominous.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mr. Grimwood, it mean the &lsquo;Valley of the Beasts,&rsquo;&rdquo;
was the reply in a tone quieter still.</p>

<p>The Englishman made a great, a genuine effort at self-control.
He was dealing, he forced himself to remember,
with a superstitious Redskin. He knew the stubbornness
of the type. If the man left him his sport was irretrievably
spoilt, for he could not hunt in this wilderness alone, and
even if he got the coveted head, he could never, never get
it out alone. His native selfishness seconded his effort.
Persuasion, if only he could keep back his rising anger,
was his rôle to play.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Valley of the Beasts,&rdquo; he said, a smile on his lips
rather than in his darkening eyes; &ldquo;but that&rsquo;s just what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
we want. It&rsquo;s beasts we&rsquo;re after, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; His voice
had a false cheery ring that could not have deceived a
child. &ldquo;But what d&rsquo;you mean, anyhow&mdash;the Valley of the
Beasts?&rdquo; He asked it with a dull attempt at sympathy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It belong to Ishtot, Mr. Grimwood.&rdquo; The man looked
him full in the face, no flinching in the eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My&mdash;our&mdash;big moose is there,&rdquo; said the other, who
recognized the name of the Indian Hunting God, and
understanding better, felt confident he would soon persuade
his man. Tooshalli, he remembered, too, was
nominally a Christian. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll follow him at dawn and
get the biggest head the world has ever seen. You will
be famous,&rdquo; he added, his temper better in hand again.
&ldquo;Your tribe will honour you. And the white hunters will
pay you much money.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He go there to save himself. I go not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The other&rsquo;s anger revived with a leap at this stupid
obstinacy. But, in spite of it, he noticed the odd choice
of words. He began to realize that nothing now would
move the man. At the same time he also realized that
violence on his part must prove worse than useless. Yet
violence was natural to his &ldquo;dominant&rdquo; type. &ldquo;That brute
Grimwood&rdquo; was the way most men spoke of him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Back at the settlement you&rsquo;re a Christian, remember,&rdquo;
he tried, in his clumsy way, another line. &ldquo;And
disobedience means hell-fire. You know that!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I a Christian&mdash;at the post,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;but out
here the Red God rule. Ishtot keep that valley for himself.
No Indian hunt there.&rdquo; It was as though a granite
boulder spoke.</p>

<p>The savage temper of the Englishman, enforced by the
long difficult suppression, rose wickedly into sudden flame.
He stood up, kicking his blankets aside. He strode across
the dying fire to the Indian&rsquo;s side. Tooshalli also rose.
They faced each other, two humans alone in the wilderness,
watched by countless invisible forest eyes.</p>

<p>Tooshalli stood motionless, yet as though he expected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
violence from the foolish, ignorant white-face. &ldquo;You go
alone, Mr. Grimwood.&rdquo; There was no fear in him.</p>

<p>Grimwood choked with rage. His words came forth
with difficulty, though he roared them into the silence of
the forest:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I pay you, don&rsquo;t I? You&rsquo;ll do what <em>I</em> say, not what
<em>you</em> say!&rdquo; His voice woke the echoes.</p>

<p>The Indian, arms hanging by his side, gave the old
reply.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I go not,&rdquo; he repeated firmly.</p>

<p>It stung the other into uncontrollable fury.</p>

<p>The beast then came uppermost; it came out. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve
said that once too often, Tooshalli!&rdquo; and he struck him
brutally in the face. The Indian fell, rose to his knees
again, collapsed sideways beside the fire, then struggled
back into a sitting position. He never once took his eyes
from the white man&rsquo;s face.</p>

<p>Beside himself with anger, Grimwood stood over him.
&ldquo;Is that enough? Will you obey me now?&rdquo; he shouted.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I go not,&rdquo; came the thick reply, blood streaming
from his mouth. The eyes had no flinching in them.
&ldquo;That valley Ishtot keep. Ishtot see us now. <em>He see you.</em>&rdquo;
The last words he uttered with strange, almost uncanny
emphasis.</p>

<p>Grimwood, arm raised, fist clenched, about to repeat
his terrible assault, paused suddenly. His arm sank to
his side. What exactly stopped him he could never say.
For one thing, he feared his own anger, feared that if
he let himself go he would not stop till he had killed&mdash;committed
murder. He knew his own fearful temper and
stood afraid of it. Yet it was not only that. The calm
firmness of the Redskin, his courage under pain, and
something in the fixed and burning eyes arrested him.
Was it also something in the words he had used&mdash;&ldquo;Ishtot
see <em>you</em>&rdquo;&mdash;that stung him into a queer caution midway
in his violence?</p>

<p>He could not say. He only knew that a momentary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
sense of awe came over him. He became unpleasantly
aware of the enveloping forest, so still, listening in a
kind of impenetrable, remorseless silence. This lonely
wilderness, looking silently upon what might easily prove
murder, laid a faint, inexplicable chill upon his raging
blood. The hand dropped slowly to his side again, the
fist unclenched itself, his breath came more evenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Look you here,&rdquo; he said, adopting without knowing
it the local way of speech. &ldquo;I ain&rsquo;t a bad man, though
your going-on do make a man damned tired. I&rsquo;ll give
you another chance.&rdquo; His voice was sullen, but a new
note in it surprised even himself. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that. You
can have the night to think it over, Tooshalli&mdash;see? Talk
it over with your&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He did not finish the sentence. Somehow the name
of the Redskin God refused to pass his lips. He turned
away, flung himself into his blankets, and in less than
ten minutes, exhausted as much by his anger as by the
day&rsquo;s hard going, he was sound asleep.</p>

<p>The Indian, crouching beside the dying fire, had said
nothing.</p>

<p>Night held the woods, the sky was thick with stars,
the life of the forest went about its business quietly, with
that wondrous skill which millions of years have perfected.
The Redskin, so close to this skill that he instinctively
used and borrowed from it, was silent, alert and wise, his
outline as inconspicuous as though he merged, like his
four-footed teachers, into the mass of the surrounding
bush.</p>

<p>He moved perhaps, yet nothing knew he moved. His
wisdom, derived from that eternal, ancient mother who
from infinite experience makes no mistakes, did not fail
him. His soft tread made no sound; his breathing, as
his weight, was calculated. The stars observed him, but
they did not tell; the light air knew his whereabouts, yet
without betrayal....</p>

<p>The chill dawn gleamed at length between the trees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
lighting the pale ashes of an extinguished fire, also of a
bulky, obvious form beneath a blanket. The form moved
clumsily. The cold was penetrating.</p>

<p>And that bulky form now moved because a dream had
come to trouble it. A dark figure stole across its confused
field of vision. The form started, but it did not wake.
The figure spoke: &ldquo;Take this,&rdquo; it whispered, handing
a little stick, curiously carved. &ldquo;It is the totem of great
Ishtot. In the valley all memory of the White Gods will
leave you. Call upon Ishtot.... Call on Him if you dare&rdquo;;
and the dark figure glided away out of the dream and out
of all remembrance....</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>The first thing Grimwood noticed when he woke was
that Tooshalli was not there. No fire burned, no tea was
ready. He felt exceedingly annoyed. He glared about
him, then got up with a curse to make the fire. His
mind seemed confused and troubled. At first he only
realized one thing clearly&mdash;his guide had left him in the
night.</p>

<p>It was very cold. He lit the wood with difficulty and
made his tea, and the actual world came gradually back
to him. The Red Indian had gone; perhaps the blow,
perhaps the superstitious terror, perhaps both, had driven
him away. He was alone, that was the outstanding fact.
For anything beyond outstanding facts, Grimwood felt
little interest. Imaginative speculation was beyond his
compass. Close to the brute creation, it seemed, his nature
lay.</p>

<p>It was while packing his blankets&mdash;he did it automatically,
a dull, vicious resentment in him&mdash;that his
fingers struck a bit of wood that he was about to throw
away when its unusual shape caught his attention suddenly.
His odd dream came back then. But was it a
dream? The bit of wood was undoubtedly a totem stick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
He examined it. He paid it more attention than he meant
to, wished to. Yes, it was unquestionably a totem stick.
The dream, then, was not a dream. Tooshalli had quit,
but, following with Redskin faithfulness some code of his
own, had left him the means of safety. He chuckled
sourly, but thrust the stick inside his belt. &ldquo;One never
knows,&rdquo; he mumbled to himself.</p>

<p>He faced the situation squarely. He was alone in the
wilderness. His capable, experienced woodsman had deserted
him. The situation was serious. What should he
do? A weakling would certainly retrace his steps, following
the track they had made, afraid to be left alone in this
vast hinterland of pathless forest. But Grimwood was
of another build. Alarmed he might be, but he would
not give in. He had the defects of his own qualities. The
brutality of his nature argued force. He was determined
and a sportsman. He would go on. And ten minutes
after breakfast, having first made a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cache</i> of what provisions
were left over, he was on his way&mdash;down across the
ridge and into the mysterious valley, the Valley of the
Beasts.</p>

<p>It looked, in the morning sunlight, entrancing. The
trees closed in behind him, but he did not notice. It led
him on....</p>

<p>He followed the track of the gigantic moose he meant
to kill, and the sweet, delicious sunshine helped him. The
air was like wine, the seductive spoor of the great beast,
with here and there a faint splash of blood on leaves or
ground, lay forever just before his eyes. He found the
valley, though the actual word did not occur to him, enticing;
more and more he noticed the beauty, the desolate
grandeur of the mighty spruce and hemlock, the splendour
of the granite bluffs which in places rose above the
forest and caught the sun.... The valley was deeper,
vaster than he had imagined. He felt safe, at home in it,
though, again these actual terms did not occur to him.... Here
he could hide for ever and find peace.... He became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
aware of a new quality in the deep loneliness. The
scenery for the first time in his life appealed to him, and
the form of the appeal was curious&mdash;he felt the comfort
of it.</p>

<p>For a man of his habit, this was odd, yet the new
sensations stole over him so gently, their approach so
gradual, that they were first recognized by his consciousness
indirectly. They had already established themselves
in him before he noticed them; and the indirectness took
this form&mdash;that the passion of the chase gave place to
an interest in the valley itself. The lust of the hunt, the
fierce desire to find and kill, the keen wish, in a word,
to see his quarry within range, to aim, to fire, to witness
the natural consummation of the long expedition&mdash;these
had all become measurably less, while the effect of the
valley upon him had increased in strength. There was a
welcome about it that he did not understand.</p>

<p>The change was singular, yet, oddly enough, it did
not occur to him as singular; it was unnatural, yet it
did not strike him so. To a dull mind of his unobservant,
unanalytical type, a change had to be marked and dramatic
before he noticed it; something in the nature of a shock
must accompany it for him to recognize it had happened.
And there had been no shock. The spoor of the great
moose was much cleaner, now that he caught up with the
animal that made it; the blood more frequent; he had
noticed the spot where it had rested, its huge body leaving
a marked imprint on the soft ground; where it had
reached up to eat the leaves of saplings here and there
was also visible; he had come undoubtedly very near to it,
and any minute now might see its great bulk within range
of an easy shot. Yet his ardour had somehow lessened.</p>

<p>He first realized this change in himself when it suddenly
occurred to him that the animal itself had grown
less cautious. It must scent him easily now, since a moose,
its sight being indifferent, depends chiefly for its safety
upon its unusually keen sense of smell, and the wind came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
from behind him. This now struck him as decidedly uncommon:
the moose itself was obviously careless of his
close approach. It felt no fear.</p>

<p>It was this inexplicable alteration in the animal&rsquo;s behaviour
that made him recognize, at last, the alteration
in his own. He had followed it now for a couple of hours
and had descended some eight hundred to a thousand feet;
the trees were thinner and more sparsely placed; there
were open, park-like places where silver birch, sumach
and maple splashed their blazing colours; and a crystal
stream, broken by many waterfalls, foamed past towards
the bed of the great valley, yet another thousand feet
below. By a quiet pool against some over-arching rocks,
the moose had evidently paused to drink, paused at its
leisure, moreover. Grimwood, rising from a close examination
of the direction the creature had taken after drinking&mdash;the
hoof-marks were fresh and very distinct in the
marshy ground about the pool&mdash;looked suddenly straight
into the great creature&rsquo;s eyes. It was not twenty yards
from where he stood, yet he had been standing on that
spot for at least ten minutes, caught by the wonder and
loneliness of the scene. The moose, therefore, had been
close beside him all this time. It had been calmly drinking,
undisturbed by his presence, unafraid.</p>

<p>The shock came now, the shock that woke his heavy
nature into realization. For some seconds, probably for
minutes, he stood rooted to the ground, motionless, hardly
breathing. He stared as though he saw a vision. The
animal&rsquo;s head was lowered, but turned obliquely somewhat,
so that the eyes, placed sideways in its great head,
could see him properly; its immense proboscis hung as
though stuffed upon an English wall; he saw the fore-feet
planted wide apart, the slope of the enormous
shoulders dropping back towards the fine hind-quarters
and lean flanks. It was a magnificent bull. The horns
and head justified his wildest expectations, they were
superb, a record specimen, and a phrase&mdash;where had he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
heard it?&mdash;ran vaguely, as from far distance, through his
mind: &ldquo;the biggest moose in the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was the extraordinary fact, however, that he
did not shoot; nor feel the wish to shoot. The familiar
instinct, so strong hitherto in his blood, made no sign;
the desire to kill apparently had left him. To raise his
rifle, aim and fire had become suddenly an absolute impossibility.</p>

<p>He did not move. The animal and the human stared
into each other&rsquo;s eyes for a length of time whose interval
he could not measure. Then came a soft noise close beside
him: the rifle had slipped from his grasp and fallen
with a thud into the mossy earth at his feet. And the
moose, for the first time now, was moving. With slow,
easy stride, its great weight causing a squelching sound
as the feet drew out of the moist ground, it came towards
him, the bulk of the shoulders giving it an appearance
of swaying like a ship at sea. It reached his side, it
almost touched him, the magnificent head bent low, the
spread of the gigantic horns lay beneath his very eyes.
He could have patted, stroked it. He saw, with a touch
of pity, that blood trickled from a sore in its left shoulder,
matting the thick hair. It sniffed the fallen rifle.</p>

<p>Then, lifting its head and shoulders again, it sniffed
the air, this time with an audible sound that shook from
Grimwood&rsquo;s mind the last possibility that he witnessed a
vision or dreamed a dream. One moment it gazed into
his face, its big brown eyes shining and unafraid, then
turned abruptly, and swung away at a speed ever rapidly
increasing across the park-like spaces till it was lost finally
among the dark tangle of undergrowth beyond. And the
Englishman&rsquo;s muscles turned to paper, his paralysis passed,
his legs refused to support his weight, and he sank heavily
to the ground....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>It seems he slept, slept long and heavily; he sat up,
stretched himself, yawned and rubbed his eyes. The sun
had moved across the sky, for the shadows, he saw, now
ran from west to east, and they were long shadows. He
had slept evidently for hours, and evening was drawing
in. He was aware that he felt hungry. In his pouchlike
pockets, he had dried meat, sugar, matches, tea, and
the little billy that never left him. He would make a fire,
boil some tea and eat.</p>

<p>But he took no steps to carry out his purpose, he felt
disinclined to move, he sat thinking, thinking.... What
was he thinking about? He did not know, he could not
say exactly; it was more like fugitive pictures that passed
across his mind. Who, and where, was he? This was
the Valley of the Beasts, that he knew; he felt sure of
nothing else. How long had he been here, and where had
he come from, and why? The questions did not linger for
their answers, almost as though his interest in them was
merely automatic. He felt happy, peaceful, unafraid.</p>

<p>He looked about him, and the spell of this virgin forest
came upon him like a charm; only the sound of falling
water, the murmur of wind sighing among innumerable
branches, broke the enveloping silence. Overhead, beyond
the crests of the towering trees, a cloudless evening sky
was paling into transparent orange, opal, mother of pearl.
He saw buzzards soaring lazily. A scarlet tanager flashed
by. Soon would the owls begin to call and the darkness
fall like a sweet black veil and hide all detail, while the
stars sparkled in their countless thousands....</p>

<p>A glint of something that shone upon the ground caught
his eye&mdash;a smooth, polished strip of rounded metal: his
rifle. And he started to his feet impulsively, yet not
knowing exactly what he meant to do. At the sight of
the weapon, something had leaped to life in him, then
faded out, died down, and was gone again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m&mdash;I&rsquo;m&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he began muttering to himself, but
could not finish what he was about to say. His name had
disappeared completely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in the Valley of the Beasts,&rdquo;
he repeated in place of what he sought but could not find.</p>

<p>This fact, that he was in the Valley of the Beasts,
seemed the only positive item of knowledge that he had.
About the name something known and familiar clung,
though the sequence that led up to it he could not trace.
Presently, nevertheless, he rose to his feet, advanced a
few steps, stooped and picked up the shining metal thing,
his rifle. He examined it a moment, a feeling of dread
and loathing rising in him, a sensation of almost horror
that made him tremble, then, with a convulsive movement
that betrayed an intense reaction of some sort he could not
comprehend, he flung the thing far from him into the
foaming torrent. He saw the splash it made, he also saw
that same instant a large grizzly bear swing heavily along
the bank not a dozen yards from where he stood. It, too,
heard the splash, for it started, turned, paused a second,
then changed its direction and came towards him. It
came up close. Its fur brushed his body. It examined
him leisurely, as the moose had done, sniffed, half rose
upon its terrible hind legs, opened its mouth so that red
tongue and gleaming teeth were plainly visible, then
flopped back upon all fours again with a deep growling
that yet had no anger in it, and swung off at a quick trot
back to the bank of the torrent. He had felt its hot
breath upon his face, but he had felt no fear. The monster
was puzzled but not hostile. It disappeared.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They know not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he sought for the word &ldquo;man,&rdquo;
but could not find it. &ldquo;They have never been hunted.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The words ran through his mind, if perhaps he was not
entirely certain of their meaning; they rose, as it were,
automatically; a familiar sound lay in them somewhere.
At the same time there rose feelings in him that were
equally, though in another way, familiar and quite natural,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
feelings he had once known intimately but long since laid
aside.</p>

<p>What were they? What was their origin? They
seemed distant as the stars, yet were actually in his body,
in his blood and nerves, part and parcel of his flesh. Long,
long ago.... Oh, how long, how long?</p>

<p>Thinking was difficult; feeling was what he most easily
and naturally managed. He could not think for long; feeling
rose up and drowned the effort quickly.</p>

<p>That huge and awful bear&mdash;not a nerve, not a muscle
quivered in him as its acrid smell rose to his nostrils, its
fur brushed down his legs. Yet he was aware that somewhere
there was danger, though not here. Somewhere
there was attack, hostility, wicked and calculated plans
against him&mdash;as against that splendid, roaming animal
that had sniffed, examined, then gone its own way, satisfied.
Yes, active attack, hostility and careful, cruel plans
against his safety, but&mdash;not here. Here he was safe,
secure, at peace; here he was happy; here he could roam
at will, no eye cast sideways into forest depths, no ear
pricked high to catch sounds not explained, no nostrils
quivering to scent alarm. He felt this, but he did not
think it. He felt hungry, thirsty too.</p>

<p>Something prompted him now at last to act. His billy
lay at his feet, and he picked it up; the matches&mdash;he
carried them in a metal case whose screw top kept out all
moisture&mdash;were in his hand. Gathering a few dry twigs,
he stooped to light them, then suddenly drew back with
the first touch of fear he had yet known.</p>

<p>Fire! What <em>was</em> fire? The idea was repugnant to
him, it was impossible, he was afraid of fire. He flung
the metal case after the rifle and saw it gleam in the last
rays of sunset, then sink with a little splash beneath the
water. Glancing down at his billy, he realized next that
he could not make use of it either, nor of the dark dry
dusty stuff he had meant to boil in water. He felt no
repugnance, certainly no fear, in connexion with these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
things, only he could not handle them, he did not need
them, he had forgotten, yes, &ldquo;forgotten,&rdquo; what they meant
exactly. This strange forgetfulness was increasing in him
rapidly, becoming more and more complete with every
minute. Yet his thirst must be quenched.</p>

<p>The next moment he found himself at the water&rsquo;s edge;
he stooped to fill his billy; paused, hesitated, examined
the rushing water, then abruptly moved a few feet higher
up the stream, leaving the metal can behind him. His
handling of it had been oddly clumsy, his gestures awkward,
even unnatural. He now flung himself down with
an easy, simple motion of his entire body, lowered his
face to a quiet pool he had found, and drank his fill of the
cool, refreshing liquid. But, though unaware of the fact,
he did not drink. He lapped.</p>

<p>Then, crouching where he was, he ate the meat and
sugar from his pockets, lapped more water, moved back a
short distance again into the dry ground beneath the trees,
but moved this time without rising to his feet, curled his
body into a comfortable position and closed his eyes again
to sleep.... No single question now raised its head in
him. He felt contentment, satisfaction only....</p>

<p>He stirred, shook himself, opened half an eye and saw,
as he had felt already in slumber, that he was not alone.
In the park-like spaces in front of him, as in the shadowed
fringe of the trees at his back, there was sound and movement,
the sound of stealthy feet, the movement of innumerable
dark bodies. There was the pad and tread of animals,
the stir of backs, of smooth and shaggy beasts, in countless
numbers. Upon this host fell the light of a half
moon sailing high in a cloudless sky; the gleam of stars,
sparkling in the clear night air like diamonds, shone
reflected in hundreds of ever-shifting eyes, most of them
but a few feet above the ground. The whole valley was
alive.</p>

<p>He sat upon his haunches, staring, staring, but staring
in wonder, not in fear, though the foremost of the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
host were so near that he could have stretched an arm and
touched them. It was an ever-moving, ever-shifting
throng he gazed at, spell-bound, in the pale light of moon
and stars, now fading slowly towards the approaching
dawn. And the smell of the forest itself was not sweeter
to him in that moment than the mingled perfume, raw,
pungent, acrid, of this furry host of beautiful wild animals
that moved like a sea, with a strange murmuring, too,
like sea, as the myriad feet and bodies passed to and fro
together. Nor was the gleam of the starry, phosphorescent
eyes less pleasantly friendly than those happy lamps that
light home-lost wanderers to cosy rooms and safety.
Through the wild army, in a word, poured to him the deep
comfort of the entire valley, a comfort which held both the
sweetness of invitation and the welcome of some magical
home-coming.</p>

<p>No thoughts came to him, but feeling rose in a tide of
wonder and acceptance. He was in his rightful place.
His nature had come home. There was this dim, vague
consciousness in him that after long, futile straying in
another place where uncongenial conditions had forced him
to be unnatural and therefore terrible, he had returned
at last where he belonged. Here, in the Valley of the
Beasts, he had found peace, security and happiness. He
would be&mdash;he was at last&mdash;himself.</p>

<p>It was a marvellous, even a magical, scene he watched,
his nerves at highest tension yet quite steady, his senses
exquisitely alert, yet no uneasiness in the full, accurate
reports they furnished. Strong as some deep flood-tide,
yet dim, as with untold time and distance, rose over him
the spell of long-forgotten memory of a state where he
was content and happy, where he was natural. The outlines,
as it were, of mighty, primitive pictures, flashed
before him, yet were gone again before the detail was
filled in.</p>

<p>He watched the great army of the animals, they were
all about him now; he crouched upon his haunches in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
centre of an ever-moving circle of wild forest life. Great
timber wolves he saw pass to and fro, loping past him
with long stride and graceful swing; their red tongues
lolling out; they swarmed in hundreds. Behind, yet
mingling freely with them, rolled the huge grizzlies, not
clumsy as their uncouth bodies promised, but swiftly,
lightly, easily, their half tumbling gait masking agility
and speed. They gambolled, sometimes they rose and stood
half upright, they were comely in their mass and power,
they rolled past him so close that he could touch them.
And the black bear and the brown went with them, bears
beyond counting, monsters and little ones, a splendid multitude.
Beyond them, yet only a little further back, where
the park-like spaces made free movement easier, rose a
sea of horns and antlers like a miniature forest in the
silvery moonlight. The immense tribe of deer gathered in
vast throngs beneath the starlit sky. Moose and caribou,
he saw, the mighty wapiti, and the smaller deer in their
crowding thousands. He heard the sound of meeting
horns, the tread of innumerable hoofs, the occasional pawing
of the ground as the bigger creatures man&oelig;uvred for
more space about them. A wolf, he saw, was licking gently
at the shoulder of a great bull-moose that had been injured.
And the tide receded, advanced again, once more
receded, rising and falling like a living sea whose waves
were animal shapes, the inhabitants of the Valley of the
Beasts.</p>

<p>Beneath the quiet moonlight they swayed to and fro
before him. They watched him, knew him, recognized
him. They made him welcome.</p>

<p>He was aware, moreover, of a world of smaller life that
formed an under-sea, as it were, numerous under-currents
rather, running in and out between the great upright legs
of the larger creatures. These, though he could not see
them clearly, covered the earth, he was aware, in enormous
numbers, darting hither and thither, now hiding, now reappearing,
too intent upon their busy purposes to pay him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
attention like their huger comrades, yet ever and anon
tumbling against his back, cannoning from his sides,
scampering across his legs even, then gone again with a
scuttering sound of rapid little feet, and rushing back into
the general host beyond. And with this smaller world also
he felt at home.</p>

<p>How long he sat gazing, happy in himself, secure, satisfied,
contented, natural, he could not say, but it was long
enough for the desire to mingle with what he saw, to know
closer contact, to become one with them all&mdash;long enough
for this deep blind desire to assert itself, so that at length
he began to move from his mossy seat towards them, to
move, moreover, as they moved, and not upright on two
feet.</p>

<p>The moon was lower now, just sinking behind a towering
cedar whose ragged crest broke its light into silvery
spray. The stars were a little paler too. A line of faint
red was visible beyond the heights at the valley&rsquo;s eastern
end.</p>

<p>He paused and looked about him, as he advanced
slowly, aware that the host already made an opening in
their ranks and that the bear even nosed the earth in front,
as though to show the way that was easiest for him to
follow. Then, suddenly, a lynx leaped past him into the
low branches of a hemlock, and he lifted his head to admire
its perfect poise. He saw in the same instant the arrival
of the birds, the army of the eagles, hawks and buzzards,
birds of prey&mdash;the awakening flight that just precedes the
dawn. He saw the flocks and streaming lines, hiding the
whitening stars a moment as they passed with a prodigious
whirr of wings. There came the hooting of an owl
from the tree immediately overhead where the lynx now
crouched, but not maliciously, along its branch.</p>

<p>He started. He half rose to an upright position. He
knew not why he did so, knew not exactly why he started.
But in the attempt to find his new, and, as it now seemed,
his unaccustomed balance, one hand fell against his side<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
and came in contact with a hard straight thing that projected
awkwardly from his clothing. He pulled it out,
feeling it all over with his fingers. It was a little stick.
He raised it nearer to his eyes, examined it in the light
of dawn now growing swiftly, remembered, or half remembered
what it was&mdash;and stood stock still.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The totem stick,&rdquo; he mumbled to himself, yet audibly,
finding his speech, and finding another thing&mdash;a glint of
peering memory&mdash;for the first time since entering the
valley.</p>

<p>A shock like fire ran through his body; he straightened
himself, aware that a moment before he had been crawling
upon his hands and knees; it seemed that something broke
in his brain, lifting a veil, flinging a shutter free. And
Memory peered dreadfully through the widening gap.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m&mdash;I&rsquo;m Grimwood,&rdquo; his voice uttered, though below
his breath. &ldquo;Tooshalli&rsquo;s left me. I&rsquo;m alone...!&rdquo;</p>

<p>He was aware of a sudden change in the animals surrounding
him. A big, grey wolf sat three feet away, glaring
into his face; at its side an enormous grizzly swayed
itself from one foot to the other; behind it, as if looking
over its shoulder, loomed a gigantic wapiti, its horns
merged in the shadows of the drooping cedar boughs. But
the northern dawn was nearer, the sun already close to the
horizon. He saw details with sharp distinctness now.
The great bear rose, balancing a moment on its massive
hind-quarters, then took a step towards him, its front
paws spread like arms. Its wicked head lolled horribly,
as a huge bull-moose, lowering its horns as if about to
charge, came up with a couple of long strides and joined
it. A sudden excitement ran quivering over the entire
host; the distant ranks moved in a new, unpleasant way;
a thousand heads were lifted, ears were pricked, a forest
of ugly muzzles pointed up to the wind.</p>

<p>And the Englishman, beside himself suddenly with a
sense of ultimate terror that saw no possible escape, stiffened
and stood rigid. The horror of his position petrified<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
him. Motionless and silent he faced the awful army of
his enemies, while the white light of breaking day added
fresh ghastliness to the scene which was the setting for his
cruel death in the Valley of the Beasts.</p>

<p>Above him crouched the hideous lynx, ready to spring
the instant he sought safety in the tree; above it again,
he was aware of a thousand talons of steel, fierce hooked
beaks of iron, and the angry beating of prodigious wings.</p>

<p>He reeled, for the grizzly touched his body with its
outstretched paw; the wolf crouched just before its deadly
spring; in another second he would have been torn to
pieces, crushed, devoured, when terror, operating naturally
as ever, released the muscles of his throat and tongue.
He shouted with what he believed was his last breath on
earth. He called aloud in his frenzy. It was a prayer to
whatever gods there be, it was an anguished cry for help
to heaven.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ishtot! Great Ishtot, help me!&rdquo; his voice rang out,
while his hand still clutched the forgotten totem stick.</p>

<p>And the Red Heaven heard him.</p>

<p>Grimwood that same instant was aware of a presence
that, but for his terror of the beasts, must have frightened
him into sheer unconsciousness. A gigantic Red Indian
stood before him. Yet, while the figure rose close in front
of him, causing the birds to settle and the wild animals
to crouch quietly where they stood, it rose also from a
great distance, for it seemed to fill the entire valley with
its influence, its power, its amazing majesty. In some
way, moreover, that he could not understand, its vast
appearance included the actual valley itself with all its
trees, its running streams, its open spaces and its rocky
bluffs. These marked its outline, as it were, the outline
of a superhuman shape. There was a mighty bow, there
was a quiver of enormous arrows, there was this Redskin
figure to whom they belonged.</p>

<p>Yet the appearance, the outline, the face and figure too&mdash;these
<em>were</em> the valley; and when the voice became audible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
it was the valley itself that uttered the appalling words.
It was the voice of trees and wind, and of running, falling
water that woke the echoes in the Valley of the Beasts,
as, in that same moment, the sun topped the ridge and
filled the scene, the outline of the majestic figure too, with
a flood of dazzling light:</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have shed blood in this my valley.... <em>I will
not save</em>...!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The figure melted away into the sunlit forest, merging
with the new-born day. But Grimwood saw close against
his face the shining teeth, hot fetid breath passed over
his cheeks, a power enveloped his whole body as though
a mountain crushed him. He closed his eyes. He fell.
A sharp, crackling sound passed through his brain, but
already unconscious, he did not hear it.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>His eyes opened again, and the first thing they took
in was&mdash;fire. He shrank back instinctively.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s all right, old man. We&rsquo;ll bring you round.
Nothing to be frightened about.&rdquo; He saw the face of Iredale
looking down into his own. Behind Iredale stood
Tooshalli. His face was swollen. Grimwood remembered
the blow. The big man began to cry.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Painful still, is it?&rdquo; Iredale said sympathetically.
&ldquo;Here, swallow a little more of this. It&rsquo;ll set you right
in no time.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Grimwood gulped down the spirit. He made a violent
effort to control himself, but was unable to keep the tears
back. He felt no pain. It was his heart that ached,
though why or wherefore, he had no idea.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m all to pieces,&rdquo; he mumbled, ashamed yet somehow
not ashamed. &ldquo;My nerves are rotten. What&rsquo;s happened?&rdquo;
There was as yet no memory in him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been hugged by a bear, old man. But no
bones broken. Tooshalli saved you. He fired in the nick
of time&mdash;a brave shot, for he might easily have hit you
instead of the brute.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;The other brute,&rdquo; whispered Grimwood, as the whisky
worked in him and memory came slowly back.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where are we?&rdquo; he asked presently, looking about
him.</p>

<p>He saw a lake, canoes drawn up on the shore, two
tents, and figures moving. Iredale explained matters
briefly, then left him to sleep a bit. Tooshalli, it appeared,
travelling without rest, had reached Iredale&rsquo;s camping
ground twenty-four hours after leaving his employer. He
found it deserted, Iredale and his Indian being on the
hunt. When they returned at nightfall, he had explained
his presence in his brief native fashion: &ldquo;He struck me
and I quit. He hunt now alone in Ishtot&rsquo;s Valley of the
Beasts. He is dead, I think. I come to tell you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Iredale and his guide, with Tooshalli as leader, started
off then and there, but Grimwood had covered a considerable
distance, though leaving an easy track to follow. It
was the moose tracks and the blood that chiefly guided
them. They came up with him suddenly enough&mdash;in the
grip of an enormous bear.</p>

<p>It was Tooshalli that fired.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>The Indian lives now in easy circumstances, all his
needs cared for, while Grimwood, his benefactor but no
longer his employer, has given up hunting. He is a quiet,
easy-tempered, almost gentle sort of fellow, and people
wonder rather why he hasn&rsquo;t married. &ldquo;Just the fellow
to make a good father,&rdquo; is what they say; &ldquo;so kind, good-natured
and affectionate.&rdquo; Among his pipes, in a glass
case over the mantlepiece, hangs a totem stick. He declares
it saved his soul, but what he means by the expression
he has never quite explained.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p>


<h2>VII<br />
<br />
THE CALL</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> incident&mdash;story it never was, perhaps&mdash;began
tamely, almost meanly; it ended upon a note of
strange, unearthly wonder that has haunted him ever since.
In Headley&rsquo;s memory, at any rate, it stands out as the
loveliest, the most amazing thing he ever witnessed. Other
emotions, too, contributed to the vividness of the picture.
That he had felt jealousy towards his old pal, Arthur
Deane, shocked him in the first place; it seemed impossible
until it actually happened. But that the jealousy
was proved afterwards to have been without a cause shocked
him still more. He felt ashamed and miserable.</p>

<p>For him, the actual incident began when he received
a note from Mrs. Blondin asking him to the Priory for a
week-end, or for longer, if he could manage it.</p>

<p>Captain Arthur Deane, she mentioned, was staying
with her at the moment, and a warm welcome awaited
him. Iris she did not mention&mdash;Iris Manning, the interesting
and beautiful girl for whom it was well known
he had a considerable weakness. He found a good-sized
house party; there was fishing in the little Sussex river,
tennis, golf not far away, while two motor cars brought
the remoter country across the downs into easy reach. Also
there was a bit of duck shooting for those who cared to
wake at 3 a. m. and paddle up-stream to the marshes where
the birds were feeding.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Have you brought your gun?&rdquo; was the first thing
Arthur said to him when he arrived. &ldquo;Like a fool, I left
mine in town.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hope you haven&rsquo;t,&rdquo; put in Miss Manning; &ldquo;because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
if you have I must get up one fine morning at three
o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo; She laughed merrily, and there was an undernote
of excitement in the laugh.</p>

<p>Captain Headley showed his surprise. &ldquo;That you were
a Diana had escaped my notice, I&rsquo;m ashamed to say,&rdquo; he
replied lightly. &ldquo;Yet I&rsquo;ve known you some years, haven&rsquo;t
I?&rdquo; He looked straight at her, and the soft yet searching
eye, turning from his friend, met his own securely.
She was appraising him, for the hundreth time, and he,
for the hundreth time, was thinking how pretty she was,
and wondering how long the prettiness would last after
marriage.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not,&rdquo; he heard her answer. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it. But
I&rsquo;ve promised.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; said Arthur gallantly. &ldquo;And I shall hold
you to it,&rdquo; he added still more gallantly&mdash;too gallantly,
Headley thought. &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t possibly get up at cockcrow
without a very special inducement, could I, now?
You know me, Dick!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, anyhow, I&rsquo;ve brought my gun,&rdquo; Headley replied
evasively, &ldquo;so you&rsquo;ve no excuse, either of you. You&rsquo;ll
have to go.&rdquo; And while they were laughing and chattering
about it, Mrs. Blondin clinched the matter for them.
Provisions were hard to come by; the larder really needed
a brace or two of birds; it was the least they could do in
return for what she called amusingly her &ldquo;Armistice hospitality.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So I expect you to get up at three,&rdquo; she chaffed
them, &ldquo;and return with your Victory birds.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was from this preliminary skirmish over the tea-table
on the law five minutes after his arrival that Dick
Headley realized easily enough the little game in progress.
As a man of experience, just on the wrong side of forty,
it was not difficult to see the cards each held. He sighed.
Had he guessed an intrigue was on foot he would not
have come, yet he might have known that wherever his
hostess was, there were the vultures gathered together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
Matchmaker by choice and instinct, Mrs. Blondin could
not help herself. True to her name, she was always balancing
on matrimonial tightropes&mdash;for others.</p>

<p><em>Her</em> cards, at any rate, were obvious enough; she had
laid them on the table for him. He easily read her hand.
The next twenty-four hours confirmed this reading. Having
made up her mind that Iris and Arthur were destined
for each other, she had grown impatient; they had been
ten days together, yet Iris was still free. They were good
friends only. With calculation, she, therefore, took a step
that must bring things further. She invited Dick Headley,
whose weakness for the girl was common knowledge.
The card was indicated; she played it. Arthur must come
to the point or see another man carry her off. This, at
least, she planned, little dreaming that the dark King of
Spades would interfere.</p>

<p>Miss Manning&rsquo;s hand also was fairly obvious, for both
men were extremely eligible <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">partis</i>. She was getting on;
one or other was to become her husband before the party
broke up. This, in crude language, was certainly in her
cards, though, being a nice and charming girl, she might
camouflage it cleverly to herself and others. Her eyes,
on each man in turn when the shooting expedition was
being discussed, revealed her part in the little intrigue
clearly enough. It was all, thus far, as commonplace as
could be.</p>

<p>But there were two more hands Headley had to read&mdash;his
own and his friend&rsquo;s; and these, he admitted
honestly, were not so easy. To take his own first. It was
true he was fond of the girl and had often tried to make
up his mind to ask her. Without being conceited, he had
good reason to believe his affection was returned and that
she would accept him. There was no ecstatic love on
either side, for he was no longer a boy of twenty, nor
was she unscathed by tempestuous love affairs that had
scorched the first bloom from her face and heart. But
they understood one another; they were an honest couple;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
she was tired of flirting; both wanted to marry and settle
down. Unless a better man turned up she probably would
say &ldquo;Yes&rdquo; without humbug or delay. It was this last reflection
that brought him to the final hand he had to read.</p>

<p>Here he was puzzled. Arthur Deane&rsquo;s rôle in the teacup
strategy, for the first time since they had known one
another, seemed strange, uncertain. Why? Because,
though paying no attention to the girl openly, he met her
clandestinely, unknown to the rest of the house-party, and
above all without telling his intimate pal&mdash;at three o&rsquo;clock
in the morning.</p>

<p>The house-party was in full swing, with a touch of
that wild, reckless gaiety which followed the end of the
war: &ldquo;Let us be happy before a worse thing comes upon
us,&rdquo; was in many hearts. After a crowded day they danced
till early in the morning, while doubtful weather prevented
the early shooting expedition after duck. The third night
Headley contrived to disappear early to bed. He lay
there thinking. He was puzzled over his friend&rsquo;s rôle, over
the clandestine meeting in particular. It was the morning
before, waking very early, he had been drawn to the
window by an unusual sound&mdash;the cry of a bird. Was it
a bird? In all his experience he had never heard such
a curious, half-singing call before. He listened a moment,
thinking it must have been a dream, yet with the odd cry
still ringing in his ears. It was repeated close beneath his
open window, a long, low-pitched cry with three distinct
following notes in it.</p>

<p>He sat up in bed and listened hard. No bird that he
knew could make such sounds. But it was not repeated
a third time, and out of sheer curiosity he went to the
window and looked out. Dawn was creeping over the
distant downs; he saw their outline in the grey pearly
light; he saw the lawn below, stretching down to the
little river at the bottom, where a curtain of faint mist
hung in the air. And on this lawn he also saw Arthur
Deane&mdash;with Iris Manning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p>

<p>Of course, he reflected, they were going after the duck.
He turned to look at his watch; it was three o&rsquo;clock. The
same glance, however, showed him his gun standing in
the corner. So they were going without a gun. A sharp
pang of unexpected jealousy shot through him. He was
just going to shout out something or other, wishing them
good luck, or asking if they had found another gun, perhaps,
when a cold touch crept down his spine. The same
instant his heart contracted. Deane had followed the girl
into the summer-house, which stood on the right. It was
<em>not</em> the shooting expedition at all. Arthur was meeting
her for another purpose. The blood flowed back, filling his
head. He felt an eavesdropper, a sneak, a detective; but,
for all that, he felt also jealous. And his jealousy seemed
chiefly because Arthur had not told him.</p>

<p>Of this, then, he lay thinking in bed on the third
night. The following day he had said nothing, but had
crossed the corridor and put the gun in his friend&rsquo;s room.
Arthur, for his part, had said nothing either. For the
first time in their long, long friendship, there lay a secret
between them. To Headley the unexpected revelation came
with pain.</p>

<p>For something like a quarter of a century these two
had been bosom friends; they had camped together, been
in the army together, taken their pleasure together, each
the full confidant of the other in all the things that go
to make up men&rsquo;s lives. Above all, Headley had been the
one and only recipient of Arthur&rsquo;s unhappy love story.
He knew the girl, knew his friend&rsquo;s deep passion, and
also knew his terrible pain when she was lost at sea.
Arthur was burnt out, finished, out of the running, so far
as marriage was concerned. He was not a man to love a
second time. It was a great and poignant tragedy. Headley,
as confidant, knew all. But more than that&mdash;Arthur,
on his side, knew his friend&rsquo;s weakness for Iris Manning,
knew that a marriage was still possible and likely between
them. They were true as steel to one another, and each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
man, oddly enough, had once saved the other&rsquo;s life, thus
adding to the strength of a great natural tie.</p>

<p>Yet now one of them, feigning innocence by day, even
indifference, secretly met his friend&rsquo;s girl by night, and
kept the matter to himself. It seemed incredible. With
his own eyes Headley had seen him on the lawn, passing
in the faint grey light through the mist into the summer-house,
where the girl had just preceded him. He had not
seen her face, but he had seen the skirt sweep round the
corner of the wooden pillar. He had not waited to see
them come out again.</p>

<p>So he now lay wondering what rôle his old friend was
playing in this little intrigue that their hostess, Mrs. Blondin,
helped to stage. And, oddly enough, one minor detail
stayed in his mind with a curious vividness. As naturalist,
hunter, nature-lover, the cry of that strange bird, with
its three mournful notes, perplexed him exceedingly.</p>

<p>A knock came at his door, and the door pushed open
before he had time to answer. Deane himself came in.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wise man,&rdquo; he exclaimed in an easy tone, &ldquo;got off
to bed. Iris was asking where you were.&rdquo; He sat down
on the edge of the mattress, where Headley was lying
with a cigarette and an open book he had not read. The
old sense of intimacy and comradeship rose in the latter&rsquo;s
heart. Doubt and suspicion faded. He prized his great
friendship. He met the familiar eyes. &ldquo;Impossible,&rdquo; he
said to himself, &ldquo;absolutely impossible! He&rsquo;s not playing
a game; he&rsquo;s not a rotter!&rdquo; He pushed over his
cigarette case, and Arthur lighted one.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Done in,&rdquo; he remarked shortly, with the first puff.
&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t stand it any more. I&rsquo;m off to town to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Headley stared in amazement. &ldquo;Fed up already?&rdquo; he
asked. &ldquo;Why, I rather like it. It&rsquo;s quite amusing. What&rsquo;s
wrong, old man?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This match-making,&rdquo; said Deane bluntly. &ldquo;Always
throwing that girl at my head. If it&rsquo;s not the duck-shooting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
stunt at 3 a. m., it&rsquo;s something else. She doesn&rsquo;t care
for me and I don&rsquo;t care for her. Besides&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He stopped, and the expression of his face changed
suddenly. A sad, quiet look of tender yearning came into
his clear brown eyes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>You</em> know, Dick,&rdquo; he went on in a low, half-reverent
tone. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to marry. I never can.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dick&rsquo;s heart stirred within him. &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he said,
understandingly.</p>

<p>The other nodded, as though the memories were still
too much for him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m still miserably lonely for her,&rdquo;
he said. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t help it simply. I feel utterly lost without
her. Her memory to me is everything.&rdquo; He looked
deep into his pal&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m married to that,&rdquo; he added
very firmly.</p>

<p>They pulled their cigarettes a moment in silence. They
belonged to the male type that conceals emotion behind
schoolboy language.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s hard luck,&rdquo; said Headley gently, &ldquo;rotten luck,
old man, I understand.&rdquo; Arthur&rsquo;s head nodded several
times in succession as he smoked. He made no remark
for some minutes. Then presently he said, as though it
had no particular importance&mdash;for thus old friends show
frankness to each other&mdash;&ldquo;Besides, anyhow, it&rsquo;s you the
girl&rsquo;s dying for, not me. She&rsquo;s blind as a bat, old Blondin.
Even when I&rsquo;m with her&mdash;thrust with her by that
old matchmaker for my sins&mdash;it&rsquo;s you she talks about. All
the talk leads up to you and yours. She&rsquo;s devilish fond
of you.&rdquo; He paused a moment and looked searchingly
into his friend&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;I say, old man&mdash;are you&mdash;I mean,
do you mean business there? Because&mdash;excuse me interfering&mdash;but
you&rsquo;d better be careful. She&rsquo;s a good sort,
you know, after all.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, Arthur, I do like her a bit,&rdquo; Dick told him
frankly. &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t make up my mind quite. You see,
it&rsquo;s like this&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>

<p>And they talked the matter over as old friends will,
until finally Arthur chucked his cigarette into the grate
and got up to go. &ldquo;Dead to the world,&rdquo; he said, with a
yawn. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m off to bed. Give you a chance, too,&rdquo; he added
with a laugh. It was after midnight.</p>

<p>The other turned, as though something had suddenly
occurred to him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;By the bye, Arthur,&rdquo; he said abruptly, &ldquo;what bird
makes this sound? I heard it the other morning. Most
extraordinary cry. You know everything that flies. What
is it?&rdquo; And, to the best of his ability, he imitated the
strange three-note cry he had heard in the dawn two mornings
before.</p>

<p>To his amazement and keen distress, his friend, with
a sound like a stifled groan, sat down upon the bed without
a word. He seemed startled. His face was white.
He stared. He passed a hand, as in pain, across his forehead.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do it again,&rdquo; he whispered, in a hushed, nervous
voice. &ldquo;Once again&mdash;for me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And Headley, looking at him, repeated the queer notes,
a sudden revulsion of feeling rising through him. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s
fooling me after all,&rdquo; ran in his heart, &ldquo;my old, old
pal&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was silence for a full minute. Then Arthur,
stammering a bit, said lamely, a certain hush in his voice
still: &ldquo;Where in the world did you hear that&mdash;and
<em>when?&rdquo;</em></p>

<p>Dick Headley sat up in bed. He was not going to
lose this friendship, which, to him, was more than the love
of woman. He must help. His pal was in distress and
difficulty. There were circumstances, he realized, that
might be too strong for the best man in the world&mdash;sometimes.
No, by God, he would play the game and help him
out!</p>

<p>&ldquo;Arthur, old chap,&rdquo; he said affectionately, almost
tenderly. &ldquo;I heard it two mornings ago&mdash;on the lawn below<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
my window here. It woke me up. I&mdash;I went to look.
Three in the morning, about.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Arthur amazed him then. He first took another cigarette
and lit it steadily. He looked round the room vaguely,
avoiding, it seemed, the other&rsquo;s eyes. Then he turned, pain
in his face, and gazed straight at him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You saw&mdash;nothing?&rdquo; he asked in a louder voice, but
a voice that had something very real and true in it. It
reminded Headley of the voice he heard when he was
fainting from exhaustion, and Arthur had said, &ldquo;Take
it, I tell you. I&rsquo;m all right,&rdquo; and had passed over the
flask, though his own throat and sight and heart were
black with thirst. It was a voice that had command in
it, a voice that did not lie because it could not&mdash;yet did
lie and could lie&mdash;when occasion warranted.</p>

<p>Headley knew a second&rsquo;s awful struggle.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; he answered quietly, after his little pause.
&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;</p>

<p>For perhaps two minutes his friend hid his face. Then
he looked up.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Only,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;because that was our secret
lover&rsquo;s cry. It seems so strange you heard it and not I.
I&rsquo;ve felt her so close of late&mdash;Mary!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The white face held very steady, the firm lips did not
tremble, but it was evident that the heart knew anguish
that was deep and poignant. &ldquo;We used it to call each
other&mdash;in the old days. It was our private call. No one
else in the world knew it but Mary and myself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dick Headley was flabbergasted. He had no time to
think, however.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s odd you should hear it and not I,&rdquo; his friend
repeated. He looked hurt, bewildered, wounded. Then
suddenly his face brightened. &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; he cried suddenly.
&ldquo;You and I are pretty good pals. There&rsquo;s a tie
between us and all that. Why, it&rsquo;s tel&mdash;telepathy, or
whatever they call it. That&rsquo;s what it is.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He got up abruptly. Dick could think of nothing to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
say but to repeat the other&rsquo;s words. &ldquo;Of course, of course.
That&rsquo;s it,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;telepathy.&rdquo; He stared&mdash;anywhere
but at his pal.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Night, night!&rdquo; he heard from the door, and before
he could do more than reply in similar vein Arthur was
gone.</p>

<p>He lay for a long time, thinking, thinking. He found
it all very strange. Arthur in this emotional state was
new to him. He turned it over and over. Well, he had
known good men behave queerly when wrought up. That
recognition of the bird&rsquo;s cry was strange, of course, but&mdash;he
knew the cry of a bird when he heard it, though he
might not know the actual bird. That was no human
whistle. Arthur was&mdash;inventing. No, that was not possible.
He was worked up, then, over something, a bit
hysterical perhaps. It had happened before, though in a
milder way, when his heart attacks came on. They affected
his nerves and head a little, it seemed. He was a deep
sort, Dick remembered. Thought turned and twisted in
him, offering various solutions, some absurd, some likely.
He was a nervous, high-strung fellow underneath, Arthur
was. He remembered that. Also he remembered, anxiously
again, that his heart was not quite sound, though
what that had to do with the present tangle he did not
see.</p>

<p>Yet it was hardly likely that he would bring in Mary
as an invention, an excuse&mdash;Mary, the most sacred memory
in his life, the deepest, truest, best. He had sworn, anyhow,
that Iris Manning meant nothing to him.</p>

<p>Through all his speculations, behind every thought,
ran this horrid working jealousy. It poisoned him. It
twisted truth. It moved like a wicked snake through mind
and heart. Arthur, gripped by his new, absorbing love
for Iris Manning, lied. He couldn&rsquo;t believe it, he didn&rsquo;t
believe it, he wouldn&rsquo;t believe it&mdash;yet jealousy persisted
in keeping the idea alive in him. It was a dreadful
thought. He fell asleep on it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p>

<p>But his sleep was uneasy with feverish, unpleasant
dreams that rambled on in fragments without coming to
conclusion. Then, suddenly, the cry of the strange bird
came into his dream. He started, turned over, woke up.
The cry still continued. It was not a dream. He jumped
out of bed.</p>

<p>The room was grey with early morning, the air fresh
and a little chill. The cry came floating over the lawn
as before. He looked out, pain clutching at his heart.
Two figures stood below, a man and a girl, and the man
was Arthur Deane. Yet the light was so dim, the morning
being overcast, that had he not expected to see his
friend, he would scarcely have recognized the familiar form
in that shadowy outline that stood close beside the girl.
Nor could he, perhaps, have recognized Iris Manning.
Their backs were to him. They moved away, disappearing
again into the little summer-house, and this time&mdash;he
saw it beyond question&mdash;the two were hand in hand.
Vague and uncertain as the figures were in the early twilight,
he was sure of that.</p>

<p>The first disagreeable sensation of surprise, disgust,
anger that sickened him turned quickly, however, into one
of another kind altogether. A curious feeling of superstitious
dread crept over him, and a shiver ran again along
his nerves.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hallo, Arthur!&rdquo; he called from the window. There
was no answer. His voice was certainly audible in the
summer-house. But no one came. He repeated the call
a little louder, waited in vain for thirty seconds, then came,
the same moment, to a decision that even surprised himself,
for the truth we he could no longer bear the suspense of
waiting. He must see his friend at once and have it out
with him. He turned and went deliberately down the corridor
to Deane&rsquo;s bedroom. He would wait there for his
return and know the truth from his own lips. But also
another thought had come&mdash;the gun. He had quite forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
it&mdash;the safety-catch was out of order. He had not
warned him.</p>

<p>He found the door closed but not locked; opening it
cautiously, he went in.</p>

<p>But the unexpectedness of what he saw gave him a
genuine shock. He could hardly suppress a cry. Everything
in the room was neat and orderly, no sign of disturbance
anywhere, and it was not empty. There, in bed,
before his very eyes, was Arthur. The clothes were turned
back a little; he saw the pyjamas open at the throat; he
lay sound asleep, deeply, peacefully asleep.</p>

<p>So surprised, indeed, was Headley that, after staring
a moment, almost unable to believe his sight, he then put
out a hand and touched him gently, cautiously on the forehead.
But Arthur did not stir or wake; his breathing
remained deep and regular. He lay sleeping like a baby.</p>

<p>Headley glanced round the room, noticed the gun in
the corner where he himself had put it the day before, and
then went out, closing the door behind him softly.</p>

<p>Arthur Deane, however, did not leave for London as
he had intended, because he felt unwell and kept to his
room upstairs. It was only a slight attack, apparently, but
he must lie quiet. There was no need to send for a doctor;
he knew just what to do; these passing attacks were common
enough. He would be up and about again very
shortly. Headley kept him company, saying no single
word of what had happened. He read aloud to him,
chatted and cheered him up. He had no other visitors.
Within twenty-four hours he was himself once more. He
and his friend had planned to leave the following day.</p>

<p>But Headley, that last night in the house, felt an odd
uneasiness and could not sleep. All night long he sat
up reading, looking out of the window, smoking in a
chair where he could see the stars and hear the wind and
watch the huge shadow of the downs. The house lay
very still as the hours passed. He dozed once or twice.
Why did he sit up in this unnecessary way? Why did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
he leave his door ajar so that the slightest sound of another
door opening, or of steps passing along the corridor,
must reach him? Was he anxious for his friend?
Was he suspicious? What was his motive, what his secret
purpose?</p>

<p>Headley did not know, and could not even explain it
to himself. He felt uneasy, that was all he knew. Not
for worlds would he have let himself go to sleep or lose
full consciousness that night. It was very odd; he could
not understand himself. He merely obeyed a strange, deep
instinct that bade him wait and watch. His nerves were
jumpy; in his heart lay some unexplicable anxiety that
was pain.</p>

<p>The dawn came slowly; the stars faded one by one;
the line of the downs showed their grand bare curves
against the sky; cool and cloudless the September morning
broke above the little Sussex pleasure house. He sat
and watched the east grow bright. The early wind brought
a scent of marshes and the sea into his room. Then suddenly
it brought a sound as well&mdash;the haunting cry of
the bird with its three following notes. And this time
there came an answer.</p>

<p>Headley knew then why he had sat up. A wave of
emotion swept him as he heard&mdash;an emotion he could not
attempt to explain. Dread, wonder, longing seized him.
For some seconds he could not leave his chair because
he did not dare to. The low-pitched cries of call and
answer rang in his ears like some unearthly music. With
an effort he started up, went to the window and looked
out.</p>

<p>This time the light was sharp and clear. No mist
hung in the air. He saw the crimsoning sky reflected
like a band of shining metal in the reach of river beyond
the lawn. He saw dew on the grass, a sheet of pallid
silver. He saw the summer-house, empty of any passing
figures. For this time the two figures stood plainly in
view before his eyes upon the lawn. They stood there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
hand in hand, sharply defined, unmistakable in form and
outline, their faces, moreover, turned upwards to the window
where he stood, staring down in pain and amazement
at them&mdash;at Arthur Deane and <em>Mary</em>.</p>

<p>They looked into his eyes. He tried to call, but no
sound left his throat. They began to move across the dew-soaked
lawn. They went, he saw, with a floating, undulating
motion towards the river shining in the dawn. Their
feet left no marks upon the grass. They reached the
bank, but did not pause in their going. They rose a
little, floating like silent birds across the river. Turning
in mid-stream, they smiled towards him, waved their hands
with a gesture of farewell, then, rising still higher into
the opal dawn, their figures passed into the distance slowly,
melting away against the sunlit marshes and the shadowing
downs beyond. They disappeared.</p>

<p>Headley never quite remembers actually leaving the
window, crossing the room, or going down the passage.
Perhaps he went at once, perhaps he stood gazing into
the air above the downs for a considerable time, unable
to tear himself away. He was in some marvellous dream,
it seemed. The next thing he remembers, at any rate,
was that he was standing beside his friend&rsquo;s bed, trying,
in his distraught anguish of heart, to call him from that
sleep which, on earth, knows no awakening.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>


<h2>VIII<br />
<br />
EGYPTIAN SORCERY</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Sanfield</span> paused as he was about to leave the Underground
station at Victoria, and cursed the weather.
When he left the City it was fine; now it was pouring with
rain, and he had neither overcoat nor umbrella. Not a taxi
was discoverable in the dripping gloom. He would get
soaked before he reached his rooms in Sloane Street.</p>

<p>He stood for some minutes, thinking how vile London
was in February, and how depressing life was in general.
He stood also, in that moment, though he knew it not,
upon the edge of a singular adventure. Looking back upon
it in later years, he often remembered this particularly
wretched moment of a pouring wet February evening,
when everything seemed wrong, and Fate had loaded the
dice against him, even in the matter of weather and umbrellas.</p>

<p>Fate, however, without betraying her presence, was
watching him through the rain and murk; and Fate, that
night, had strange, mysterious eyes. Fantastic cards lay
up her sleeve. The rain, his weariness and depression, his
physical fatigue especially, seemed the conditions she required
before she played these curious cards. Something
new and wonderful fluttered close. Romance flashed by
him across the driving rain and touched his cheek. He
was too exasperated to be aware of it.</p>

<p>Things had gone badly that day at the office, where
he was junior partner in a small firm of engineers.
Threatened trouble at the works had come to a head. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
strike seemed imminent. To add to his annoyance, a new
client, whose custom was of supreme importance, had just
complained bitterly of the delay in the delivery of his
machinery. The senior partners had left the matter in
Sanfield&rsquo;s hands; he had not succeeded. The angry customer
swore he would hold the firm to its contract. They
could deliver or pay up&mdash;whichever suited them. The
junior partner had made a mess of things.</p>

<p>The final words on the telephone still rang in his ears
as he stood sheltering under the arcade, watching the
downpour, and wondering whether he should make a dash
for it or wait on the chance of its clearing up&mdash;when a
further blow was dealt him as the rain-soaked poster of
an evening paper caught his eye: &ldquo;Riots in Egypt. Heavy
Fall in Egyptian Securities,&rdquo; he read with blank dismay.
Buying a paper he turned feverishly to the City article&mdash;to
find his worst fears confirmed. Delta Lands, in which
nearly all his small capital was invested, had declined a
quarter on the news, and would evidently decline further
still. The riots were going on in the towns nearest to
their property. Banks had been looted, crops destroyed;
the trouble was deep-seated.</p>

<p>So grave was the situation that mere weather seemed
suddenly of no account at all. He walked home doggedly
in the drenching rain, paying less attention to it than if it
had been Scotch mist. The water streamed from his hat,
dripped down his back and neck, splashed him with mud
and grime from head to foot. He was soaked to the skin.
He hardly noticed it. His capital had depreciated by half,
at least, and possibly was altogether lost; his position at
the office was insecure. How could mere weather matter?</p>

<p>Sitting, eventually, before his fire in dry clothes, after
an apology for a dinner he had no heart to eat, he reviewed
the situation. He faced a possible total loss of
his private capital. Next, the position of his firm caused
him grave uneasiness, since, apart from his own mishandling
of the new customer, the threatened strike might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
ruin it completely; a long strain on its limited finances
was out of the question. George Sanfield certainly saw
things at their worst. He was now thirty-five. A fresh
start&mdash;the mere idea of it made him shudder&mdash;occurred as
a possibility in the near future. Vitality, indeed, was at
a low ebb, it seemed. Mental depression, great physical
fatigue, weariness of life in general made his spirits droop
alarmingly, so that almost he felt tired of living. His tie
with existence, at any rate, just then was dangerously
weak.</p>

<p>Thought turned next to the man on whose advice he
had staked his all in Delta Lands. Morris had important
Egyptian interests in various big companies and enterprises
along the Nile. He had first come to the firm with
a letter of introduction upon some business matter, which
the junior partner had handled so successfully that
acquaintance thus formed had ripened into a more personal
tie. The two men had much in common; their temperaments
were suited; understanding grew between them;
they felt at home and comfortable with one another. They
became friends; they felt a mutual confidence. When
Morris paid his rare visits to England, they spent much
time together; and it was on one of these occasions that
the matter of the Egyptian shares was mentioned, Morris
urgently advising their purchase.</p>

<p>Sanfield explained his own position clearly enough,
but his friend was so confident and optimistic that the
purchase eventually had been made. There had been,
moreover, Sanfield now remembered, the flavour of a
peculiarly intimate and personal kind about the deal. He
had remarked it, with a touch of surprise, at the moment,
though really it seemed natural enough. Morris was very
earnest, holding his friend&rsquo;s interest at heart; he was affectionate
almost.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to do you this good turn, old man,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;I have the strong feeling, somehow, that I owe you this,
though heaven alone knows why!&rdquo; After a pause he added,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
half shyly: &ldquo;It may be one of those old memories we
hear about nowadays cropping up out of some previous life
together.&rdquo; Before the other could reply, he went on to
explain that only three men were in the parent syndicate,
the shares being unobtainable. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll set some of my own
aside for you&mdash;four thousand or so, if you like.&rdquo;</p>

<p>They laughed together; Sanfield thanked him warmly;
the deal was carried out. But the recipient of the favour
had wondered a little at the sudden increase of intimacy
even while he liked it and responded.</p>

<p>Had he been a fool, he now asked himself, to swallow
the advice, putting all his eggs into a single basket? He
knew very little about Morris after all.... Yet, while
reflection showed him that the advice was honest, and the
present riots no fault of the adviser&rsquo;s, he found his thoughts
turning in a steady stream towards the man. The affairs
of the firm took second place. It was Morris, with his
deep-set eyes, his curious ways, his dark skin burnt brick-red
by a fierce Eastern sun; it was Morris, looking almost
like an Egyptian, who stood before him as he sat thinking
gloomily over his dying fire.</p>

<p>He longed to talk with him, to ask him questions, to
seek advice. He saw him very vividly against the screen of
thought; Morris stood beside him now, gazing out across
the limitless expanse of tawny sand. He had in his eyes
the &ldquo;distance&rdquo; that sailors share with men whose life has
been spent amid great trackless wastes. Morris, moreover,
now he came to think of it, seemed always a little
out of place in England. He had few relatives and, apparently,
no friends; he was always intensely pleased when
the time came to return to his beloved Nile. He had
once mentioned casually a sister who kept house for him
when duty detained him in Cairo, but, even here, he was
something of an Oriental, rarely speaking of his women
folk. Egypt, however, plainly drew him like a magnet.
Resistance involved disturbance in his being, even ill-health.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
Egypt was &ldquo;home&rdquo; to him, and his friend, though
he had never been there, felt himself its potent spell.</p>

<p>Another curious trait Sanfield remembered, too&mdash;his
friend&rsquo;s childish superstition; his belief, or half-belief, in
magic and the supernatural. Sanfield, amused, had
ascribed it to the long sojourn in a land where anything
unusual is at once ascribed to spiritual agencies. Morris
owed his entire fortune, if his tale could be believed, to
the magical apparition of an unearthly kind in some lonely
<i lang="ar" xml:lang="ar">wadi</i> among the Bedouins. A sand-diviner had influenced
another successful speculation.... He was a picturesque
figure, whichever way one took him: yet a successful business
man into the bargain.</p>

<p>These reflections and memories, on the other hand,
brought small comfort to the man who had tempted Fate
by following his advice. It was only a little strange how
Morris now dominated his thoughts, directing them towards
himself. Morris was in Egypt at the moment.</p>

<p>He went to bed at length, filled with uneasy misgivings,
but for a long time he could not sleep. He tossed
restlessly, his mind still running on the subject of his long
reflections. He ached with tiredness. He dropped off
at last. Then came a nightmare dream, in which the
firm&rsquo;s works were sold for nearly nothing to an old Arab
sheikh who wished to pay for them&mdash;in goats. He woke
up in a cold perspiration. He had uneasy thoughts. His
fancy was travelling. He could not rest.</p>

<p>To distract his mind, he turned on the light and tried
to read, and, eventually, towards morning, fell into a
sleep of sheer exhaustion. And his final thought&mdash;he knew
not exactly why&mdash;was a sentence Morris had made use of
long ago: &ldquo;I feel I owe you a good turn; I&rsquo;d like to do
something for you....&rdquo;</p>

<p>This was the memory in his mind as he slipped off into
unconsciousness.</p>

<p>But what happens when the mind is unconscious and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
the tired body lies submerged in deep sleep, no man, they
say, can really tell.</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>The next thing he knew he was walking along a sun-baked
street in some foreign town that was familiar, although,
at first, its name escaped him. Colour, softness,
and warmth pervaded it; there was sparkle and lightness
in the exhilarating air; it was an Eastern town.</p>

<p>Though early morning, a number of people were
already stirring; strings of camels passed him, loaded with
clover, bales of merchandise, and firewood. Gracefully-draped
women went by silently, carrying water jars of
burnt clay upon their heads. Rude wooden shutters were
being taken down in the bazaars; the smoke of cooking-fires
rose in the blue spirals through the quiet air. He
felt strangely at home and happy. The light, the radiance
stirred him. He passed a mosque from which the
worshippers came pouring in a stream of colour.</p>

<p>Yet, though an Eastern town, it was not wholly Oriental,
for he saw that many of the buildings were of semi-European
design, and that the natives sometimes wore
European dress, except for the fez upon the head. Among
them were Europeans, too. Staring into the faces of the
passers-by he found, to his vexation, that he could not
focus sight as usual, and that the nearer he approached,
the less clearly he discerned the features. The faces, upon
close attention, at once grew shadowy, merged into each
other, or, in some odd fashion, melted into the dazzling
sunshine that was their background. All his attempts in
this direction failed; impatience seized him; of surprise,
however, he was not conscious. Yet this mingled vagueness
and intensity seemed perfectly natural.</p>

<p>Filled with a stirring curiosity, he made a strong effort
to concentrate his attention, only to discover that this
vagueness, this difficulty of focus, lay in his own being,
too. He wandered on, unaware exactly where he was going,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
yet not much perturbed, since there was an objective
in view, he knew, and this objective <em>must</em> eventually be
reached. Its nature, however, for the moment entirely
eluded him.</p>

<p>The sense of familiarity, meanwhile, increased; he had
been in this town before, although not quite within recoverable
memory. It seemed, perhaps, the general atmosphere,
rather than the actual streets, he knew; a certain
perfume in the air, a tang of indefinable sweetness, a
vitality in the radiant sunshine. The dark faces that he
could not focus, he yet knew; the flowing garments of blue
and red and yellow, the softly-slippered feet, the slouching
camels, the burning human eyes that faded ere he fully
caught them&mdash;the entire picture in this blazing sunlight
lay half-hidden, half-revealed. And an extraordinary sense
of happiness and well-being flooded him as he walked; he
felt at home; comfort and bliss stole over him. Almost
he knew his way about. This was a place he loved and
knew.</p>

<p>The complete silence, moreover, did not strike him as
peculiar until, suddenly, it was broken in a startling
fashion. He heard his own name spoken. It sounded close
beside his ear.</p>

<p>&ldquo;George Sanfield!&rdquo; The voice was familiar. Morris
called him. He realized then the truth. He was, of
course, in Cairo.</p>

<p>Yet, instead of turning to discover the speaker at his
side, he hurried forward, as though he knew that the voice
had come through distance. His consciousness cleared and
lightened; he felt more alive; his eyes now focused the
passers-by without difficulty. He was there to find Morris,
and Morris was directing him. All was explained and
natural again. He hastened. But, even while he hastened,
he knew that his personal desire to speak with his friend
about Egyptian shares and Delta Lands was not his single
object. Behind it, further in among as yet unstirring
shadows, lay another deeper purpose. Yet he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
trouble about it, nor make a conscious effort at discovery.
Morris was doing him that &ldquo;good turn I feel I owe you.&rdquo;
This conviction filled him overwhelmingly. The question
of how and why did not once occur to him. A strange,
great happiness rose in him.</p>

<p>Upon the outskirts of the town now, he found himself
approaching a large building in the European style,
with wide verandas and a cultivated garden filled with
palm trees. A well-kept drive of yellow sand led to its
chief entrance, and the man in khaki drill and riding-breeches
walking along this drive, not ten yards in front
of him, was&mdash;Morris. He overtook him, but his cry of
welcome recognition was not answered. Morris, walking
with bowed head and stooping shoulders, seemed intensely
preoccupied; he had not heard the call.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Here I am, old fellow!&rdquo; exclaimed his friend, holding
out a hand. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come, you see...!&rdquo; then paused
aghast before the altered face. Morris paid no attention.
He walked straight on as though he had not heard. It
was the distraught and anguished expression on the drawn
and haggard features that impressed the other most. The
silence he took without surprise.</p>

<p>It was the pain and suffering in his friend that occupied
him. The dark rims beneath heavy eyes, the evidence
of sleepless nights, of long anxiety and ceaseless
dread, afflicted him with their too-plain story. The man
was overwhelmed with some great sorrow. Sanfield forgot
his personal trouble; this larger, deeper grief usurped
its place entirely.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Morris! Morris!&rdquo; he cried yet more eagerly than before.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come, you see. Tell me what&rsquo;s the matter. I
believe&mdash;that I can&mdash;help you...!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The other turned, looking past him through the air.
He made no answer. The eyes went through him. He
walked straight on, and Sanfield walked at his side in
silence. Through the large door they passed together,
Morris paying as little attention to him as though he were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
not there, and in the small chamber they now entered,
evidently a waiting-room, an Egyptian servant approached,
uttered some inaudible words, and then withdrew, leaving
them alone together.</p>

<p>It seemed that time leaped forward, yet stood still; the
passage of minutes, that is to say, was irregular, almost
fanciful. Whether the interval was long or short, however,
Morris spent it pacing up and down the little room,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his mind oblivious
of all else but his absorbing anxiety and grief. To his
friend, who watched him by the wall with intense desire
to help, he paid no attention. The latter&rsquo;s spoken words
went by him, entirely unnoticed; he gave no sign of seeing
him; his eyes, as he paced up and down, muttering inaudibly
to himself, were fixed every few seconds on an
inner door. Beyond that door, Sanfield now divined, lay
someone who hesitated on the narrow frontier between life
and death.</p>

<p>It opened suddenly and a man, in overall and rubber
gloves, came out, his face grave yet with faint signs of
hope about it&mdash;a doctor, clearly, straight from the operating
table. Morris, standing rigid in his tracks, listened
to something spoken, for the lips were in movement,
though no words were audible. The operation, Sanfield
divined, had been successful, though danger was still
present. The two men passed out, then, into the hall
and climbed a wide staircase to the floor above, Sanfield
following noiselessly, though so close that he could touch
them. Entering a large, airy room where French windows,
carefully shaded with green blinds opened on to a veranda,
they approached a bed. Two nurses bent over it. The
occupant was at first invisible.</p>

<p>Events had moved with curious rapidity. All this had
happened, it seemed, in a single moment, yet with the
irregular effect already mentioned which made Sanfield
feel it might, equally, have lasted hours. But, as he
stood behind Morris and the surgeon at the bed, the deeps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
in him opened suddenly, and he trembled under a shock
of intense emotion that he could not understand. As with
a stroke of lightning some heavenly fire set his heart aflame
with yearning. The very soul in him broke loose with
passionate longing that <em>must</em> find satisfaction. It came
to him in a single instant with the certain knowledge of
an unconquerable conviction. Hidden, yet ever waiting,
among the broken centuries, there now leaped upon him
this flash of memory&mdash;the memory of some sweet and
ancient love Time might veil yet could not kill.</p>

<p>He ran forward, past the surgeon and the nurses, past
Morris who bent above the bed with a face ghastly from
anxiety. He gazed down upon the fair girl lying there,
her unbound hair streaming over the pillow. He saw, and
he remembered. And an uncontrollable cry of recognition
left his lips....</p>

<p>The irregularity of the passing minutes became so
marked then, that he might well have passed outside their
measure altogether, beyond what men call Time; duration,
interval, both escaped. Alone and free with his eternal
love, he was safe from all confinement, free, it seemed,
either of time or space. His friend, however, was vaguely
with him during the amazing instant. He felt acutely
aware of the need each had, respectively, for the other,
born of a heritage the Past had hidden over-long. Each,
it was clear, could do the other a good turn.... Sanfield,
though unable to describe or disentangle later, knew,
while it lasted, this joy of full, delicious understanding....</p>

<p>The strange, swift instant of recognition passed and
disappeared. The cry, Sanfield realized, on coming back
to the Present, had been soundless and inaudible as before.
No one observed him; no one stirred. The girl, on that
bed beside the opened windows, lay evidently dying. Her
breath came in gasps, her chest heaved convulsively, each
attempt at recovery was slower and more painful than
the one before. She was unconscious. Sometimes her
breathing seemed to stop. It grew weaker, as the pulse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
grew fainter. And Sanfield, transfixed as with paralysis,
stood watching, waiting, an intolerable yearning in his
heart to help. It seemed to him that he waited with a
purpose.</p>

<p>This purpose suddenly became clear. He knew why
he waited. There was help to be given. He was the one
to give it.</p>

<p>The girl&rsquo;s vitality and ebbing nerves, her entire physical
organism now fading so quickly towards that final
extinction which meant death&mdash;could these but be stimulated
by a new tide of life, the danger-point now fast
approaching might be passed, and recovery must follow.
This impetus, he knew suddenly, he could supply. How,
he could not tell. It flashed upon him from beyond the
stars, as from ancient store of long-forgotten, long-neglected
knowledge. It was enough that he felt confident
and sure. His soul burned within him; the strength of
an ancient and unconquerable love rose through his being.
He would try.</p>

<p>The doctor, he saw, was in the act of giving his last
aid in the form of a hypodermic injection, Morris and the
nurses looking on. Sanfield observed the sharp quick rally,
only too faint, too slight; he saw the collapse that followed.
The doctor, shrugging his shoulders, turned with
a look that could not express itself in words, and Morris,
burying his face in his hands, knelt by the bed, shaken
with convulsive sobbing. It was the end.</p>

<p>In which moment, precisely, the strange paralysis that
had bound Sanfield momentarily, was lifted from his being,
and an impelling force, obeying his immense desire,
invaded him. He knew how to act. His will, taught long
ago, yet long-forgotten, was set free.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have come back to me at last,&rdquo; he cried in his
anguish and his power, though the voice was, as ever,
inaudible and soundless, &ldquo;<em>I shall not let you go!...</em>&rdquo;</p>

<p>Drawn forward nearer and nearer to the bed, he leaned
down, as if to kiss the pale lips and streaming hair. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
his knowledge operated better than he knew. In the tremendous
grip of that power which spins the stars and
suns, while drawing souls into manifestation upon a dozen
planets, he raced, he dived, he plunged, helpless, yet driven
by the creative stress of love and sacrifice towards some
eternal purpose. Caught in what seemed a vortex of amazing
force, he sank away, as a straw is caught and sunk
within the suction of a mighty whirlpool. His memory
of Morris, of the doctor, of the girl herself, passed utterly.
His entire personality became merged, lost, obliterated.
He was aware of nothing; not even aware of nothingness.
He lost consciousness....</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>The reappearance was as sudden as the obliteration.
He emerged. There had been interval, duration, time.
He was not aware of them. A spasm of blinding pain
shot through him. He opened his eyes. His whole body
was a single devouring pain. He felt cramped, confined,
uncomfortable. He must escape. He thrashed about.
Someone seized his arm and held it. With a snarl he
easily wrenched it free.</p>

<p>He was in bed. How had he come to this? An accident?
He saw the faces of nurse and doctor bending over
him, eager, amazed, surprised, a trifle frightened. Vague
memories floated to him. Who was he? Where had he
come from? And where was ... where was ... someone
... who was dearer to him than life itself? He
looked about him: the room, the faces, the French windows,
the veranda, all seemed only half familiar. He
looked, he searched for ... someone ... but in vain....</p>

<p>A spasm of violent pain burned through his body like
a fire, and he shut his eyes. He groaned. A voice sounded
just above him: &ldquo;Take this, dear. Try and swallow a
little. It will relieve you. Your brother will be back in
a moment. You are much better already.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>

<p>He looked up at the nurse; he drank what she gave
him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My brother!&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand. I
have no brother.&rdquo; Thirst came over him; he drained the
glass. The nurse, wearing a startled look, moved away.
He watched her go. He pointed at her with his hand,
meaning to say something that he instantly forgot&mdash;as he
saw his own bare arm. Its dreadful thinness shocked
him. He must have been ill for months. The arm, wasted
almost to nothing, showed the bone. He sank back exhausted,
the sleeping draught began to take effect. The
nurse returned quietly to a chair beside the bed, from
which she watched him without ceasing as the long minutes
passed....</p>

<p>He found it difficult to collect his thoughts, to keep
them in his mind when caught. There floated before him
a series of odd scenes like coloured pictures in an endless
flow. He was unable to catch them. Morris was with
him always. They were doing quite absurd, impossible
things. They rode together across the desert in the dawn,
they wandered through old massive temples, they saw the
sun set behind mud villages mid wavering palms, they
drifted down a river in a sailing boat of quaint design.
It had an enormous single sail. Together they visited
tombs cut in the solid rock, hot airless corridors, and
huge, dim, vaulted chambers underground. There was an
icy wind by night, fierce burning sun by day. They
watched vast troops of stars pass down a stupendous sky....
They knew delight and tasted wonder. Strange
memories touched them....</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nurse!&rdquo; he called aloud, returning to himself again,
and remembering that he must speak with his friend about
something&mdash;he failed to recall exactly what. &ldquo;Please ask
Mr. Morris to come to me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;At once, dear. He&rsquo;s only in the next room waiting
for you to wake.&rdquo; She went out quickly, and he heard
her voice in the passage. It sank to a whisper as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
came back with Morris, yet every syllable reached him
distinctly:</p>

<p>&ldquo;... and pay no attention if she wanders a little;
just ignore it. She&rsquo;s turned the corner, thank God, and
that&rsquo;s the chief thing.&rdquo; Each word he heard with wonder
and perplexity, with increasing irritability too.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m a hell of a wreck,&rdquo; he said, as Morris came,
beaming, to the bedside. &ldquo;Have I been ill long? It&rsquo;s
frightfully decent of you to come, old man.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But Morris, staggered at this greeting, stopped
abruptly, half turning to the nurse for guidance. He
seemed unable to find words. Sanfield was extremely
annoyed; he showed his feeling. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m <em>not</em> balmy, you old
ass!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m all right again, though very weak.
But I wanted to ask you&mdash;oh, I remember now&mdash;I wanted
to ask you about my&mdash;er&mdash;<em>Deltas</em>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My poor dear Maggie,&rdquo; stammered Morris, fumbling
with his voice. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about your few shares,
darling. Deltas are all right&mdash;it&rsquo;s <em>you</em> we&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why, the devil, do you call me Maggie?&rdquo; snapped
the other viciously. &ldquo;And &lsquo;darling&rsquo;!&rdquo; He felt furious,
exasperated. &ldquo;Have <em>you</em> gone balmy, or have I? What
in the world are you two up to?&rdquo; His fury tired him. He
lay back upon his pillows, fuming. Morris took a chair
beside the bed; he put a hand gently on his wasted arm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My darling girl,&rdquo; he said, in what was intended to
be a soothing voice, though it stirred the sick man again to
fury beyond expression, &ldquo;you must really keep quiet for
a bit. You&rsquo;ve had a very severe operation&rdquo;&mdash;his voice
shook a little&mdash;&ldquo;but, thank God, you&rsquo;ve pulled through and
are now on the way to recovery. You are my sister Maggie.
It will all come back to you when you&rsquo;re rested&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Maggie, indeed!&rdquo; interrupted the other, trying to sit
up again, but too weak to compass it. &ldquo;Your sister! You
bally idiot! Don&rsquo;t you know me? I wish to God the
nurse wouldn&rsquo;t &lsquo;dear&rsquo; me in that senseless way. And you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
with your atrocious &lsquo;darling,&rsquo; I&rsquo;m not your precious sister
Maggie. I&rsquo;m&mdash;I&rsquo;m George San&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>But even as he said it, there passed over him some
dim lost fragment of a wild, delicious memory he could
not seize. Intense pleasure lay in it, could he but recover
it. He knew a sweet, forgotten joy. His broken, troubled
mind lay searching frantically but without success. It
dazzled him. It shook him with an indescribable emotion&mdash;of
joy, of wonder, of deep sweet confusion. A rapt
happiness rose in him, yet pain, like a black awful shutter,
closed in upon the happiness at once. He remembered
a girl. But he remembered, too, that he had seen her
die. Who was she? Had he lost her ... again...!</p>

<p>&ldquo;My dear fellow,&rdquo; he faltered in a weaker voice to
Morris, &ldquo;my brain&rsquo;s in a whirl. I&rsquo;m sorry. I suppose I&rsquo;ve
had some blasted concussion&mdash;haven&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;</p>

<p>But the man beside his bed, he saw, was startled. An
extraordinary look came into his face, though he tried to
hide it with a smile.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My shares!&rdquo; cried Sanfield, with a half scream.
&ldquo;Four thousand of them!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Whereupon Morris blanched. &ldquo;George Sanfield!&rdquo; he
muttered, half to himself, half to the nurse who hurried
up. &ldquo;That voice! The very number too!&rdquo; He looked
white and terrified, as if he had seen a ghost. A whispered
colloquy ensued between him and the nurse. It was
inaudible.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now, dearest Maggie,&rdquo; he said at length, making evidently
a tremendous effort, &ldquo;do try and lie quiet for a bit.
Don&rsquo;t bother about George Sanfield, my London friend.
His shares are quite safe. You&rsquo;ve heard me speak of him.
It&rsquo;s all right, my darling, quite all right. Oh, believe me!
I&rsquo;m your brother.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Maggie...!&rdquo; whispered the man to himself upon
the bed, whereupon Morris stooped, and, to his intense
horror, kissed him on the cheek. But his horror seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
merged at once in another personality that surged through
and over his entire being, drowning memory and recognition
hopelessly. &ldquo;Darling,&rdquo; he murmured. He realized
that he was mad, of course. It seemed he fainted....</p>

<p>The momentary unconsciousness soon passed, at any
rate. He opened his eyes again. He saw a palm tree
out of the window. He knew positively he was <em>not</em> mad,
whatever else he might be. Dead perhaps? He felt the
sheets, the mattress, the skin upon his face. No, he was
alive all right. The dull pains where the tight bandages
oppressed him were also real. He was among substantial,
earthly things. The nurse, he noticed, regarded him anxiously.
She was a pleasant-looking young woman. He
smiled; and, with an expression of affectionate, even tender
pleasure, she smiled back at him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You feel better now, a little stronger,&rdquo; she said softly.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve had a sleep, Miss Margaret.&rdquo; She said &ldquo;Miss Margaret&rdquo;
with a conscious effort. It was better, perhaps, than
&ldquo;dear&rdquo;; but his anger rose at once. He was too tired, however,
to express his feelings. There stole over him, besides,
the afflicting consciousness of an alien personality
that was familiar, and yet not his. It strove to dominate
him. Only by a great effort could he continue to think
his own thoughts. This other being kept trying to intrude,
to oust him, to take full possession. It resented his
presence with a kind of violence.</p>

<p>He sighed. So strong was the feeling of another personality
trying to foist itself upon his own, upon his mind,
his body, even upon his very face, that he turned instinctively
to the nurse, though unaware exactly what he meant
to ask her for.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My hand-glass, please,&rdquo; he heard himself saying&mdash;with
horror. The phrase was not his own. Glass or mirror
were the words <em>he</em> would have used.</p>

<p>A moment later he was staring with acute and ghastly
terror at a reflection that was not his own. It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
face of the dead girl he saw within the silver-handled,
woman&rsquo;s hand-glass he held up.</p>

<p class="str">*****</p>

<p>The dream with its amazing, vivid detail haunted him
for days, even coming between him and his work. It
seemed far more real, more vivid than the commonplace
events of life that followed. The occurrences of the day
were pale compared to its overpowering intensity. And a
cable, received the very next afternoon, increased this sense
of actual truth&mdash;of something that had really happened.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hold shares writing Morris.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Its brevity added a convincing touch. He was aware
of Egypt even in Throgmorton Street. Yet it was the face
of the dead, or dying, girl that chiefly haunted him. She
remained in his thoughts, alive and sweet and exquisite.
Without her he felt incomplete, his life a failure. He
thought of nothing else.</p>

<p>The affairs at the office, meanwhile, went well; unexpected
success attended them; there was no strike; the
angry customer was pacified. And when the promised
letter came from Morris, Sanfield&rsquo;s hands trembled so violently
that he could hardly tear it open. Nor could he read
it calmly. The assurance about his precious shares scarcely
interested him. It was the final paragraph that set his
heart beating against his ribs as though a hammer lay
inside him:</p>

<div class="blockquot1">
<p>&ldquo;... I&rsquo;ve had great trouble and anxiety, though, thank God,
the danger is over now. I forget if I ever mentioned my sister,
Margaret, to you. She keeps house for me in Cairo, when I&rsquo;m
there. She is my only tie in life. Well, a severe operation she
had to undergo, all but finished her. To tell you the truth, she
very nearly died, for the doctor gave her up. You&rsquo;ll smile when
I tell you that odd things happened&mdash;at the very last moment. I
can&rsquo;t explain it, nor can the doctor. It rather terrified me. But
at the very moment when we thought her gone, something revived
in her. She became full of unexpected life and vigor. She was
even violent&mdash;whereas, a moment before, she had not the strength
to speak, much less to move. It was rather wonderful, but it was
terrible too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t believe in these things, I know, but I must tell you,
because, when she recovered consciousness, she began to babble
about yourself, using your name, though she has rarely, if ever,
heard it, and even speaking&mdash;you won&rsquo;t believe this, of course!&mdash;of
your shares in Deltas, giving the <em>exact</em> number that you hold.
When you write, please tell me if you were very anxious about
these? Also, whether your thoughts were directed particularly to
me? I thought a good deal about you, knowing you might be
uneasy, but my mind was pretty full, as you will understand, of
her operation at the time. The climax, when all this happened,
was about 11 a. m. on February 13th.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t fail to tell me this, as I&rsquo;m particularly interested in
what you may have to say.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And, now, I want to ask a great favor of you. The doctor
forbids Margaret to stay here during the hot weather, so I&rsquo;m
sending her home to some cousins in Yorkshire, as soon as she is
fit to travel. It would be most awfully kind&mdash;I know how women
bore you&mdash;if you could manage to meet the boat and help her on
her way through London. I&rsquo;ll let you know dates and particulars
later, when I hear that you will do this for me....&rdquo;</p>
</div>

<p>Sanfield hardly read the remainder of the letter, which
dealt with shares and business matters. But a month later
he stood on the dock-pier at Tilbury, watching the approach
of the tender from the <cite>Egyptian Mail</cite>.</p>

<p>He saw it make fast; he saw the stream of passengers
pour down the gangway; and he saw among them the tall,
fair woman of his dream. With a beating heart he went
to meet her....</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>


<h2>IX<br />
<br />
THE DECOY</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">It</span> belonged to the category of unlovely houses about
which an ugly superstition clings, one reason being,
perhaps, its inability to inspire interest in itself without
assistance. It seemed too ordinary to possess individuality,
much less to exert an influence. Solid and ungainly,
its huge bulk dwarfing the park timber, its best claim to
notice was a negative one&mdash;it was unpretentious.</p>

<p>From the little hill its expressionless windows stared
across the Kentish Weald, indifferent to weather, dreary
in winter, bleak in spring, unblessed in summer. Some
colossal hand had tossed it down, then let it starve to
death, a country mansion that might well strain the adjectives
of advertisers and find inheritors with difficulty. Its
soul had fled, said some; it had committed suicide, thought
others; and it was an inheritor, before he killed himself in
the library, who thought this latter, yielding, apparently,
to an hereditary taint in the family. For two other inheritors
followed suit, with an interval of twenty years
between them, and there was no clear reason to explain
the three disasters. Only the first owner, indeed, lived
permanently in the house, the others using it in the summer
months and then deserting it with relief. Hence,
when John Burley, present inheritor, assumed possession,
he entered a house about which clung an ugly superstition,
based, nevertheless, upon a series of undeniably ugly facts.</p>

<p>This century deals harshly with superstitious folk,
deeming them fools or charlatans; but John Burley, robust,
contemptuous of half lights, did not deal harshly
with them, because he did not deal with them at all. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
was hardly aware of their existence. He ignored them
as he ignored, say, the Esquimaux, poets, and other human
aspects that did not touch his scheme of life. A successful
business man, he concentrated on what was real; he
dealt with business people. His philanthropy, on a big
scale, was also real; yet, though he would have denied it
vehemently, he had his superstition as well. No man
exists without some taint of superstition in his blood; the
racial heritage is too rich to be escaped entirely. Burley&rsquo;s
took this form&mdash;that unless he gave his tithe to the
poor he would not prosper. This ugly mansion, he decided,
would make an ideal Convalescent Home.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Only cowards or lunatics kill themselves,&rdquo; he declared
flatly, when his use of the house was criticized.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m neither one nor t&rsquo;other.&rdquo; He let out his gusty,
boisterous laugh. In his invigorating atmosphere such
weakness seemed contemptible, just as superstition in his
presence seemed feeblest ignorance. Even its picturesqueness
faded. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t conceive,&rdquo; he boomed, &ldquo;can&rsquo;t even
imagine to myself,&rdquo; he added emphatically, &ldquo;the state of
mind in which a man can think of suicide, much less do
it.&rdquo; He threw his chest out with a challenging air. &ldquo;I tell
you, Nancy, it&rsquo;s either cowardice or mania. And I&rsquo;ve no
use for either.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Yet he was easy-going and good-humoured in his denunciation.
He admitted his limitations with a hearty
laugh his wife called noisy. Thus he made allowances for
the fairy fears of sailorfolk, and had even been known to
mention haunted ships his companies owned. But he did
so in the terms of tonnage and £ s. d. His scope was big;
details were made for clerks.</p>

<p>His consent to pass a night in the mansion was the
consent of a practical business man and philanthropist who
dealt condescendingly with foolish human nature. It was
based on the common-sense of tonnage and £ s. d. The
local newspapers had revived the silly story of the suicides,
calling attention to the effect of the superstition upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
fortunes of the house, and so, possibly, upon the fortunes of
its present owner. But the mansion, otherwise a white elephant,
was precisely ideal for his purpose, and so trivial
a matter as spending a night in it should not stand in the
way. &ldquo;We must take people as we find them, Nancy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His young wife had her motive, of course, in making
the proposal, and, if she was amused by what she called
&ldquo;spook-hunting,&rdquo; he saw no reason to refuse her the indulgence.
He loved her, and took her as he found her&mdash;late
in life. To allay the superstitions of prospective staff and
patients and supporters, all, in fact, whose goodwill was
necessary to success, he faced this boredom of a night in
the building before its opening was announced. &ldquo;You see,
John, if you, the owner, do this, it will nip damaging talk
in the bud. If anything went wrong later it would only
be put down to this suicide idea, this haunting influence.
The Home will have a bad name from the start. There&rsquo;ll
be endless trouble. It will be a failure.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You think my spending a night there will stop the
nonsense?&rdquo; he inquired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;According to the old legend it breaks the spell,&rdquo; she
replied. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the condition, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But somebody&rsquo;s sure to die there sooner or later,&rdquo; he
objected. &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t prevent that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We can prevent people whispering that they died unnaturally.&rdquo;
She explained the working of the public mind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; he replied, his lip curling, yet quick to gauge
the truth of what she told him about collective instinct.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Unless <em>you</em> take poison in the hall,&rdquo; she added laughingly,
&ldquo;or elect to hang yourself with your braces from
the hat peg.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do it,&rdquo; he agreed, after a moment&rsquo;s thought. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
sit up with you. It will be like a honeymoon over again,
you and I on the spree&mdash;eh?&rdquo; He was even interested
now; the boyish side of him was touched perhaps; but his
enthusiasm was less when she explained that three was a
better number than two on such an expedition.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve often done it before, John. We were always
three.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; he asked bluntly. He looked wonderingly at
her, but she answered that if anything went wrong a party
of three provided a better margin for help. It was sufficiently
obvious. He listened and agreed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll get young
Mortimer,&rdquo; he suggested. &ldquo;Will he do?&rdquo;</p>

<p>She hesitated. &ldquo;Well&mdash;he&rsquo;s cheery; he&rsquo;ll be interested,
too. Yes, he&rsquo;s as good as another.&rdquo; She seemed indifferent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And he&rsquo;ll make the time pass with his stories,&rdquo; added
her husband.</p>

<p>So Captain Mortimer, late officer on a T.B.D., a
&ldquo;cheery lad,&rdquo; afraid of nothing, cousin of Mrs. Burley,
and now filling a good post in the company&rsquo;s London
offices, was engaged as third hand in the expedition. But
Captain Mortimer was young and ardent, and Mrs. Burley
was young and pretty and ill-mated, and John Burley was
a neglectful, and self-satisfied husband.</p>

<p>Fate laid the trap with cunning, and John Burley,
blind-eyed, careless of detail, floundered into it. He also
floundered out again, though in a fashion none could have
expected of him.</p>

<p>The night agreed upon eventually was as near to the
shortest in the year as John Burley could contrive&mdash;June
18th&mdash;when the sun set at 8:18 and rose about a quarter
to four. There would be barely three hours of true darkness.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re the expert,&rdquo; he admitted, as she explained
that sitting through the actual darkness only was required,
not necessarily from sunset to sunrise. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll do the thing
properly. Mortimer&rsquo;s not very keen, he had a dance or
something,&rdquo; he added, noticing the look of annoyance that
flashed swiftly in her eyes; &ldquo;but he got out of it. He&rsquo;s
coming.&rdquo; The pouting expression of the spoilt woman
amused him. &ldquo;Oh, no, he didn&rsquo;t need much persuading
really,&rdquo; he assured her. &ldquo;Some girl or other, of course.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
He&rsquo;s young, remember.&rdquo; To which no comment was forthcoming,
though the implied comparison made her flush.</p>

<p>They motored from South Audley Street after an early
tea, in due course passing Sevenoaks and entering the
Kentish Weald; and, in order that the necessary advertisement
should be given, the chauffeur, warned strictly
to keep their purpose quiet, was to put up at the country
inn and fetch them an hour after sunrise; they would
breakfast in London. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll tell everybody,&rdquo; said his
practical and cynical master; &ldquo;the local newspaper will
have it all next day. A few hours&rsquo; discomfort is worth
while if it ends the nonsense. We&rsquo;ll read and smoke, and
Mortimer shall tell us yarns about the sea.&rdquo; He went
with the driver into the house to superintend the arrangement
of the room, the lights, the hampers of food, and
so forth, leaving the pair upon the lawn.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Four hours isn&rsquo;t much, but it&rsquo;s something,&rdquo; whispered
Mortimer, alone with her for the first time since they
started. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s simply ripping of you to have got me in.
You look divine to-night. You&rsquo;re the most wonderful
woman in the world.&rdquo; His blue eyes shone with the hungry
desire he mistook for love. He looked as if he had blown
in from the sea, for his skin was tanned and his light hair
bleached a little by the sun. He took her hand, drawing
her out of the slanting sunlight towards the rhododendrons.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t, you silly boy. It was John suggested your
coming.&rdquo; She released her hand with an affected effort.
&ldquo;Besides, you overdid it&mdash;pretending you had a dance.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You could have objected,&rdquo; he said eagerly, &ldquo;and didn&rsquo;t.
Oh, you&rsquo;re too lovely, you&rsquo;re delicious!&rdquo; He kissed her
suddenly with passion. There was a tiny struggle, in
which she yielded too easily, he thought.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Harry, you&rsquo;re an idiot!&rdquo; she cried breathlessly, when
he let her go. &ldquo;I really don&rsquo;t know how you dare! And
John&rsquo;s your friend. Besides, you know&rdquo;&mdash;she glanced
round quickly&mdash;&ldquo;it isn&rsquo;t safe here.&rdquo; Her eyes shone happily,
her cheeks were flaming. She looked what she was, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
pretty, young, lustful animal, false to ideals, true to selfish
passion only. &ldquo;Luckily,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;he trusts me too
fully to think anything.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The young man, worship in his eyes, laughed gaily.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no harm in a kiss,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a child
to him, he never thinks of you as a woman. Anyhow, his
head&rsquo;s full of ships and kings and sealing-wax,&rdquo; he comforted
her, while respecting her sudden instinct which
warned him not to touch her again, &ldquo;and he never sees anything.
Why, even at ten yards&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>From twenty yards away a big voice interrupted him,
as John Burley came round a corner of the house and
across the lawn towards them. The chauffeur, he announced,
had left the hampers in the room on the first
floor and gone back to the inn. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s take a walk
round,&rdquo; he added, joining them, &ldquo;and see the garden. Five
minutes before sunset we&rsquo;ll go in and feed.&rdquo; He laughed.
&ldquo;We must do the thing faithfully, you know, mustn&rsquo;t we,
Nancy? Dark to dark, remember. Come on, Mortimer&rdquo;&mdash;he
took the young man&rsquo;s arm&mdash;&ldquo;a last look round before
we go in and hang ourselves from adjoining hooks in
the matron&rsquo;s room!&rdquo; He reached out his free hand towards
his wife.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, hush, John!&rdquo; she said quickly. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like&mdash;especially
now the dusk is coming.&rdquo; She shivered, as
though it were a genuine little shiver, pursing her lips
deliciously as she did so; whereupon he drew her forcibly
to him, saying he was sorry, and kissed her exactly where
she had been kissed two minutes before, while young Mortimer
looked on. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll take care of you between us,&rdquo;
he said. Behind a broad back the pair exchanged a swift
but meaning glance, for there was that in his tone which
enjoined wariness, and perhaps after all he was not so blind
as he appeared. They had their code, these two. &ldquo;All&rsquo;s
well,&rdquo; was signalled; &ldquo;but another time be more careful!&rdquo;</p>

<p>There still remained some minutes&rsquo; sunlight before the
huge red ball of fire would sink behind the wooded hills,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
and the trio, talking idly, a flutter of excitement in two
hearts certainly, walked among the roses. It was a perfect
evening, windless, perfumed, warm. Headless shadows
preceded them gigantically across the lawn as they moved,
and one side of the great building lay already dark; bats
were flitting, moths darted to and fro above the azalea and
rhododendron clumps. The talk turned chiefly on the uses
of the mansion as a Convalescent Home, its probable running
cost, suitable staff, and so forth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; John Burley said presently, breaking
off and turning abruptly, &ldquo;we must be inside, actually inside,
before the sun&rsquo;s gone. We must fulfil the conditions
faithfully,&rdquo; he repeated, as though fond of the phrase. He
was in earnest over everything in life, big or little, once
he set his hand to it.</p>

<p>They entered, this incongruous trio of ghost-hunters,
no one of them really intent upon the business in hand,
and went slowly upstairs to the great room where the
hampers lay. Already in the hall it was dark enough for
three electric torches to flash usefully and help their steps
as they moved with caution, lighting one corner after
another. The air inside was chill and damp. &ldquo;Like an
unused museum,&rdquo; said Mortimer. &ldquo;I can smell the specimens.&rdquo;
They looked about them, sniffing. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s humanity,&rdquo;
declared his host, employer, friend, &ldquo;with cement
and whitewash to flavour it&rdquo;; and all three laughed as
Mrs. Burley said she wished they had picked some roses
and brought them in. Her husband was again in front
on the broad staircase, Mortimer just behind him, when
she called out. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like being last,&rdquo; she exclaimed.
It&rsquo;s so black behind me in the hall. I&rsquo;ll come between you
two,&rdquo; and the sailor took her outstretched hand, squeezing
it, as he passed her up. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a figure, remember,&rdquo; she
said hurriedly, turning to gain her husband&rsquo;s attention, as
when she touched wood at home. &ldquo;A figure is seen; that&rsquo;s
part of the story. The figure of a man.&rdquo; She gave a tiny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
shiver of pleasurable, half-imagined alarm as she took his
arm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hope we shall see it,&rdquo; he mentioned prosaically.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hope we shan&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she replied with emphasis. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
only seen before&mdash;something happens.&rdquo; Her husband said
nothing, while Mortimer remarked facetiously that it
would be a pity if they had their trouble for nothing.
&ldquo;Something can hardly happen to all three of us,&rdquo; he
said lightly, as they entered a large room where the paper-hangers
had conveniently left a rough table of bare planks.
Mrs. Burley, busy with her own thoughts, began to unpack
the sandwiches and wine. Her husband strolled over
to the window. He seemed restless.</p>

<p>&ldquo;So this,&rdquo; his deep voice startled her, &ldquo;is where one
of us&rdquo;&mdash;he looked round him&mdash;&ldquo;is to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;John!&rdquo; She stopped him sharply, with impatience.
&ldquo;Several times already I&rsquo;ve begged you.&rdquo; Her voice rang
rather shrill and querulous in the empty room, a new note
in it. She was beginning to feel the atmosphere of the
place, perhaps. On the sunny lawn it had not touched her,
but now, with the fall of night, she was aware of it, as
shadow called to shadow and the kingdom of darkness
gathered power. Like a great whispering gallery, the whole
house listened.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Upon my word, Nancy,&rdquo; he said with contrition, as
he came and sat down beside her, &ldquo;I quite forgot again.
Only I cannot take it seriously. It&rsquo;s so utterly unthinkable
to me that a man&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But why evoke the idea at all?&rdquo; she insisted in a
lowered voice, that snapped despite its faintness. &ldquo;Men,
after all, don&rsquo;t do such things for nothing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We don&rsquo;t know everything in the universe, do we?&rdquo;
Mortimer put in, trying clumsily to support her. &ldquo;All I
know just now is that I&rsquo;m famished and this veal and
ham pie is delicious.&rdquo; He was very busy with his knife
and fork. His foot rested lightly on her own beneath the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
table; he could not keep his eyes off her face; he was
continually passing new edibles to her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; agreed John Burley, &ldquo;not everything. You&rsquo;re
right there.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She kicked the younger man gently, flashing a warning
with her eyes as well, while her husband, emptying
his glass, his head thrown back, looked straight at them
over the rim, apparently seeing nothing. They smoked
their cigarettes round the table, Burley lighting a big cigar.
&ldquo;Tell us about the figure, Nancy?&rdquo; he inquired. &ldquo;At least
there&rsquo;s no harm in that. It&rsquo;s new to me. I hadn&rsquo;t heard
about a figure.&rdquo; And she did so willingly, turning her
chair sideways from the dangerous, reckless feet. Mortimer
could now no longer touch her. &ldquo;I know very little,&rdquo;
she confessed; &ldquo;only what the paper said. It&rsquo;s a man....
And he changes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How changes?&rdquo; asked her husband. &ldquo;Clothes, you
mean, or what?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mrs. Burley laughed, as though she was glad to laugh.
Then she answered: &ldquo;According to the story, he shows
himself each time to the man&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The man who&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, yes, of course. He appears to the man who dies&mdash;as
himself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;H&rsquo;m,&rdquo; grunted her husband, naturally puzzled. He
stared at her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Each time the chap saw his own double&rdquo;&mdash;Mortimer
came this time usefully to the rescue&mdash;&ldquo;before he did it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Considerable explanation followed, involving much
psychic jargon from Mrs. Burley, which fascinated and
impressed the sailor, who thought her as wonderful as she
was lovely, showing it in his eyes for all to see. John Burley&rsquo;s
attention wandered. He moved over to the window,
leaving them to finish the discussion between them; he
took no part in it, made no comment even, merely listening
idly and watching them with an air of absent-mindedness
through the cloud of cigar smoke round his head. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
moved from window to window, ensconcing himself in turn
in each deep embrasure, examining the fastenings, measuring
the thickness of the stonework with his handkerchief.
He seemed restless, bored, obviously out of place in this
ridiculous expedition. On his big massive face lay a quiet,
resigned expression his wife had never seen before. She
noticed it now as, the discussion ended, the pair tidied
away the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i> of dinner, lit the spirit lamp for coffee and
laid out a supper which would be very welcome with the
dawn. A draught passed through the room, making the
papers flutter on the table. Mortimer turned down the
smoking lamps with care.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wind&rsquo;s getting up a bit&mdash;from the south,&rdquo; observed
Burley from his niche, closing one-half of the casement
window as he said it. To do this, he turned his back a
moment, fumbling for several seconds with the latch, while
Mortimer, noting it, seized his sudden opportunity with
the foolish abandon of his age and temperament. Neither
he nor his victim perceived that, against the outside darkness,
the interior of the room was plainly reflected in the
window-pane. One reckless, the other terrified, they
snatched the fearful joy, which might, after all, have been
lengthened by another full half-minute, for the head they
feared, followed by the shoulders, pushed through the side
of the casement still open, and remained outside, taking
in the night.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A grand air,&rdquo; said his deep voice, as the head drew
in again, &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to be at sea a night like this.&rdquo; He
left the casement open and came across the room towards
them. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he said cheerfully, arranging a seat for
himself, &ldquo;let&rsquo;s get comfortable for the night. Mortimer,
we expect stories from you without ceasing, until dawn or
the ghost arrives. Horrible stories of chains and headless
men, remember. Make it a night we shan&rsquo;t forget in a
hurry.&rdquo; He produced his gust of laughter.</p>

<p>They arranged their chairs, with other chairs to put
their feet on, and Mortimer contrived a footstool by means<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
of a hamper for the smallest feet; the air grew thick with
tobacco smoke; eyes flashed and answered, watched perhaps
as well; ears listened and perhaps grew wise; occasionally,
as a window shook, they started and looked round;
there were sounds about the house from time to time, when
the entering wind, using broken or open windows, set loose
objects rattling.</p>

<p>But Mrs. Burley vetoed horrible stories with decision.
A big, empty mansion, lonely in the country, and even
with the comfort of John Burley and a lover in it, has
its atmosphere. Furnished rooms are far less ghostly.
This atmosphere now came creeping everywhere, through
spacious halls and sighing corridors, silent, invisible, but
all-pervading, John Burley alone impervious to it, unaware
of its soft attack upon the nerves. It entered possibly
with the summer night wind, but possibly it was
always there.... And Mrs. Burley looked often at her
husband, sitting near her at an angle; the light fell on
his fine strong face; she felt that, though apparently so
calm and quiet, he was really very restless; something
about him was a little different; she could not define it;
his mouth seemed set as with an effort; he looked, she
thought curiously to herself, patient and very dignified;
he was rather a dear after all. Why did she think the face
inscrutable? Her thoughts wandered vaguely, unease, discomfort
among them somewhere, while the heated blood&mdash;she
had taken her share of wine&mdash;seethed in her.</p>

<p>Burley turned to the sailor for more stories. &ldquo;Sea
and wind in them,&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;No horrors, remember!&rdquo;
and Mortimer told a tale about the shortage of rooms at
a Welsh seaside place where spare rooms fetched fabulous
prices, and one man alone refused to let&mdash;a retired captain
of a South Seas trader, very poor, a bit crazy apparently.
He had two furnished rooms in his house worth twenty
guineas a week. The rooms faced south; he kept them full
of flowers; but he would not let. An explanation of his
unworldly obstinacy was not forthcoming until Mortimer&mdash;they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
fished together&mdash;gained his confidence. &ldquo;The South
Wind lives in them,&rdquo; the old fellow told him. &ldquo;I keep
them free for her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;For <em>her?&rdquo;</em></p>

<p>&ldquo;It was on the South Wind my love came to me,&rdquo; said
the other softly; &ldquo;and it was on the South Wind that she
left&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was an odd tale to tell in such company, but he told
it well.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Beautiful,&rdquo; thought Mrs. Burley. Aloud she said a
quiet, &ldquo;Thank you. By &lsquo;left,&rsquo; I suppose he meant she
died or ran away?&rdquo;</p>

<p>John Burley looked up with a certain surprise. &ldquo;We
ask for a story,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and you give us a poem.&rdquo; He
laughed. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in love, Mortimer,&rdquo; he informed him,
&ldquo;and with my wife probably.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of course I am, sir,&rdquo; replied the young man gallantly.
&ldquo;A sailor&rsquo;s heart, you know,&rdquo; while the face of
the woman turned pink, then white. She knew her husband
more intimately than Mortimer did, and there was
something in his tone, his eyes, his words, she did not
like. Harry was an idiot to choose such a tale. An irritated
annoyance stirred in her, close upon dislike. &ldquo;Anyhow,
it&rsquo;s better than horrors,&rdquo; she said hurriedly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; put in her husband, letting forth a minor gust
of laughter, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s possible, at any rate. Though one&rsquo;s as
crazy as the other.&rdquo; His meaning was not wholly clear.
&ldquo;If a man really loved,&rdquo; he added in his blunt fashion,
&ldquo;and was tricked by her, I could almost conceive his&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t preach, John, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake. You&rsquo;re
so dull in the pulpit.&rdquo; But the interruption only served
to emphasize the sentence which, otherwise, might have
been passed over.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Could conceive his finding life so worthless,&rdquo; persisted
the other, &ldquo;that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He hesitated. &ldquo;But there, now, I
promised I wouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; he went on, laughing good-humouredly.
Then, suddenly, as though in spite of himself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
driven it seemed: &ldquo;Still, under such conditions, he might
show his contempt for human nature and for life by&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was a tiny stifled scream that stopped him this time.</p>

<p>&ldquo;John, I hate, I loathe you, when you talk like that.
And you&rsquo;ve broken your word again.&rdquo; She was more than
petulant; a nervous anger sounded in her voice. It was
the way he had said it, looking from them towards the
window, that made her quiver. She felt him suddenly as a
man; she felt afraid of him.</p>

<p>Her husband made no reply; he rose and looked at
his watch, leaning sideways towards the lamp, so that the
expression of his face was shaded. &ldquo;Two o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; he
remarked. &ldquo;I think I&rsquo;ll take a turn through the house.
I may find a workman asleep or something. Anyhow, the
light will soon come now.&rdquo; He laughed; the expression
of his face, his tone of voice, relieved her momentarily.
He went out. They heard his heavy tread echoing down
the carpetless long corridor.</p>

<p>Mortimer began at once. &ldquo;Did he mean anything?&rdquo;
he asked breathlessly. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t love you the least little
bit, anyhow. He never did. I do. You&rsquo;re wasted on
him. You belong to me.&rdquo; The words poured out. He
covered her face with kisses. &ldquo;Oh, I didn&rsquo;t mean <em>that</em>,&rdquo;
he caught between the kisses.</p>

<p>The sailor released her, staring. &ldquo;What then?&rdquo; he
whispered. &ldquo;Do you think he saw us on the lawn?&rdquo; He
paused a moment, as she made no reply. The steps were
audible in the distance still. &ldquo;I know!&rdquo; he exclaimed suddenly.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the blessed house he feels. That&rsquo;s what it is.
He doesn&rsquo;t like it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A wind sighed through the room, making the papers
flutter; something rattled; and Mrs. Burley started. A
loose end of rope swinging from the paperhanger&rsquo;s ladder
caught her eye. She shivered slightly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;s different,&rdquo; she replied in a low voice, nestling
very close again, &ldquo;and so restless. Didn&rsquo;t you notice what
he said just now&mdash;that under certain conditions he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
understand a man&rdquo;&mdash;she hesitated&mdash;&ldquo;doing it,&rdquo; she concluded,
a sudden drop in her voice. &ldquo;Harry,&rdquo; she looked
full into his eyes, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s not like him. He didn&rsquo;t say
that for nothing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! He&rsquo;s bored to tears, that&rsquo;s all. And the
house is getting on your nerves, too.&rdquo; He kissed her tenderly.
Then, as she responded, he drew her nearer still
and held her passionately, mumbling incoherent words,
among which &ldquo;nothing to be afraid of&rdquo; was distinguishable.
Meanwhile, the steps were coming nearer. She
pushed him away. &ldquo;You must behave yourself. I insist.
You shall, Harry,&rdquo; then buried herself in his arms, her face
hidden against his neck&mdash;only to disentangle herself the
next instant and stand clear of him. &ldquo;I hate you, Harry,&rdquo;
she exclaimed sharply, a look of angry annoyance flashing
across her face. &ldquo;And I <em>hate</em> myself. Why do you
treat me&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo; She broke off as the steps came closer,
patted her hair straight, and stalked over to the open
window.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I believe after all you&rsquo;re only playing with me,&rdquo; he
said viciously. He stared in surprised disappointment,
watching her. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s him you really love,&rdquo; he added jealously.
He looked and spoke like a petulant spoilt boy.</p>

<p>She did not turn her head. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s always been fair to
me, kind and generous. He never blames me for anything.
Give me a cigarette and don&rsquo;t play the stage hero.
My nerves are on edge, to tell you the truth.&rdquo; Her voice
jarred harshly, and as he lit her cigarette he noticed that
her lips were trembling; his own hand trembled too. He
was still holding the match, standing beside her at the
window-sill, when the steps crossed the threshold and John
Burley came into the room. He went straight up to the
table and turned the lamp down. &ldquo;It was smoking,&rdquo; he
remarked. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, sir,&rdquo; and Mortimer sprang forward, too
late to help him. &ldquo;It was the draught as you pushed
the door open.&rdquo; The big man said, &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; and drew a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
chair over, facing them. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s just <em>the</em> very house,&rdquo; he
told them. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been through every room on this floor.
It will make a splendid Home, with very little alteration,
too.&rdquo; He turned round in his creaking wicker chair and
looked up at his wife, who sat swinging her legs and
smoking in the window embrasure. &ldquo;Lives will be saved
inside these old walls. It&rsquo;s a good investment,&rdquo; he went
on, talking rather to himself it seemed. &ldquo;People will die
here, too&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; Mrs. Burley interrupted him. &ldquo;That noise&mdash;what
is it?&rdquo; A faint thudding sound in the corridor
or in the adjoining room was audible, making all three
look round quickly, listening for a repetition, which did
not come. The papers fluttered on the table, the lamps
smoked an instant.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wind,&rdquo; observed Burley calmly, &ldquo;our little friend, the
South Wind. Something blown over again, that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
But, curiously, the three of them stood up. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go and
see,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;Doors and windows are all open
to let the paint dry.&rdquo; Yet he did not move; he stood
there watching a white moth that dashed round and round
the lamp, flopping heavily now and again upon the bare
deal table.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Let me go, sir,&rdquo; put in Mortimer eagerly. He was
glad of the chance; for the first time he, too, felt uncomfortable.
But there was another who, apparently,
suffered a discomfort greater than his own and was accordingly
even more glad to get away. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go,&rdquo; Mrs. Burley
announced, with decision. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to. I haven&rsquo;t been
out of this room since we came. I&rsquo;m not an atom afraid.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was strange that for a moment she did not make a
move either; it seemed as if she waited for something.
For perhaps fifteen seconds no one stirred or spoke. She
knew by the look in her lover&rsquo;s eyes that he had now
become aware of the slight, indefinite change in her husband&rsquo;s
manner, and was alarmed by it. The fear in him
woke her contempt; she suddenly despised the youth, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
was conscious of a new, strange yearning towards her
husband; against her worked nameless pressures, troubling
her being. There was an alteration in the room, she
thought; something had come in. The trio stood listening
to the gentle wind outside, waiting for the sound to
be repeated; two careless, passionate young lovers and a
man stood waiting, listening, watching in that room; yet
it seemed there were five persons altogether and not three,
for two guilty consciences stood apart and separate from
their owners. John Burley broke the silence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, you go, Nancy. Nothing to be afraid of&mdash;there.
It&rsquo;s only wind.&rdquo; He spoke as though he meant it.</p>

<p>Mortimer bit his lips. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll come with you,&rdquo; he said
instantly. He was confused. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s all three go. I don&rsquo;t
think we ought to be separated.&rdquo; But Mrs. Burley was
already at the door. &ldquo;I insist,&rdquo; she said, with a forced
laugh. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll call if I&rsquo;m frightened,&rdquo; while her husband,
saying nothing, watched her from the table.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Take this,&rdquo; said the sailor, flashing his electric torch
as he went over to her. &ldquo;Two are better than one.&rdquo; He
saw her figure exquisitely silhouetted against the black
corridor beyond; it was clear she wanted to go; any nervousness
in her was mastered by a stronger emotion still;
she was glad to be out of their presence for a bit. He
had hoped to snatch a word of explanation in the corridor,
but her manner stopped him. Something else stopped
him, too.</p>

<p>&ldquo;First door on the left,&rdquo; he called out, his voice echoing
down the empty length. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the room where the
noise came from. Shout if you want us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He watched her moving away, the light held steadily
in front of her, but she made no answer, and he turned
back to see John Burley lighting his cigar at the lamp
chimney, his face thrust forward as he did so. He stood
a second, watching him, as the lips sucked hard at the
cigar to make it draw; the strength of the features was
emphasized to sternness. He had meant to stand by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
door and listen for the least sound from the adjoining
room, but now found his whole attention focused on the
face above the lamp. In that minute he realized that Burley
had wished&mdash;had meant&mdash;his wife to go. In that minute
also he forgot his love, his shameless, selfish little
mistress, his worthless, caddish little self. For John Burley
looked up. He straightened slowly, puffing hard and
quickly to make sure his cigar was lit, and faced him.
Mortimer moved forward into the room, self-conscious,
embarrassed, cold.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of course it was only wind,&rdquo; he said lightly, his one
desire being to fill the interval while they were alone with
commonplaces. He did not wish the other to speak,
&ldquo;Dawn wind, probably.&rdquo; He glanced at his wrist-watch.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s half-past two already, and the sun gets up at a
quarter to four. It&rsquo;s light by now, I expect. The shortest
night is never quite dark.&rdquo; He rambled on confusedly,
for the other&rsquo;s steady, silent stare embarrassed him. A
faint sound of Mrs. Burley moving in the next room made
him stop a moment. He turned instinctively to the door,
eager for an excuse to go.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s nothing,&rdquo; said Burley, speaking at last and in
a firm quiet voice. &ldquo;Only my wife, glad to be alone&mdash;my
young and pretty wife. She&rsquo;s all right. I know her
better than you do. Come in and shut the door.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mortimer obeyed. He closed the door and came close
to the table, facing the other, who at once continued.</p>

<p>&ldquo;If I thought,&rdquo; he said, in that quiet deep voice, &ldquo;that
you two were serious&rdquo;&mdash;he uttered his words very slowly,
with emphasis, with intense severity&mdash;&ldquo;do you know what
I should do? I will tell you, Mortimer. I should like one
of us two&mdash;you or myself&mdash;to remain in this house, dead.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His teeth gripped his cigar tightly; his hands were
clenched; he went on through a half-closed mouth. His
eyes blazed steadily.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I trust her so absolutely&mdash;understand me?&mdash;that my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
belief in women, in human beings, would go. And with
it the desire to live. Understand me?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Each word to the young careless fool was a blow in
the face, yet it was the softest blow, the flash of a big
deep heart, that hurt the most. A dozen answers&mdash;denial,
explanation, confession, taking all guilt upon himself&mdash;crowded
his mind, only to be dismissed. He stood motionless
and silent, staring hard into the other&rsquo;s eyes. No
word passed his lips; there was no time in any case. It
was in this position that Mrs. Burley, entering at that
moment, found them. She saw her husband&rsquo;s face; the
other man stood with his back to her. She came in with
a little nervous laugh. &ldquo;A bell-rope swinging in the wind
and hitting a sheet of metal before the fireplace,&rdquo; she
informed them. And all three laughed together then,
though each laugh had a different sound. &ldquo;But I hate
this house,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;I wish we had never come.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The moment there&rsquo;s light in the sky,&rdquo; remarked her
husband quietly, &ldquo;we can leave. That&rsquo;s the contract; let&rsquo;s
see it through. Another half-hour will do it. Sit down,
Nancy, and have a bite of something.&rdquo; He got up and
placed a chair for her. &ldquo;I think I&rsquo;ll take another look
round.&rdquo; He moved slowly to the door. &ldquo;I may go out
on to the lawn a bit and see what the sky is doing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It did not take half a minute to say the words, yet
to Mortimer it seemed as though the voice would never end.
His mind was confused and troubled. He loathed himself,
he loathed the woman through whom he had got into
this awkward mess.</p>

<p>The situation had suddenly become extremely painful;
he had never imagined such a thing; the man he had
thought blind had after all seen everything&mdash;known it all
along, watched them, waited. And the woman, he was
now certain, loved her husband; she had fooled him, Mortimer,
all along, amusing herself.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll come with you, sir. Do let me,&rdquo; he said suddenly.
Mrs. Burley stood pale and uncertain between them. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
looked scared. What has happened, she was clearly wondering.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, no, Harry&rdquo;&mdash;he called him &ldquo;Harry&rdquo; for the first
time&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be back in five minutes at most. My wife
mustn&rsquo;t be alone either.&rdquo; And he went out.</p>

<p>The young man waited till the footsteps sounded some
distance down the corridor, then turned, but he did not
move forward; for the first time he let pass unused what
he called &ldquo;an opportunity.&rdquo; His passion had left him;
his love, as he once thought it, was gone. He looked at
the pretty woman near him, wondering blankly what he
had ever seen there to attract him so wildly. He wished
to Heaven he was out of it all. He wished he were dead.
John Burley&rsquo;s words suddenly appalled him.</p>

<p>One thing he saw plainly&mdash;she was frightened. This
opened his lips.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; he asked, and his hushed voice
shirked the familiar Christian name. &ldquo;Did you see anything?&rdquo;
He nodded his head in the direction of the adjoining
room. It was the sound of his own voice addressing
her coldly that made him abruptly see himself as he
really was, but it was her reply, honestly given, in a faint
even voice, that told him she saw her own self too with
similar clarity. God, he thought, how revealing a tone, a
single word can be!</p>

<p>&ldquo;I saw&mdash;nothing. Only I feel uneasy&mdash;dear.&rdquo; That
&ldquo;dear&rdquo; was a call for help.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; he cried, so loud that she held up a warning
finger, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m&mdash;I&rsquo;ve been a damned fool, a cad! I&rsquo;m
most frightfully ashamed. I&rsquo;ll do anything&mdash;<em>anything</em> to
get it right.&rdquo; He felt cold, naked, his worthlessness laid
bare; she felt, he knew, the same. Each revolted suddenly
from the other. Yet he knew not quite how or wherefore
this great change had thus abruptly come about, especially
on her side. He felt that a bigger, deeper emotion than
he could understand was working on them, making mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
physical relationships seem empty, trivial, cheap and vulgar.
His cold increased in face of this utter ignorance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Uneasy?&rdquo; he repeated, perhaps hardly knowing exactly
why he said it. &ldquo;Good Lord, but he can take care of himself&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, <em>he</em> is a man,&rdquo; she interrupted; &ldquo;yes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Steps were heard, firm, heavy steps, coming back along
the corridor. It seemed to Mortimer that he had listened
to this sound of steps all night, and would listen to them
till he died. He crossed to the lamp and lit a cigarette,
carefully this time, turning the wick down afterwards.
Mrs. Burley also rose, moving over towards the door, away
from him. They listened a moment to these firm and
heavy steps, the tread of a man, John Burley. A man ...
and a philanderer, flashed across Mortimer&rsquo;s brain like
fire, contrasting the two with fierce contempt for himself.
The tread became less audible. There was distance in it.
It had turned in somewhere.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There!&rdquo; she exclaimed in a hushed tone. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s gone
in.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! It passed us. He&rsquo;s going out on to the
lawn.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The pair listened breathlessly for a moment, when the
sound of steps came distinctly from the adjoining room,
walking across the boards, apparently towards the window.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;He did go in.&rdquo; Silence of
perhaps a minute followed, in which they heard each
other&rsquo;s breathing. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like his being alone&mdash;in
there,&rdquo; Mrs. Burley said in a thin faltering voice, and
moved as though to go out. Her hand was already on the
knob of the door, when Mortimer stopped her with a violent
gesture.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t! For God&rsquo;s sake, don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; he cried, before she
could turn it. He darted forward. As he laid a hand
upon her arm a thud was audible through the wall. It
was a heavy sound, and this time there was no wind to
cause it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s only that loose swinging thing,&rdquo; he whispered
thickly, a dreadful confusion blotting out clear thought
and speech.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There was no loose swaying thing at all,&rdquo; she said
in a failing voice, then reeled and swayed against him.
&ldquo;I invented that. There was nothing.&rdquo; As he caught her,
staring helplessly, it seemed to him that a face with lifted
lids rushed up at him. He saw two terrified eyes in a
patch of ghastly white. Her whisper followed, as she sank
into his arms. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s John. He&rsquo;s&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>At which instant, with terror at its climax, the sound
of steps suddenly became audible once more&mdash;the firm
and heavy tread of John Burley coming out again into
the corridor. Such was their amazement and relief that
they neither moved nor spoke. The steps drew nearer.
The pair seemed petrified; Mortimer did not remove his
arms, nor did Mrs. Burley attempt to release herself. They
stared at the door and waited. It was pushed wider the
next second, and John Burley stood beside them. He was
so close he almost touched them&mdash;there in each other&rsquo;s
arms.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Jack, dear!&rdquo; cried his wife, with a searching tenderness
that made her voice seem strange.</p>

<p>He gazed a second at each in turn. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going out
on to the lawn for a moment,&rdquo; he said quietly. There
was no expression on his face; he did not smile, he did not
frown; he showed no feeling, no emotion&mdash;just looked into
their eyes, and then withdrew round the edge of the door
before either could utter a word in answer. The door
swung to behind him. He was gone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;s going to the lawn. He said so.&rdquo; It was Mortimer
speaking, but his voice shook and stammered. Mrs.
Burley had released herself. She stood now by the table,
silent, gazing with fixed eyes at nothing, her lips parted,
her expression vacant. Again she was aware of an alteration
in the room; something had gone out.... He
watched her a second, uncertain what to say or do. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
was the face of a drowned person, occurred to him. Something
intangible, yet almost visible stood between them in
that narrow space. Something had ended, there before his
eyes, definitely ended. The barrier between them rose
higher, denser. Through this barrier her words came to
him with an odd whispering remoteness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Harry.... You saw? You noticed?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What d&rsquo;you mean?&rdquo; he said gruffly. He tried to feel
angry, contemptuous, but his breath caught absurdly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Harry&mdash;he was different. The eyes, the hair, the&rdquo;&mdash;her
face grew like death&mdash;&ldquo;the twist in his face&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What on earth are you saying? Pull yourself together.&rdquo;
He saw that she was trembling down the whole
length of her body, as she leaned against the table for
support. His own legs shook. He stared hard at her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Altered, Harry ... altered.&rdquo; Her horrified whisper
came at him like a knife. For it was true. He, too, had
noticed something about the husband&rsquo;s appearance that was
not quite normal. Yet, even while they talked, they heard
him going down the carpetless stairs; the sounds ceased as
he crossed the hall; then came the noise of the front door
banging, the reverberation even shaking the room a little
where they stood.</p>

<p>Mortimer went over to her side. He walked unevenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My dear! For God&rsquo;s sake&mdash;this is sheer nonsense.
Don&rsquo;t let yourself go like this. I&rsquo;ll put it straight with
him&mdash;it&rsquo;s all my fault.&rdquo; He saw by her face that she
did not understand his words; he was saying the wrong
thing altogether; her mind was utterly elsewhere. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s
all right,&rdquo; he went on hurriedly. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s out on the lawn
now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He broke off at the sight of her. The horror that
fastened on her brain plastered her face with deathly
whiteness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That was not John at all!&rdquo; she cried, a wail of misery
and terror in her voice. She rushed to the window and he
followed. To his immense relief a figure moving below<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
was plainly visible. It was John Burley. They saw him
in the faint grey of the dawn, as he crossed the lawn, going
away from the house. He disappeared.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There you are! See?&rdquo; whispered Mortimer reassuringly.
&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll be back in&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; when a sound in the adjoining
room, heavier, louder than before, cut appallingly
across his words, and Mrs. Burley, with that wailing
scream, fell back into his arms. He caught her only just
in time, for she stiffened into ice, daft with the uncomprehended
terror of it all, and helpless as a child.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Darling, my darling&mdash;oh, God!&rdquo; He bent, kissing
her face wildly. He was utterly distraught.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Harry! Jack&mdash;oh, oh!&rdquo; she wailed in her anguish.
&ldquo;It took on his likeness. It deceived us ... to give him
time. He&rsquo;s done it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She sat up suddenly. &ldquo;Go,&rdquo; she said, pointing to the
room beyond, then sank fainting, a dead weight in his
arms.</p>

<p>He carried her unconscious body to a chair, then entering
the adjoining room he flashed his torch upon the body
of her husband hanging from a bracket in the wall. He
cut it down five minutes too late.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>


<h2>X<br />
<br />
THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT<br />
<span class="f8">(A NIGHTMARE)</span></h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">Professor Mark Ebor</span>, the scientist, led a double
life, and the only persons who knew it were his assistant,
Dr. Laidlaw, and his publishers. But a double life
need not always be a bad one, and, as Dr. Laidlaw and the
gratified publishers well knew, the parallel lives of this
particular man were equally good, and indefinitely produced
would certainly have ended in a heaven somewhere
that can suitably contain such strangely opposite characteristics
as his remarkable personality combined.</p>

<p>For Mark Ebor, F.R.S., etc., etc., was that unique
combination hardly ever met with in actual life, a man of
science and a mystic.</p>

<p>As the first, his name stood in the gallery of the great,
and as the second&mdash;but there came the mystery! For
under the pseudonym of &ldquo;Pilgrim&rdquo; (the author of that
brilliant series of books that appealed to so many), his
identity was as well concealed as that of the anonymous
writer of the weather reports in a daily newspaper. Thousands
read the sanguine, optimistic, stimulating little books
that issued annually from the pen of &ldquo;Pilgrim,&rdquo; and thousands
bore their daily burdens better for having read;
while the Press generally agreed that the author, besides
being an incorrigible enthusiast and optimist, was also&mdash;a
woman; but no one ever succeeded in penetrating the
veil of anonymity and discovering that &ldquo;Pilgrim&rdquo; and the
biologist were one and the same person.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>

<p>Mark Ebor, as Dr. Laidlaw knew him in his laboratory,
was one man; but Mark Ebor, as he sometimes saw
him after work was over, with rapt eyes and ecstatic face,
discussing the possibilities of &ldquo;union with God&rdquo; and the
future of the human race, was quite another.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have always held, as you know,&rdquo; he was saying one
evening as he sat in the little study beyond the laboratory
with his assistant and intimate, &ldquo;that Vision should play
a large part in the life of the awakened man&mdash;not to be
regarded as infallible, of course, but to be observed and
made use of as a guide-post to possibilities&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am aware of your peculiar views, sir,&rdquo; the young
doctor put in deferentially, yet with a certain impatience.</p>

<p>&ldquo;For Visions come from a region of the consciousness
where observation and experiment are out of the question,&rdquo;
pursued the other with enthusiasm, not noticing the
interruption, &ldquo;and, while they should be checked by reason
afterwards, they should not be laughed at or ignored.
All inspiration, I hold, is of the nature of interior Vision,
and all our best knowledge has come&mdash;such is my confirmed
belief&mdash;as a sudden revelation to the brain prepared to
receive it&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Prepared by hard work first, by concentration, by
the closest possible study of ordinary phenomena,&rdquo; Dr.
Laidlaw allowed himself to observe.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; sighed the other; &ldquo;but by a process, none
the less, of spiritual illumination. The best match in the
world will not light a candle unless the wick be first suitably
prepared.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was Laidlaw&rsquo;s turn to sigh. He knew so well the
impossibility of arguing with his chief when he was in the
regions of the mystic, but at the same time the respect
he felt for his tremendous attainments was so sincere that
he always listened with attention and deference, wondering
how far the great man would go and to what end this
curious combination of logic and &ldquo;illumination&rdquo; would
eventually lead him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;Only last night,&rdquo; continued the elder man, a sort of
light coming into his rugged features, &ldquo;the vision came
to me again&mdash;the one that has haunted me at intervals
ever since my youth, and that will not be denied.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dr. Laidlaw fidgeted in his chair.</p>

<p>&ldquo;About the Tablets of the Gods, you mean&mdash;and that
they lie somewhere hidden in the sands,&rdquo; he said patiently.
A sudden gleam of interest came into his face as he
turned to catch the professor&rsquo;s reply.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And that I am to be the one to find them, to decipher
them, and to give the great knowledge to the world&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who will not believe,&rdquo; laughed Laidlaw shortly, yet
interested in spite of his thinly-veiled contempt.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Because even the keenest minds, in the right sense
of the word, are hopelessly&mdash;unscientific,&rdquo; replied the other
gently, his face positively aglow with the memory of his
vision. &ldquo;Yet what is more likely,&rdquo; he continued after a
moment&rsquo;s pause, peering into space with rapt eyes that
saw things too wonderful for exact language to describe,
&ldquo;than that there should have been given to man in the
first ages of the world some record of the purpose and
problem that had been set him to solve? In a word,&rdquo; he
cried, fixing his shining eyes upon the face of his perplexed
assistant, &ldquo;that God&rsquo;s messengers in the far-off ages should
have given to His creatures some full statement of the
secret of the world, of the secret of the soul, of the meaning
of life and death&mdash;the explanation of our being here,
and to what great end we are destined in the ultimate fullness
of things?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dr. Laidlaw sat speechless. These outbursts of mystical
enthusiasm he had witnessed before. With any other man
he would not have listened to a single sentence, but to Professor
Ebor, man of knowledge and profound investigator,
he listened with respect, because he regarded this condition
as temporary and pathological, and in some sense
a reaction from the intense strain of the prolonged mental
concentration of many days.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>

<p>He smiled, with something between sympathy and
resignation as he met the other&rsquo;s rapt gaze.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But you have said, sir, at other times, that you consider
the ultimate secrets to be screened from all
possible&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The <em>ultimate</em> secrets, yes,&rdquo; came the unperturbed reply;
&ldquo;but that there lies buried somewhere an indestructible
record of the secret meaning of life, originally known
to men in the days of their pristine innocence, I am convinced.
And, by this strange vision so often vouchsafed
to me, I am equally sure that one day it shall be given to
me to announce to a weary world this glorious and terrific
message.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And he continued at great length and in glowing language
to describe the species of vivid dream that had come
to him at intervals since earliest childhood, showing in
detail how he discovered these very Tablets of the Gods,
and proclaimed their splendid contents&mdash;whose precise
nature was always, however, withheld from him in the
vision&mdash;to a patient and suffering humanity.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The <cite>Scrutator</cite>, sir, well described &lsquo;Pilgrim&rsquo; as the
Apostle of Hope,&rdquo; said the young doctor gently, when he
had finished; &ldquo;and now, if that reviewer could hear you
speak and realize from what strange depths comes your
simple faith&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a
little child broke over his face like sunshine in the
morning.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Half the good my books do would be instantly
destroyed,&rdquo; he said sadly; &ldquo;they would say that I wrote
with my tongue in my cheek. But wait,&rdquo; he added significantly;
&ldquo;wait till I find these Tablets of the Gods! Wait
till I hold the solutions of the old world-problems in my
hands! Wait till the light of this new revelation breaks
upon confused humanity, and it wakes to find its bravest
hopes justified! Ah, then, my dear Laidlaw&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He broke off suddenly; but the doctor, cleverly guessing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
the thought in his mind, caught him up immediately.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps this very summer,&rdquo; he said, trying hard to
make the suggestion keep pace with honesty; &ldquo;in your explorations
in Assyria&mdash;your digging in the remote civilization
of what was once Chaldea, you may find&mdash;what you
dream of&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>The professor held up his hand, and the smile of a
fine old face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; he murmured softly, &ldquo;perhaps!&rdquo;</p>

<p>And the young doctor, thanking the gods of science
that his leader&rsquo;s aberrations were of so harmless a character,
went home strong in the certitude of his knowledge of
externals, proud that he was able to refer his visions to
self-suggestion, and wondering complaisantly whether in
his old age he might not after all suffer himself from
visitations of the very kind that afflicted his respected
chief.</p>

<p>And as he got into bed and thought again of his master&rsquo;s
rugged face, and finely shaped head, and the deep
lines traced by years of work and self-discipline, he turned
over on his pillow and fell asleep with a sigh that was half
of wonder, half of regret.</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>It was in February, nine months later, when Dr. Laidlaw
made his way to Charing Cross to meet his chief
after his long absence of travel and exploration. The
vision about the so-called Tablets of the Gods had meanwhile
passed almost entirely from his memory.</p>

<p>There were few people in the train, for the stream of
traffic was now running the other way, and he had no difficulty
in finding the man he had come to meet. The shock
of white hair beneath the low-crowned felt hat was alone
enough to distinguish him by easily.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Here I am at last!&rdquo; exclaimed the professor, somewhat
wearily, clasping his friend&rsquo;s hand as he listened to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
the young doctor&rsquo;s warm greetings and questions. &ldquo;Here
I am&mdash;a little older, and <em>much</em> dirtier than when you last
saw me!&rdquo; He glanced down laughingly at his travel-stained
garments.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And <em>much</em> wiser,&rdquo; said Laidlaw, with a smile, as he
bustled about the platform for porters and gave his chief
the latest scientific news.</p>

<p>At last they came down to practical considerations.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And your luggage&mdash;where is that? You must have
tons of it, I suppose?&rdquo; said Laidlaw.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hardly anything,&rdquo; Professor Ebor answered. &ldquo;Nothing,
in fact, but what you see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing but this hand-bag?&rdquo; laughed the other, thinking
he was joking.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And a small portmanteau in the van,&rdquo; was the quiet
reply. &ldquo;I have no other luggage.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have no other luggage?&rdquo; repeated Laidlaw, turning
sharply to see if he were in earnest.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why should I need more?&rdquo; the professor added simply.</p>

<p>Something in the man&rsquo;s face, or voice, or manner&mdash;the
doctor hardly knew which&mdash;suddenly struck him as
strange. There was a change in him, a change so profound&mdash;so
little on the surface, that is&mdash;that at first he had not
become aware of it. For a moment it was as though an
utterly alien personality stood before him in that noisy,
bustling throng. Here, in all the homely, friendly turmoil
of a Charing Cross crowd, a curious feeling of cold
passed over his heart, touching his life with icy finger, so
that he actually trembled and felt afraid.</p>

<p>He looked up quickly at his friend, his mind working
with startled and unwelcome thoughts.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Only this?&rdquo; he repeated, indicating the bag. &ldquo;But
where&rsquo;s all the stuff you went away with? And&mdash;have you
brought nothing home&mdash;no treasures?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is all I have,&rdquo; the other said briefly. The pale
smile that went with the words caused the doctor a second
indescribable sensation of uneasiness. Something was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
very wrong, something was very queer; he wondered now
that he had not noticed it sooner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The rest follows, of course, by slow freight,&rdquo; he added
tactfully, and as naturally as possible. &ldquo;But come, sir,
you must be tired and in want of food after your long
journey. I&rsquo;ll get a taxi at once, and we can see about the
other luggage afterwards.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It seemed to him he hardly knew quite what he was
saying; the change in his friend had come upon him so
suddenly and now grew upon him more and more distressingly.
Yet he could not make out exactly in what it
consisted. A terrible suspicion began to take shape in his
mind, troubling him dreadfully.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am neither very tired, nor in need of food, thank
you,&rdquo; the professor said quietly. &ldquo;And this is all I have.
There is no luggage to follow. I have brought home nothing&mdash;nothing
but what you see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His words conveyed finality. They got into a taxi,
tipped the porter, who had been staring in amazement at
the venerable figure of the scientist, and were conveyed
slowly and noisily to the house in the north of London
where the laboratory was, the scene of their labours of
years.</p>

<p>And the whole way Professor Ebor uttered no word,
nor did Dr. Laidlaw find the courage to ask a single
question.</p>

<p>It was only late that night, before he took his departure,
as the two men were standing before the fire in
the study&mdash;that study where they had discussed so many
problems of vital and absorbing interest&mdash;that Dr. Laidlaw
at last found strength to come to the point with direct
questions. The professor had been giving him a superficial
and desultory account of his travels, of his journeys by
camel, of his encampments among the mountains and in
the desert, and of his explorations among the buried
temples, and, deeper, into the waste of the pre-historic
sands, when suddenly the doctor came to the desired point<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
with a kind of nervous rush, almost like a frightened boy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And you found&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he began stammering, looking
hard at the other&rsquo;s dreadfully altered face, from which
every line of hope and cheerfulness seemed to have been
obliterated as a sponge wipes markings from a slate&mdash;&ldquo;you
found&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I found,&rdquo; replied the other, in a solemn voice, and
it was the voice of the mystic rather than the man of
science&mdash;&ldquo;I found what I went to seek. The vision never
once failed me. It led me straight to the place like a
star in the heavens. I found&mdash;the Tablets of the Gods.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dr. Laidlaw caught his breath, and steadied himself
on the back of a chair. The words fell like particles of ice
upon his heart. For the first time the professor had uttered
the well-known phrase without the glow of light and wonder
in his face that always accompanied it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have&mdash;brought them?&rdquo; he faltered.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have brought them home,&rdquo; said the other, in a
voice with a ring like iron; &ldquo;and I have&mdash;deciphered
them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Profound despair, the bloom of outer darkness, the
dead sound of a hopeless soul freezing in the utter cold
of space seemed to fill in the pauses between the brief
sentences. A silence followed, during which Dr. Laidlaw
saw nothing but the white face before him alternately
fade and return. And it was like the face of a dead man.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They are, alas, indestructible,&rdquo; he heard the voice continue,
with its even, metallic ring.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Indestructible,&rdquo; Laidlaw repeated mechanically,
hardly knowing what he was saying.</p>

<p>Again a silence of several minutes passed, during
which, with a creeping cold about his heart, he stood
and stared into the eyes of the man he had known and
loved so long&mdash;aye, and worshipped, too; the man who had
first opened his own eyes when they were blind, and had
led him to the gates of knowledge, and no little distance
along the difficult path beyond; the man who, in another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
direction, had passed on the strength of his faith into the
hearts of thousands by his books.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I may see them?&rdquo; he asked at last, in a low voice he
hardly recognized as his own. &ldquo;You will let me know&mdash;their
message?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Professor Ebor kept his eyes fixedly upon his assistant&rsquo;s
face as he answered, with a smile that was more like the
grin of death than a living human smile.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When I am gone,&rdquo; he whispered; &ldquo;when I have passed
away. Then you shall find them and read the translation
I have made. And then, too, in your turn, you must try,
with the latest resources of science at your disposal to aid
you, to compass their utter destruction.&rdquo; He paused a
moment, and his face grew pale as the face of a corpse.
&ldquo;Until that time,&rdquo; he added presently, without looking
up, &ldquo;I must ask you not to refer to the subject again&mdash;and
to keep my confidence meanwhile&mdash;<em>ab&mdash;so&mdash;lute&mdash;ly</em>.&rdquo;</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>A year passed slowly by, and at the end of it Dr.
Laidlaw had found it necessary to sever his working connexion
with his friend and one-time leader. Professor
Ebor was no longer the same man. The light had gone
out of his life; the laboratory was closed; he no longer
put pen to paper or applied his mind to a single problem.
In the short space of a few months he had passed from
a hale and hearty man of late middle life to the condition
of old age&mdash;a man collapsed and on the edge of dissolution.
Death, it was plain, lay waiting for him in the shadows
of any day&mdash;and he knew it.</p>

<p>To describe faithfully the nature of this profound alteration
in his character and temperament is not easy, but
Dr. Laidlaw summed it up to himself in three words: <em>Loss
of Hope</em>. The splendid mental powers remained indeed
undimmed, but the incentive to use them&mdash;to use them
for the help of others&mdash;had gone. The character still held<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
to its fine and unselfish habits of years, but the far goal
to which they had been the leading strings had faded away.
The desire for knowledge&mdash;knowledge for its own sake&mdash;had
died, and the passionate hope which hitherto had animated
with tireless energy the heart and brain of this
splendidly equipped intellect had suffered total eclipse.
The central fires had gone out. Nothing was worth doing,
thinking, working for. There <em>was</em> nothing to work for
any longer!</p>

<p>The professor&rsquo;s first step was to recall as many of his
books as possible; his second to close his laboratory and
stop all research. He gave no explanation, he invited no
questions. His whole personality crumbled away, so to
speak, till his daily life became a mere mechanical process
of clothing the body, feeding the body, keeping it in good
health so as to avoid physical discomfort, and, above all,
doing nothing that could interfere with sleep. The professor
did everything he could to lengthen the hours of
sleep, and therefore of forgetfulness.</p>

<p>It was all clear enough to Dr. Laidlaw. A weaker man,
he knew, would have sought to lose himself in one form
or another of sensual indulgence&mdash;sleeping-draughts, drink,
the first pleasures that came to hand. Self-destruction
would have been the method of a little bolder type; and
deliberate evil-doing, poisoning with his awful knowledge
all he could, the means of still another kind of man. Mark
Ebor was none of these. He held himself under fine control,
facing silently and without complaint the terrible
facts he honestly believed himself to have been unfortunate
enough to discover. Even to his intimate friend and assistant,
Dr. Laidlaw, he vouchsafed no word of true explanation
or lament. He went straight forward to the end,
knowing well that the end was not very far away.</p>

<p>And death came very quietly one day to him, as he
was sitting in the arm-chair of the study, directly facing
the doors of the laboratory&mdash;the doors that no longer
opened. Dr. Laidlaw, by happy chance, was with him at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
the time, and just able to reach his side in response to the
sudden painful efforts for breath; just in time, too, to
catch the murmured words that fell from the pallid lips
like a message from the other side of the grave.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Read them, if you must; and, if you can&mdash;destroy.
But&rdquo;&mdash;his voice sank so low that Dr. Laidlaw only just
caught the dying syllables&mdash;&ldquo;but&mdash;never, never&mdash;give them
to the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And like a grey bundle of dust loosely gathered up in
an old garment the professor sank back into his chair and
expired.</p>

<p>But this was only the death of the body. His spirit
had died two years before.</p>


<h3>4</h3>

<p>The estate of the dead man was small and uncomplicated,
and Dr. Laidlaw, as sole executor and residuary
legatee, had no difficulty in settling it up. A month after
the funeral he was sitting alone in his upstairs library, the
last sad duties completed, and his mind full of poignant
memories and regrets for the loss of a friend he had
revered and loved, and to whom his debt was so incalculably
great. The last two years, indeed, had been for him terrible.
To watch the swift decay of the greatest combination
of heart and brain he had ever known, and to realize
he was powerless to help, was a source of profound grief
to him that would remain to the end of his days.</p>

<p>At the same time an insatiable curiosity possessed him.
The study of dementia was, of course, outside his special
province as a specialist, but he knew enough of it to understand
how small a matter might be the actual cause of how
great an illusion, and he had been devoured from the very
beginning by a ceaseless and increasing anxiety to know
what the professor had found in the sands of &ldquo;Chaldea,&rdquo;
what these precious Tablets of the Gods might be, and
particularly&mdash;for this was the real cause that had sapped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
the man&rsquo;s sanity and hope&mdash;what the inscription was that
he had believed to have deciphered thereon.</p>

<p>The curious feature of it all to his own mind was,
that whereas his friend had dreamed of finding a message
of glorious hope and comfort, he had apparently found
(so far as he had found anything intelligible at all, and
not invented the whole thing in his dementia) that the
secret of the world, and the meaning of life and death, was
of so terrible a nature that it robbed the heart of courage
and the soul of hope. What, then, could be the contents
of the little brown parcel the professor had bequeathed to
him with his pregnant dying sentences?</p>

<p>Actually his hand was trembling as he turned to the
writing-table and began slowly to unfasten a small old-fashioned
desk on which the small gilt initials &ldquo;M.E.&rdquo;
stood forth as a melancholy memento. He put the key
into the lock and half turned it. Then, suddenly, he
stopped and looked about him. Was that a sound at the
back of the room? It was just as though someone had
laughed and then tried to smother the laugh with a cough.
A slight shiver ran over him as he stood listening.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is absurd,&rdquo; he said aloud; &ldquo;too absurd for belief&mdash;that
I should be so nervous! It&rsquo;s the effect of curiosity
unduly prolonged.&rdquo; He smiled a little sadly and his
eyes wandered to the blue summer sky and the plane trees
swaying in the wind below his window. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the reaction,&rdquo;
he continued. &ldquo;The curiosity of two years to be
quenched in a single moment! The nervous tension, of
course, must be considerable.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He turned back to the brown desk and opened it without
further delay. His hand was firm now, and he took
out the paper parcel that lay inside without a tremor.
It was heavy. A moment later there lay on the table before
him a couple of weather-worn plaques of grey stone&mdash;they
looked like stone, although they felt like metal&mdash;on which
he saw markings of a curious character that might have
been the mere tracings of natural forces through the ages,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
or, equally well, the half-obliterated hieroglyphics cut upon
their surface in past centuries by the more or less untutored
hand of a common scribe.</p>

<p>He lifted each stone in turn and examined it carefully.
It seemed to him that a faint glow of heat passed
from the substance into his skin, and he put them down
again suddenly, as with a gesture of uneasiness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A very clever, or a very imaginative man,&rdquo; he said to
himself, &ldquo;who could squeeze the secrets of life and death
from such broken lines as those!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Then he turned to a yellow envelope lying beside them
in the desk, with the single word on the outside in the
writing of the professor&mdash;the word <em>Translation</em>.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he thought, taking it up with a sudden violence
to conceal his nervousness, &ldquo;now for the great solution.
Now to learn the meaning of the worlds, and why
mankind was made, and why discipline is worth while, and
sacrifice and pain the true law of advancement.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was the shadow of a sneer in his voice, and yet
something in him shivered at the same time. He held the
envelope as though weighing it in his hand, his mind pondering
many things. Then curiosity won the day, and he
suddenly tore it open with the gesture of an actor who
tears open a letter on the stage, knowing there is no real
writing inside at all.</p>

<p>A page of finely written script in the late scientist&rsquo;s
handwriting lay before him. He read it through from
beginning to end, missing no word, uttering each syllable
distinctly under his breath as he read.</p>

<p>The pallor of his face grew ghastly as he neared the
end. He began to shake all over as with ague. His breath
came heavily in gasps. He still gripped the sheet of
paper, however, and deliberately, as by an intense effort
of will, read it through a second time from beginning to
end. And this time, as the last syllable dropped from
his lips, the whole face of the man flamed with a sudden
and terrible anger. His skin became deep, deep red, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
he clenched his teeth. With all the strength of his vigorous
soul he was struggling to keep control of himself.</p>

<p>For perhaps five minutes he stood there beside the table
without stirring a muscle. He might have been carved
out of stone. His eyes were shut, and only the heaving
of the chest betrayed the fact that he was a living being.
Then, with a strange quietness, he lit a match and applied
it to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. The ashes
fell slowly about him, piece by piece, and he blew them
from the window-sill into the air, his eyes following them
as they floated away on the summer wind that breathed
so warmly over the world.</p>

<p>He turned back slowly into the room. Although his
actions and movements were absolutely steady and controlled,
it was clear that he was on the edge of violent
action. A hurricane might burst upon the still room any
moment. His muscles were tense and rigid. Then, suddenly,
he whitened, collapsed, and sank backwards into a
chair, like a tumbled bundle of inert matter. He had
fainted.</p>

<p>In less than half an hour he recovered consciousness
and sat up. As before, he made no sound. Not a syllable
passed his lips. He rose quietly and looked about the room.</p>

<p>Then he did a curious thing.</p>

<p>Taking a heavy stick from the rack in the corner he
approached the mantlepiece, and with a heavy shattering
blow he smashed the clock to pieces. The glass fell in
shivering atoms.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Cease your lying voice for ever,&rdquo; he said, in a curiously
still, even tone. &ldquo;There is no such thing as <em>time!&rdquo;</em></p>

<p>He took the watch from his pocket, swung it round
several times by the long gold chain, smashed it into
smithereens against the wall with a single blow, and then
walked into his laboratory next door, and hung its broken
body on the bones of the skeleton in the corner of the
room.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Let one damned mockery hang upon another,&rdquo; he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
said smiling oddly. &ldquo;Delusions, both of you, and cruel as
false!&rdquo;</p>

<p>He slowly moved back to the front room. He stopped
opposite the bookcase where stood in a row the &ldquo;Scriptures
of the World,&rdquo; choicely bound and exquisitely
printed, the late professor&rsquo;s most treasured possession, and
next to them several books signed &ldquo;Pilgrim.&rdquo;</p>

<p>One by one he took them from the shelf and hurled
them through the open window.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A devil&rsquo;s dreams! A devil&rsquo;s foolish dreams!&rdquo; he
cried, with a vicious laugh.</p>

<p>Presently he stopped from sheer exhaustion. He turned
his eyes slowly to the wall opposite, where hung a weird
array of Eastern swords and daggers, scimitars and spears,
the collections of many journeys. He crossed the room and
ran his finger along the edge. His mind seemed to waver.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; he muttered presently; &ldquo;not that way. There
are easier and better ways than that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He took his hat and passed downstairs into the street.</p>


<h3>5</h3>

<p>It was five o&rsquo;clock, and the June sun lay hot upon
the pavement. He felt the metal door-knob burn the palm
of his hand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah, Laidlaw, this is well met,&rdquo; cried a voice at his
elbow; &ldquo;I was in the act of coming to see you. I&rsquo;ve a case
that will interest you, and besides, I remembered that you
flavoured your tea with orange leaves!&mdash;and I admit&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was Alexis Stephen, the great hypnotic doctor.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had no tea to-day,&rdquo; Laidlaw said, in a dazed
manner, after staring for a moment as though the other
had struck him in the face. A new idea had entered his
mind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; asked Dr. Stephen quickly.
&ldquo;Something&rsquo;s wrong with you. It&rsquo;s this sudden heat, or
overwork. Come, man, let&rsquo;s go inside.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p>

<p>A sudden light broke upon the face of the younger
man, the light of a heaven-sent inspiration. He looked
into his friend&rsquo;s face, and told a direct lie.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Odd,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I myself was just coming to see you.
I have something of great importance to test your confidence
with. But in <em>your</em> house, please,&rdquo; as Stephen urged
him towards his own door&mdash;&ldquo;in your house. It&rsquo;s only
round the corner, and I&mdash;I cannot go back there&mdash;to my
rooms&mdash;till I have told you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m your patient&mdash;for the moment,&rdquo; he added stammeringly
as soon as they were seated in the privacy of the
hypnotist&rsquo;s sanctum, &ldquo;and I want&mdash;er&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My dear Laidlaw,&rdquo; interrupted the other, in that
soothing voice of command which had suggested to many
a suffering soul that the cure for its pain lay in the powers
of its own reawakened will, &ldquo;I am always at your service,
as you know. You have only to tell me what I can do
for you, and I will do it.&rdquo; He showed every desire to
help him out. His manner was indescribably tactful and
direct.</p>

<p>Dr. Laidlaw looked up into his face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I surrender my will to you,&rdquo; he said, already calmed
by the other&rsquo;s healing presence, &ldquo;and I want you to treat
me hypnotically&mdash;and at once. I want you to suggest to
me&rdquo;&mdash;his voice became very tense&mdash;&ldquo;that I shall forget&mdash;forget
till I die&mdash;everything that has occurred to me during
the last two hours; till I die, mind,&rdquo; he added, with
solemn emphasis, &ldquo;till I die.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He floundered and stammered like a frightened boy.
Alexis Stephen looked at him fixedly without speaking.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And further,&rdquo; Laidlaw continued, &ldquo;I want you to ask
me no questions. I wish to forget for ever something I
have recently discovered&mdash;something so terrible and yet so
obvious that I can hardly understand why it is not patent
to every mind in the world&mdash;for I have had a moment of
absolute <em>clear vision</em>&mdash;of merciless clairvoyance. But I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
want no one else in the whole world to know what it is&mdash;least
of all, old friend, yourself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He talked in utter confusion, and hardly knew what
he was saying. But the pain on his face and the anguish
in his voice were an instant passport to the other&rsquo;s heart.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing is easier,&rdquo; replied Dr. Stephen, after a hesitation
so slight that the other probably did not even notice
it. &ldquo;Come into my other room where we shall not be disturbed.
I can heal you. Your memory of the last two
hours shall be wiped out as though it had never been.
You can trust me absolutely.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know I can,&rdquo; Laidlaw said simply, as he followed
him in.</p>


<h3>6</h3>

<p>An hour later they passed back into the front room
again. The sun was already behind the houses opposite,
and the shadows began to gather.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I went off easily?&rdquo; Laidlaw asked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You were a little obstinate at first. But though you
came in like a lion, you went out like a lamb. I let you
sleep a bit afterwards.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Dr. Stephen kept his eyes rather steadily upon his
friend&rsquo;s face.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What were you doing by the fire before you came
here?&rdquo; he asked, pausing, in a casual tone, as he lit a
cigarette and handed the case to his patient.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I? Let me see. Oh, I know; I was worrying my
way through poor old Ebor&rsquo;s papers and things. I&rsquo;m his
executor, you know. Then I got weary and came out for
a whiff of air.&rdquo; He spoke lightly and with perfect naturalness.
Obviously he was telling the truth. &ldquo;I prefer specimens
to papers,&rdquo; he laughed cheerily.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know, I know,&rdquo; said Dr. Stephen, holding a lighted
match for the cigarette. His face wore an expression of
content. The experiment had been a complete success.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
The memory of the last two hours was wiped out utterly.
Laidlaw was already chatting gaily and easily about a
dozen other things that interested him. Together they
went out into the street, and at his door Dr. Stephen left
him with a joke and a wry face that made his friend laugh
heartily.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t dine on the professor&rsquo;s old papers by mistake,&rdquo;
he cried, as he vanished down the street.</p>

<p>Dr. Laidlaw went up to his study at the top of the
house. Half way down he met his housekeeper, Mrs.
Fewings. She was flustered and excited, and her face was
very red and perspiring.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;ve been burglars here,&rdquo; she cried excitedly, &ldquo;or
something funny! All your things is just anyhow, sir. I
found everything all about everywhere!&rdquo; She was very
confused. In this orderly and very precise establishment
it was unusual to find a thing out of place.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, my specimens!&rdquo; cried the doctor, dashing up the
rest of the stairs at top speed. &ldquo;Have they been touched
or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He flew to the door of the laboratory. Mrs. Fewings
panted up heavily behind him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The labatry ain&rsquo;t been touched,&rdquo; she explained, breathlessly,
&ldquo;but they smashed the libry clock and they&rsquo;ve &rsquo;ung
your gold watch, sir, on the skelinton&rsquo;s hands. And the
books that weren&rsquo;t no value they flung out er the window
just like so much rubbish. They must have been wild
drunk, Dr. Laidlaw, sir!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The young scientist made a hurried examination of
the rooms. Nothing of value was missing. He began to
wonder what kind of burglars they were. He looked up
sharply at Mrs. Fewings standing in the doorway. For a
moment he seemed to cast about in his mind for something.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Odd,&rdquo; he said at length. &ldquo;I only left here an hour
ago and everything was all right then.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Was it, sir? Yes, sir.&rdquo; She glanced sharply at him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
Her room looked out upon the courtyard, and she must
have seen the books come crashing down, and also have
heard her master leave the house a few minutes later.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what&rsquo;s this rubbish the brutes have left?&rdquo; he
cried, taking up two slabs of worn gray stone, on the writing-table.
&ldquo;Bath brick, or something, I do declare.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He looked very sharply again at the confused and
troubled housekeeper.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Throw them on the dust heap, Mrs. Fewings, and&mdash;and
let me know if anything is missing in the house, and
I will notify the police this evening.&rdquo;</p>

<p>When she left the room he went into the laboratory
and took his watch off the skeleton&rsquo;s fingers. His face
wore a troubled expression, but after a moment&rsquo;s thought
it cleared again. His memory was a complete blank.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I suppose I left it on the writing-table when I went
out to take the air,&rdquo; he said. And there was no one present
to contradict him.</p>

<p>He crossed to the window and blew carelessly some
ashes of burned paper from the sill, and stood watching
them as they floated away lazily over the tops of the trees.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p>


<h2>XI<br />
<br />
THE EMPTY SLEEVE</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> Gilmer brothers were a couple of fussy and pernickety
old bachelors of a rather retiring, not to say
timid, disposition. There was grey in the pointed beard
of John, the elder, and if any hair had remained to William
it would also certainly have been of the same shade. They
had private means. Their main interest in life was the
collection of violins, for which they had the instinctive
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">flair</i> of true connoisseurs. Neither John nor William, however,
could play a single note. They could only pluck the
open strings. The production of tone, so necessary before
purchase, was done vicariously for them by another.</p>

<p>The only objection they had to the big building in
which they occupied the roomy top floor was that Morgan,
liftman and caretaker, insisted on wearing a billycock with
his uniform after six o&rsquo;clock in the evening, with a result
disastrous to the beauty of the universe. For &ldquo;Mr. Morgan,&rdquo;
as they called him between themselves, had a round
and pasty face on the top of a round and conical body. In
view, however, of the man&rsquo;s other rare qualities&mdash;including
his devotion to themselves&mdash;this objection was not
serious.</p>

<p>He had another peculiarity that amused them. On being
found fault with, he explained nothing, but merely
repeated the words of the complaint.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Water in the bath wasn&rsquo;t really hot this morning,
Morgan!&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;Water in the bath not reely &rsquo;ot, wasn&rsquo;t it, sir?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Or, from William, who was something of a faddist:</p>

<p>&ldquo;My jar of sour milk came up late yesterday, Morgan.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your jar sour milk come up late, sir, yesterday?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Since, however, the statement of a complaint invariably
resulted in its remedy, the brothers had learned to
look for no further explanation. Next morning the bath
<em>was</em> hot, the sour milk <em>was</em> &ldquo;brortup&rdquo; punctually. The
uniform and billycock hat, though, remained an eyesore
and source of oppression.</p>

<p>On this particular night John Gilmer, the elder, returning
from a Masonic rehearsal, stepped into the lift and
found Mr. Morgan with his hand ready on the iron rope.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Fog&rsquo;s very thick outside,&rdquo; said Mr. John pleasantly;
and the lift was a third of the way up before Morgan had
completed his customary repetition: &ldquo;Fog very thick outside,
yes, sir.&rdquo; And Gilmer then asked casually if his
brother were alone, and received the reply that Mr. Hyman
had called and had not yet gone away.</p>

<p>Now this Mr. Hyman was a Hebrew, and, like themselves,
a connoisseur in violins, but, unlike themselves,
who only kept their specimens to look at, he was a skilful
and exquisite player. He was the only person they ever
permitted to handle their pedigree instruments, to take
them from the glass cases where they reposed in silent
splendour, and to draw the sound out of their wondrous
painted hearts of golden varnish. The brothers loathed
to see his fingers touch them, yet loved to hear their singing
voices in the room, for the latter confirmed their
sound judgment as collectors, and made them certain their
money had been well spent. Hyman, however, made no
attempt to conceal his contempt and hatred for the mere
collector. The atmosphere of the room fairly pulsed with
these opposing forces of silent emotion when Hyman played
and the Gilmers, alternately writhing and admiring, listened.
The occasions, however, were not frequent. The
Hebrew only came by invitation, and both brothers made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
a point of being in. It was a very formal proceeding&mdash;something
of a sacred rite almost.</p>

<p>John Gilmer, therefore, was considerably surprised by
the information Morgan had supplied. For one thing,
Hyman, he had understood, was away on the Continent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Still in there, you say?&rdquo; he repeated, after a moment&rsquo;s
reflection.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Still in there, Mr. John, sir.&rdquo; Then, concealing his
surprise from the liftman, he fell back upon his usual mild
habit of complaining about the billycock hat and the uniform.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You really should try and remember, Morgan,&rdquo; he
said, though kindly. &ldquo;That hat does <em>not</em> go well with that
uniform!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Morgan&rsquo;s pasty countenance betrayed no vestige of expression.
&ldquo;&rsquo;At don&rsquo;t go well with the yewniform, sir,&rdquo;
he repeated, hanging up the disreputable bowler and replacing
it with a gold-braided cap from the peg. &ldquo;No, sir, it
don&rsquo;t, do it?&rdquo; he added cryptically, smiling at the transformation
thus effected.</p>

<p>And the lift then halted with an abrupt jerk at the
top floor. By somebody&rsquo;s carelessness the landing was in
darkness, and, to make things worse, Morgan, clumsily
pulling the iron rope, happened to knock the billycock from
its peg so that his sleeve, as he stooped to catch it, struck
the switch and plunged the scene in a moment&rsquo;s complete
obscurity.</p>

<p>And it was then, in the act of stepping out before the
light was turned on again, that John Gilmer stumbled
against something that shot along the landing past the
open door. First he thought it must be a child, then a
man, then&mdash;an animal. Its movement was rapid yet
stealthy. Starting backwards instinctively to allow it room
to pass, Gilmer collided in the darkness with Morgan, and
Morgan incontinently screamed. There was a moment of
stupid confusion. The heavy framework of the lift shook
a little, as though something had stepped into it and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
as quickly jumped out again. A rushing sound followed
that resembled footsteps, yet at the same time was more
like gliding&mdash;someone in soft slippers or stockinged feet,
greatly hurrying. Then came silence again. Morgan
sprang to the landing and turned up the electric light.
Mr. Gilmer, at the same moment, did likewise to the
switch in the lift. Light flooded the scene. Nothing was
visible.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dog or cat, or something, I suppose, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; exclaimed
Gilmer, following the man out and looking round
with bewildered amazement upon a deserted landing. He
knew quite well, even while he spoke, that the words were
foolish.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dog or cat, yes, sir, or&mdash;something,&rdquo; echoed Morgan,
his eyes narrowed to pin-points, then growing large, but his
face stolid.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The light should have been on.&rdquo; Mr. Gilmer spoke
with a touch of severity. The little occurrence had curiously
disturbed his equanimity. He felt annoyed, upset,
uneasy.</p>

<p>For a perceptible pause the liftman made no reply,
and his employer, looking up, saw that, besides being flustered,
he was white about the jaws. His voice, when he
spoke, was without its normal assurance. This time he
did not merely repeat. He explained.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The light <em>was</em> on, sir, when last <em>I</em> come up!&rdquo; he said,
with emphasis, obviously speaking the truth. &ldquo;Only a
moment ago,&rdquo; he added.</p>

<p>Mr. Gilmer, for some reason, felt disinclined to press
for explanations. He decided to ignore the matter.</p>

<p>Then the lift plunged down again into the depths like
a diving-bell into water; and John Gilmer, pausing a
moment first to reflect, let himself in softly with his latch-key,
and, after hanging up hat and coat in the hall, entered
the big sitting-room he and his brother shared in common.</p>

<p>The December fog that covered London like a dirty
blanket had penetrated, he saw, into the room. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
objects in it were half shrouded in the familiar yellowish
haze.</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>In dressing-gown and slippers, William Gilmer, almost
invisible in his armchair by the gas-stove across the room,
spoke at once. Through the thick atmosphere his face
gleamed, showing an extinguished pipe hanging from his
lips. His tone of voice conveyed emotion, an emotion
he sought to suppress, of a quality, however, not easy to
define.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hyman&rsquo;s been here,&rdquo; he announced abruptly. &ldquo;You
must have met him. He&rsquo;s this very instant gone out.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was quite easy to see that something had happened,
for &ldquo;scenes&rdquo; leave disturbance behind them in the atmosphere.
But John made no immediate reference to this. He
replied that he had seen no one&mdash;which was strictly true&mdash;and
his brother thereupon, sitting bolt upright in the
chair, turned quickly and faced him. His skin, in the
foggy air, seemed paler than before.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s odd,&rdquo; he said nervously.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s odd?&rdquo; asked John.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That you didn&rsquo;t see&mdash;anything. You ought to have
run into one another on the doorstep.&rdquo; His eyes went
peering about the room. He was distinctly ill at ease.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re positive you saw no one? Did Morgan take him
down before you came? Did Morgan see him?&rdquo; He
asked several questions at once.</p>

<p>&ldquo;On the contrary, Morgan told me he was still here
with you. Hyman probably walked down, and didn&rsquo;t take
the lift at all,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;That accounts for neither of
us seeing him.&rdquo; He decided to say nothing about the
occurrence in the lift, for his brother&rsquo;s nerves, he saw
plainly, were on edge.</p>

<p>William then stood up out of his chair, and the skin
of his face changed its hue, for whereas a moment ago it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
was merely pale, it had now altered to a tint that lay somewhere
between white and a livid grey. The man was
fighting internal terror. For a moment these two brothers
of middle age looked each other straight in the eye. Then
John spoke:</p>

<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s wrong, Billy?&rdquo; he asked quietly. &ldquo;Something&rsquo;s
upset you. What brought Hyman in this way&mdash;unexpectedly?
I thought he was still in Germany.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The brothers, affectionate and sympathetic, understood
one another perfectly. They had no secrets. Yet for
several minutes the younger one made no reply. It seemed
difficult to choose his words apparently.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hyman played, I suppose&mdash;on the fiddles?&rdquo; John
helped him, wondering uneasily what was coming. He
did not care much for the individual in question, though
his talent was of such great use to them.</p>

<p>The other nodded in the affirmative, then plunged into
rapid speech, talking under his breath as though he feared
someone might overhear. Glancing over his shoulder down
the foggy room, he drew his brother close.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hyman came,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;unexpectedly. He hadn&rsquo;t
written, and I hadn&rsquo;t asked him. You hadn&rsquo;t either, I
suppose?&rdquo;</p>

<p>John shook his head.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When I came in from the dining-room I found him
in the passage. The servant was taking away the dishes,
and he had let himself in while the front door was ajar.
Pretty cool, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;s an original,&rdquo; said John, shrugging his
shoulders. &ldquo;And you welcomed him?&rdquo; he asked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I asked him in, of course. He explained he had
something glorious for me to hear. Silenski had played
it in the afternoon, and he had bought the music since.
But Silenski&rsquo;s &lsquo;Strad&rsquo; hadn&rsquo;t the power&mdash;it&rsquo;s thin on the
upper strings, you remember, unequal, patchy&mdash;and he
said no instrument in the world could do it justice but our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
&lsquo;Joseph&rsquo;-the small Guarnerius, you know, which he swears
is the most perfect in the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what was it? Did he play it?&rdquo; asked John,
growing more uneasy as he grew more interested. With
relief he glanced round and saw the matchless little instrument
lying there safe and sound in its glass case near the
door.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He played it&mdash;divinely: a Zigeuner Lullaby, a fine,
passionate, rushing bit of inspiration, oddly misnamed
&lsquo;lullaby.&rsquo; And, fancy, the fellow had memorized it already!
He walked about the room on tiptoe while he played it,
complaining of the light&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Complaining of the light?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Said the thing was crepuscular, and needed dusk for
its full effect. I turned the lights out one by one, till
finally there was only the glow of the gas logs. He
insisted. You know that way he has with him? And
then he got over me in another matter: insisted on using
some special strings he had brought with him, and put
them on, too, himself&mdash;thicker than the A and E <em>we</em> use.&rdquo;</p>

<p>For though neither Gilmer could produce a note, it
was their pride that they kept their precious instruments in
perfect condition for playing, choosing the exact thickness
and quality of strings that suited the temperament of each
violin; and the little Guarnerius in question always &ldquo;sang&rdquo;
best, they held, with thin strings.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Infernal insolence,&rdquo; exclaimed the listening brother,
wondering what was coming next. &ldquo;Played it well,
though, didn&rsquo;t he, this Lullaby thing?&rdquo; he added, seeing
that William hesitated. As he spoke he went nearer, sitting
down close beside him in a leather chair.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Magnificent! Pure fire of genius!&rdquo; was the reply
with enthusiasm, the voice at the same time dropping
lower. &ldquo;Staccato like a silver hammer; harmonics like
flutes, clear, soft, ringing; and the tone&mdash;well, the G string
was a baritone, and the upper registers creamy and mellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
as a boy&rsquo;s voice. John,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;that Guarnerius
is the very pick of the period and&rdquo;&mdash;again he hesitated&mdash;&ldquo;Hyman
loves it. He&rsquo;d give his soul to have it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The more John heard, the more uncomfortable it made
him. He had always disliked this gifted Hebrew, for in
his secret heart he knew that he had always feared and
distrusted him. Sometimes he had felt half afraid of him;
the man&rsquo;s very forcible personality was too insistent to be
pleasant. His type was of the dark and sinister kind, and
he possessed a violent will that rarely failed of accomplishing
its desire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wish I&rsquo;d heard the fellow play,&rdquo; he said at length,
ignoring his brother&rsquo;s last remark, and going on to speak
of the most matter-of-fact details he could think of. &ldquo;Did
he use the Dodd bow, or the Tourte? That Dodd I picked
up last month, you know, is the most perfectly balanced I
have ever&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He stopped abruptly, for William had suddenly got
upon his feet and was standing there, searching the room
with his eyes. A chill ran down John&rsquo;s spine as he watched
him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is it, Billy?&rdquo; he asked sharply. &ldquo;Hear anything?&rdquo;</p>

<p>William continued to peer about him through the thick
air.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, nothing, probably,&rdquo; he said, an odd catch in his
voice; &ldquo;only&mdash;&mdash; I keep feeling as if there was somebody
listening. Do you think, perhaps&rdquo;&mdash;he glanced over
his shoulder&mdash;&ldquo;there is someone at the door? I wish&mdash;I
wish you&rsquo;d have a look, John.&rdquo;</p>

<p>John obeyed, though without great eagerness. Crossing
the room slowly, he opened the door, then switched on
the light. The passage leading past the bathroom towards
the bedrooms beyond was empty. The coats hung
motionless from their pegs.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No one, of course,&rdquo; he said, as he closed the door
and came back to the stove. He left the light burning in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
the passage. It was curious the way both brothers had
this impression that they were not alone, though only
one of them spoke of it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Used the Dodd or the Tourte, Billy&mdash;which?&rdquo; continued
John in the most natural voice he could assume.</p>

<p>But at that very same instant the water started to his
eyes. His brother, he saw, was close upon the thing he
really had to tell. But he had stuck fast.</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>By a great effort John Gilmer composed himself and
remained in his chair. With detailed elaboration he lit a
cigarette, staring hard at his brother over the flaring match
while he did so. There he sat in his dressing-gown and
slippers by the fireplace, eyes downcast, fingers playing
idly with the red tassel. The electric light cast heavy
shadows across the face. In a flash then, since emotion
may sometimes express itself in attitude even better than
in speech, the elder brother understood that Billy was
about to tell him an unutterable thing.</p>

<p>By instinct he moved over to his side so that the same
view of the room confronted him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Out with it, old man,&rdquo; he said, with an effort to be
natural. &ldquo;Tell me what you saw.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Billy shuffled slowly round and the two sat side by
side, facing the fog-draped chamber.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was like this,&rdquo; he began softly, &ldquo;only I was standing
instead of sitting, looking over to that door as you and
I do now. Hyman moved to and fro in the faint glow
of the gas logs against the far wall, playing that &lsquo;crepuscular&rsquo;
thing in his most inspired sort of way, so that
the music seemed to issue from himself rather than from
the shining bit of wood under his chin, when&mdash;I noticed
something coming over me that was&rdquo;&mdash;he hesitated, searching
for words&mdash;&ldquo;that wasn&rsquo;t <em>all</em> due to the music,&rdquo; he finished
abruptly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;His personality put a bit of hypnotism on you, eh?&rdquo;</p>

<p>William shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The air was thickish with fog and the light was dim,
cast upwards upon him from the stove,&rdquo; he continued.
&ldquo;I admit all that. But there wasn&rsquo;t light enough to throw
shadows, you see, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hyman looked queer?&rdquo; the other helped him quickly.</p>

<p>Billy nodded his head without turning.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Changed there before my very eyes&rdquo;&mdash;he whispered
it&mdash;&ldquo;turned animal&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Animal?&rdquo; John felt his hair rising.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the only way I can put it. His face and hands
and body turned otherwise than usual. I lost the sound
of his feet. When the bow-hand or the fingers on the
strings passed into the light, they were&rdquo;&mdash;he uttered a
soft, shuddering little laugh&mdash;&ldquo;furry, oddly divided, the
fingers massed together. And he paced stealthily. I
thought every instant the fiddle would drop with a crash
and he would spring at me across the room.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My dear chap&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He moved with those big, lithe, striding steps one
sees&rdquo;&mdash;John held his breath in the little pause, listening
keenly&mdash;&ldquo;one sees those big brutes make in the cages when
their desire is aflame for food or escape, or&mdash;or fierce, passionate
desire for anything they want with their whole
nature&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The big felines!&rdquo; John whistled softly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And every minute getting nearer and nearer to the
door, as though he meant to make a sudden rush for it
and get out.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;With the violin! Of course you stopped him?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;In the end. But for a long time, I swear to you, I
found it difficult to know what to do, even to move. I
couldn&rsquo;t get my voice for words of any kind; it was like
a spell.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It <em>was</em> a spell,&rdquo; suggested John firmly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then, as he moved, still playing,&rdquo; continued the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
other, &ldquo;he seemed to grow smaller; to shrink down below
the line of the gas. I thought I should lose sight of him
altogether. I turned the light up suddenly. There he
was over by the door&mdash;crouching.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Playing on his knees, you mean?&rdquo;</p>

<p>William closed his eyes in an effort to visualize it
again.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Crouching,&rdquo; he repeated, at length, &ldquo;close to the floor.
At least, I think so. It all happened so quickly, and I
felt so bewildered, it was hard to see straight. But at
first I could have sworn he was half his natural size. I
called to him, I think I swore at him&mdash;I forget exactly,
but I know he straightened up at once and stood before me
down there in the light&rdquo;&mdash;he pointed across the room to
the door&mdash;&ldquo;eyes gleaming, face white as chalk, perspiring
like midsummer, and gradually filling out, straightening
up, whatever you like to call it, to his natural size and appearance
again. It was the most horrid thing I&rsquo;ve ever
seen.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;As an&mdash;animal, you saw him still?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No; human again. Only much smaller.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What did he say?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Billy reflected a moment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing that I can remember,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;You
see, it was all over in a few seconds. In the full light, I
felt so foolish, and nonplussed at first. To see him normal
again baffled me. And, before I could collect myself, he
had let himself out into the passage, and I heard the front
door slam. A minute later&mdash;the same second almost, it
seemed&mdash;you came in. I only remember grabbing the violin
and getting it back safely under the glass case. The
strings were still vibrating.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The account was over. John asked no further questions.
Nor did he say a single word about the lift, Morgan,
or the extinguished light on the landing. There fell
a longish silence between the two men; and then, while
they helped themselves to a generous supply of whisky-and-soda<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
before going to bed, John looked up and spoke:</p>

<p>&ldquo;If you agree, Billy,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;I think I might
write and suggest to Hyman that we shall no longer have
need for his services.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And Billy, acquiescing, added a sentence that expressed
something of the singular dread lying but half concealed
in the atmosphere of the room, if not in their minds as
well:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Putting it, however, in a way that need not offend
him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of course. There&rsquo;s no need to be rude, is there?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Accordingly, next morning the letter was written; and
John, saying nothing to his brother, took it round himself
by hand to the Hebrew&rsquo;s rooms near Euston. The answer
he dreaded was forthcoming:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mr. Hyman&rsquo;s still away abroad,&rdquo; he was told. &ldquo;But
we&rsquo;re forwarding letters; yes. Or I can give you &rsquo;is
address if you&rsquo;ll prefer it.&rdquo; The letter went, therefore,
to the number in Königstrasse, Munich, thus obtained.</p>

<p>Then, on his way back from the insurance company
where he went to increase the sum that protected the small
Guarnerius from loss by fire, accident, or theft, John
Gilmer called at the offices of certain musical agents and
ascertained that Silenski, the violinist, was performing at
the time in Munich. It was only some days later, though,
by diligent inquiry, he made certain that at a concert on
a certain date the famous virtuoso had played a Zigeuner
Lullaby of his own composition&mdash;the very date, it turned
out, on which he himself had been to the Masonic rehearsal
at Mark Masons&rsquo; Hall.</p>

<p>John, however, said nothing of these discoveries to
his brother William.</p>


<h3>4</h3>

<p>It was about a week later when a reply to the letter
came from Munich&mdash;a letter couched in somewhat offensive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
terms, though it contained neither words nor phrases that
could actually be found fault with. Isidore Hyman was
hurt and angry. On his return to London a month or so
later, he proposed to call and talk the matter over. The
offensive part of the letter lay, perhaps, in his definite
assumption that he could persuade the brothers to resume
the old relations. John, however, wrote a brief reply to
the effect that they had decided to buy no new fiddles;
their collection being complete, there would be no occasion
for them to invite his services as a performer. This
was final. No answer came, and the matter seemed to
drop. Never for one moment, though, did it leave the
consciousness of John Gilmer. Hyman had said that he
would come, and come assuredly he would. He secretly
gave Morgan instructions that he and his brother for the
future were always &ldquo;out&rdquo; when the Hebrew presented himself.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He must have gone back to Germany, you see, almost
at once after his visit here that night,&rdquo; observed William&mdash;John,
however, making no reply.</p>

<p>One night towards the middle of January the two
brothers came home together from a concert in Queen&rsquo;s
Hall, and sat up later than usual in their sitting-room
discussing over their whisky and tobacco the merits of the
pieces and performers. It must have been past one o&rsquo;clock
when they turned out the lights in the passage and retired
to bed. The air was still and frosty; moonlight over the
roofs&mdash;one of those sharp and dry winter nights that now
seem to visit London rarely.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Like the old-fashioned days when we were boys,&rdquo; remarked
William, pausing a moment by the passage window
and looking out across the miles of silvery, sparkling
roofs.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; added John; &ldquo;the ponds freezing hard in the
fields, rime on the nursery windows, and the sound of a
horse&rsquo;s hoofs coming down the road in the distance, eh?&rdquo;
They smiled at the memory, then said good night, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
separated. Their rooms were at opposite ends of the corridor;
in between were the bathroom, dining-room, and
sitting-room. It was a long, straggling flat. Half an hour
later both brothers were sound asleep, the flat silent, only
a dull murmur rising from the great city outside, and the
moon sinking slowly to the level of the chimneys.</p>

<p>Perhaps two hours passed, perhaps three, when John
Gilmer, sitting up in bed with a start, wide-awake and
frightened, knew that someone was moving about in one
of the three rooms that lay between him and his brother.
He had absolutely no idea why he should have been frightened,
for there was no dream or nightmare-memory that
he brought over from unconsciousness, and yet he realized
plainly that the fear he felt was by no means a foolish and
unreasoning fear. It had a cause and a reason. Also&mdash;which
made it worse&mdash;it was fully warranted. Something
in his sleep, forgotten in the instant of waking, had happened
that set every nerve in his body on the watch. He
was positive only of two things&mdash;first, that it was the
entrance of this person, moving so quietly there in the
flat, that sent the chills down his spine; and, secondly,
that this person was <em>not</em> his brother William.</p>

<p>John Gilmer was a timid man. The sight of a burglar,
his eyes black-masked, suddenly confronting him in the
passage, would most likely have deprived him of all power
of decision&mdash;until the burglar had either shot him or
escaped. But on this occasion some instinct told him that
it was no burglar, and that the acute distress he experienced
was not due to any message of ordinary physical
fear. The thing that had gained access to his flat while
he slept had first come&mdash;he felt sure of it&mdash;into his room,
and had passed very close to his own bed, before going on.
It had then doubtless gone to his brother&rsquo;s room, visiting
them both stealthily to make sure they slept. And its
mere passage through his room had been enough to wake
him and set these drops of cold perspiration upon his skin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
For it was&mdash;he felt it in every fibre of his body&mdash;something
hostile.</p>

<p>The thought that it might at that very moment be in
the room of his brother, however, brought him to his feet
on the cold floor, and set him moving with all the determination
he could summon towards the door. He looked
cautiously down an utterly dark passage; then crept on
tiptoe along it. On the wall were old-fashioned weapons
that had belonged to his father; and feeling a curved,
sheathless sword that had come from some Turkish campaign
of years gone by, his fingers closed tightly round
it, and lifted it silently from the three hooks whereon it
lay. He passed the doors of the bathroom and dining-room,
making instinctively for the big sitting-room where
the violins were kept in their glass cases. The cold nipped
him. His eyes smarted with the effort to see in the darkness.
Outside the closed door he hesitated.</p>

<p>Putting his ear to the crack, he listened. From within
came a faint sound of someone moving. The same instant
there rose the sharp, delicate &ldquo;ping&rdquo; of a violin-string
being plucked; and John Gilmer, with nerves that shook
like the vibrations of that very string, opened the door
wide with a fling and turned on the light at the same
moment. The plucked string still echoed faintly in the
air.</p>

<p>The sensation that met him on the threshold was the
well-known one that things had been going on in the
room which his unexpected arrival had that instant put a
stop to. A second earlier and he would have discovered
it all in the act. The atmosphere still held the feeling
of rushing, silent movement with which the things had
raced back to their normal, motionless positions. The
immobility of the furniture was a mere attitude hurriedly
assumed, and the moment his back was turned the whole
business, whatever it might be, would begin again. With
this presentment of the room, however&mdash;a purely imaginative
one&mdash;came another, swiftly on its heels.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p>

<p>For one of the objects, less swift than the rest, had not
quite regained its &ldquo;attitude&rdquo; of repose. It still moved.
Below the window curtains on the right, not far from the
shelf that bore the violins in their glass cases, he made it
out, slowly gliding along the floor. Then, even as his eye
caught it, it came to rest.</p>

<p>And, while the cold perspiration broke out all over
him afresh, he knew that this still moving item was the
cause both of his waking and of his terror. This was
the disturbance whose presence he had divined in the flat
without actual hearing, and whose passage through his
room, while he yet slept, had touched every nerve in his
body as with ice. Clutching his Turkish sword tightly,
he drew back with the utmost caution against the wall
and watched, for the singular impression came to him
that the movement was not that of a human being crouching,
but rather of something that pertained to the animal
world. He remembered, flash-like, the movements of reptiles,
the stealth of the larger felines, the undulating glide
of great snakes. For the moment, however, it did not
move, and they faced one another.</p>

<p>The other side of the room was but dimly lighted,
and the noise he made clicking up another electric lamp
brought the thing flying forward again&mdash;towards himself.
At such a moment it seemed absurd to think of so small
a detail, but he remembered his bare feet, and, genuinely
frightened, he leaped upon a chair and swished with his
sword through the air about him. From this better point
of view, with the increased light to aid him, he then saw
two things&mdash;first, that the glass case usually covering the
Guarnerius violin had been shifted; and, secondly, that
the moving object was slowly elongating itself into an upright
position. Semi-erect, yet most oddly, too, like a
creature on its hind legs, it was coming swiftly towards
him. It was making for the door&mdash;and escape.</p>

<p>The confusion of ghostly fear was somehow upon him
so that he was too bewildered to see clearly, but he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
sufficient self-control, it seemed, to recover a certain power
of action; for the moment the advancing figure was near
enough for him to strike, that curved scimitar flashed
and whirred about him, with such misdirected violence,
however, that he not only failed to strike it even once,
but at the same time lost his balance and fell forward from
the chair whereon he perched&mdash;straight into it.</p>

<p>And then came the most curious thing of all, for as
he dropped, the figure also dropped, stooped low down,
crouched, dwindled amazingly in size, and rushed past him
close to the ground like an animal on all fours. John
Gilmer screamed, for he could no longer contain himself.
Stumbling over the chair as he turned to follow, cutting
and slashing wildly with his sword, he saw halfway down
the darkened corridor beyond the scuttling outline of, apparently,
an enormous&mdash;cat!</p>

<p>The door into the outer landing was somehow ajar, and
the next second the beast was out, but not before the steel
had fallen with a crashing blow upon the front disappearing
leg, almost severing it from the body.</p>

<p>It was dreadful. Turning up the lights as he went, he
ran after it to the outer landing. But the thing he followed
was already well away, and he heard, on the floor
below him, the same oddly gliding, slithering, stealthy
sound, yet hurrying, that he had heard weeks before when
something had passed him in the lift and Morgan, in his
terror, had likewise cried aloud.</p>

<p>For a time he stood there on that dark landing, listening,
thinking, trembling; then turned into the flat and shut
the door. In the sitting-room he carefully replaced the
glass case over the treasured violin, puzzled to the point of
foolishness, and strangely routed in his mind. For the
violin itself, he saw, had been dragged several inches from
its cushioned bed of plush.</p>

<p>Next morning, however, he made no allusion to the
occurrence of the night. His brother apparently had not
been disturbed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p>


<h3>5</h3>

<p>The only thing that called for explanation&mdash;an explanation
not fully forthcoming&mdash;was the curious aspect of Mr.
Morgan&rsquo;s countenance. The fact that this individual gave
notice to the owners of the building, and at the end of the
month left for a new post, was, of course, known to both
brothers; whereas the story he told in explanation of his
face was known only to the one who questioned him about
it&mdash;John. And John, for reasons best known to himself,
did not pass it on to the other. Also, for reasons best
known to himself, he did not cross-question the liftman
about those singular marks, or report the matter to the
police.</p>

<p>Mr. Morgan&rsquo;s pasty visage was badly scratched, and
there were red lines running from the cheek into the neck
that had the appearance of having been produced by sharp
points viciously applied&mdash;claws. He had been disturbed
by a noise in the hall, he said, about three in the morning,
a scuffle had ensued in the darkness, but the intruder had
got clear away....</p>

<p>&ldquo;A cat or something of the kind, no doubt,&rdquo; suggested
John Gilmer at the end of the brief recital. And Morgan
replied in his usual way: &ldquo;A cat, or something of the kind,
Mr. John, no doubt.&rdquo;</p>

<p>All the same, he had not cared to risk a second encounter,
but had departed to wear his billycock and uniform
in a building less haunted.</p>

<p>Hyman, meanwhile, made no attempt to call and talk
over his dismissal. The reason for this was only apparent,
however, several months later when, quite by chance, coming
along Piccadilly in an omnibus, the brothers found
themselves seated opposite to a man with a thick black
beard and blue glasses. William Gilmer hastily rang the
bell and got out, saying something half intelligible about
feeling faint. John followed him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;Did you see who it was?&rdquo; he whispered to his brother
the moment they were safely on the pavement.</p>

<p>John nodded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hyman, in spectacles. He&rsquo;s grown a beard, too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, but did you also notice&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He had an empty sleeve.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;An empty sleeve?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said William; &ldquo;he&rsquo;s lost an arm.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a long pause before John spoke. At the
door of their club the elder brother added:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Poor devil! He&rsquo;ll never again play on&rdquo;&mdash;then, suddenly
changing the preposition&mdash;&ldquo;<em>with</em> a pedigree violin!&rdquo;</p>

<p>And that night in the flat, after William had gone to
bed, he looked up a curious old volume he had once picked
up on a second-hand bookstall, and read therein quaint
descriptions of how the &ldquo;desire-body of a violent man&rdquo;
may assume animal shape, operate on concrete matter even
at a distance; and, further, how a wound inflicted thereon
can reproduce itself upon its physical counterpart by means
of the mysterious so-called phenomenon of &ldquo;re-percussion.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p>


<h2>XII<br />
<br />
WIRELESS CONFUSION</h2>


<p>&ldquo;Good night, Uncle,&rdquo; whispered the child, as she
climbed on to his knee and gave him a resounding
kiss. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time for me to disappop into bed&mdash;at least, so
mother says.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Disappop, then,&rdquo; he replied, returning her kiss,
&ldquo;although I doubt....&rdquo;</p>

<p>He hesitated. He remembered the word was her father&rsquo;s
invention, descriptive of the way rabbits pop into their
holes and disappear, and the way <em>good</em> children should
leave the room the instant bed-time was announced. The
father&mdash;his twin brother&mdash;seemed to enter the room and
stand beside them. &ldquo;Then give me another kiss, and disappop!&rdquo;
he said quickly. The child obeyed the first part
of his injunction, but had not obeyed the second when the
queer thing happened. She had not left his knee; he was
still holding her at the full stretch of both arms; he was
staring into her laughing eyes, when she suddenly went
far away into an extraordinary distance. She retired.
Minute, tiny, but still in perfect proportion and clear as
before, she was withdrawn in space till she was small as a
doll. He saw his own hands holding her, and they too were
minute. Down this long corridor of space, as it were, he
saw her diminutive figure.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Uncle!&rdquo; she cried, yet her voice was loud as before,
&ldquo;but what a funny face! You&rsquo;re pretending you&rsquo;ve seen a
ghost&rdquo;&mdash;and she was gone from his knee and from the
room, the door closing quietly behind her. He saw her
cross the floor, a tiny figure. Then, just as she reached the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
door, she became of normal size again, as if she crossed
a line.</p>

<p>He felt dizzy. The loud voice close to his ear issuing
from a diminutive figure half a mile away had a distressing
effect upon him. He knew a curious qualm as he sat
there in the dark. He heard the wind walking round the
house, trying the doors and windows. He was troubled
by a memory he could not seize.</p>

<p>Yet the emotion instantly resolved itself into one of personal
anxiety: something had gone wrong with his eyes.
Sight, his most precious possession as an artist, was of
course affected. He was conscious of a little trembling in
him, as he at once began trying his sight at various objects&mdash;his
hands, the high ceiling, the trees dim in the twilight
on the lawn outside. He opened a book and read half a
dozen lines, at changing distances; finally he stared carefully
at the second hand of his watch. &ldquo;Right as a trivet!&rdquo;
he exclaimed aloud. He emitted a long sigh; he was immensely
relieved. &ldquo;Nothing wrong with my eyes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He thought about the actual occurrence a great deal&mdash;he
felt as puzzled as any other normal person must have
felt. While he held the child actually in his arms, gripping
her with both hands, he had seen her suddenly half a
mile away. &ldquo;Half a mile!&rdquo; he repeated under his breath,
&ldquo;why it was even more, it was easily a mile.&rdquo; It had been
exactly as though he suddenly looked at her down the
wrong end of a powerful telescope. It had really happened;
he could not explain it; there was no more to be
said.</p>

<p>This was the first time it happened to him.</p>

<p>At the theatre, a week later, when the phenomenon was
repeated, the stage he was watching fixedly at the moment
went far away, as though he saw it from a long way off.
The distance, so far as he could judge, was the same as
before, about a mile. It was an Eastern scene, realistically
costumed and produced, that without an instant&rsquo;s warning
withdrew. The entire stage went with it, although he did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
not actually see it go. He did not see movement, that is.
It was suddenly remote, while yet the actors&rsquo; voices, the
orchestra, the general hubbub retained their normal
volume. He experienced again the distressing dizziness;
he closed his eyes, covering them with his hand, then rubbing
the eyeballs slightly; and when he looked up the next
minute, the world was as it should be, as it had been, at
any rate. Unwilling to experience a repetition of the
thing in a public place, however, and fortunately being
alone, he left the theatre at the end of the act.</p>

<p>Twice this happened to him, once with an individual,
his brother&rsquo;s child, and once with a landscape, an Eastern
stage scene. Both occurrences were within the week, during
which time he had been considering a visit to the
oculist, though without putting his decision into execution.
He was the kind of man that dreaded doctors, dentists,
oculists, always postponing, always finding reasons for
delay. He found reasons now, the chief among them being
an unwelcome one&mdash;that it was perhaps a brain specialist,
rather than an oculist, he ought to consult. This particular
notion hung unpleasantly about his mind, when, the
day after the theatre visit, the thing recurred, but with a
startling difference.</p>

<p>While idly watching a blue-bottle fly that climbed the
window-pane with remorseless industry, only to slip down
again at the very instant when escape into the open air
was within its reach, the fly grew abruptly into gigantic
proportions, became blurred and indistinct as it did so,
covered the entire pane with its furry, dark, ugly mass,
and frightened him so that he stepped back with a cry
and nearly lost his balance altogether. He collapsed into
a chair. He listened with closed eyes. The metallic buzzing
was audible, a small, exasperating sound, ordinarily
unable to stir any emotion beyond a mild annoyance. Yet
it was terrible; that so huge an insect should make so faint
a sound seemed to him terrible.</p>

<p>At length he cautiously opened his eyes. The fly was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
of normal size once more. He hastily flicked it out of the
window.</p>

<p>An hour later he was talking with the famous oculist in
Harley Street ... about the advisability of starting reading-glasses.
He found it difficult to relate the rest. A
curious shyness restrained him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your optic nerves might belong to a man of twenty,&rdquo;
was the verdict. &ldquo;Both are perfect. But at your age it
is wise to save the sight as much as possible. There is a
slight astigmatism....&rdquo; And a prescription for the
glasses was written out. It was only when paying the fee,
and as a means of drawing attention from the awkward
moment, that his story found expression. It seemed to
come out in spite of himself. He made light of it even
then, telling it without conviction. It seemed foolish suddenly
as he told it. &ldquo;How very odd,&rdquo; observed the oculist
vaguely, &ldquo;dear me, yes, curious indeed. But that&rsquo;s nothing.
H&rsquo;m, h&rsquo;m!&rdquo; Either it was no concern of his, or he
deemed it negligible.... His only other confidant was a
friend of psychological tendencies who was interested and
eager to explain. It is on the instant plausible explanation
of anything and everything that the reputation of such
folk depends; this one was true to type: &ldquo;A spontaneous
invention, my dear fellow&mdash;a pictorial rendering of your
thought. You are a painter, aren&rsquo;t you? Well, this is
merely a rendering in picture-form of&rdquo;&mdash;he paused for
effect, the other hung upon his words&mdash;&ldquo;of the odd expression
&lsquo;disappop.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; exclaimed the painter.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You see everything pictorially, of course, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes&mdash;as a rule.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There you have it. Your painter&rsquo;s psychology saw the
child &lsquo;disappopping.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the fly?&rdquo; but the fly was easily explained, since
it was merely the process reversed. &ldquo;Once a process has
established itself in your mind, you see, it may act in either
direction. When a madman says &lsquo;I&rsquo;m afraid Smith will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
do me an injury,&rsquo; it means, &lsquo;I will do an injury to Smith,&rsquo;&rdquo;
And he repeated with finality, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The explanations were not very satisfactory, the illustration
even tactless, but then the problem had not been
stated quite fully. Neither to the oculist nor to the other
had <em>all</em> the facts been given. The same shyness had been a
restraining influence in both cases; a detail had been
omitted, and this detail was that he connected the occurrences
somehow with his brother whom the war had taken.</p>

<p>The phenomenon made one more appearance&mdash;the last&mdash;before
its character, its field of action rather, altered.
He was reading a book when the print became now large,
now small; it blurred, grew remote and tiny, then so huge
that a single word, a letter even, filled the whole page. He
felt as if someone were playing optical tricks with the
mechanism of his eyes, trying first one, then another focus.</p>

<p>More curious still, the meaning of the words themselves
became uncertain; he did not understand them any more;
the sentences lost their meaning, as though he read a
strange language, or a language little known. The flash
came then&mdash;someone was using his eyes&mdash;someone else was
looking through them.</p>

<p>No, it was not his brother. The idea was preposterous
in any case. Yet he shivered again, as when he heard the
walking wind, for an uncanny conviction came over him
that it was someone who did not understand eyes but was
manipulating their mechanism experimentally. With the
conviction came also this: that, while not his brother, it
was someone connected with his brother.</p>

<p>Here, moreover, was an explanation of sorts, for if the
supernatural existed&mdash;he had never troubled his head about
it&mdash;he could accept this odd business as a manifestation,
and leave it at that. He did so, and his mind was eased.
This was his attitude: &ldquo;The supernatural <em>may</em> exist. Why
not? We cannot know. But we can watch.&rdquo; His eyes and
brain, at any rate, were proved in good condition.</p>

<p>He watched. No change of focus, no magnifying or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
diminishing, came again. For some weeks he noticed nothing
unusual of any kind, except that his mind often filled
now with Eastern pictures. Their sudden irruption caught
his attention, but no more than that; they were sometimes
blurred and sometimes vivid; he had never been in the
East; he attributed them to his constant thinking of his
brother, missing in Mesopotamia these six months. Photographs
in magazines and newspapers explained the rest.
Yet the persistence of the pictures puzzled him: tents beneath
hot cloudless skies, palms, a stretch of desert, dry
watercourses, camels, a mosque, a minaret&mdash;typical
snatches of this kind flashed into his mind with a sense of
faint familiarity often. He knew, again, the return of a
fugitive memory he could not seize.... He kept a note of
the dates, all of them subsequent to the day he read his
brother&rsquo;s fate in the official Roll of Honour: &ldquo;Believed
missing; now killed.&rdquo; Only when the original phenomenon
returned, but in its altered form, did he stop the practice.
The change then affected his life too fundamentally to
trouble about mere dates and pictures.</p>

<p>For the phenomenon, shifting its field of action, abruptly
became mental, and the singular change of focus took
place now in his mind. Events magnified or contracted
themselves out of all relation with their intrinsic values,
sense of proportion went hopelessly astray. Love, hate and
fear experienced sudden intensification, or abrupt dwindling
into nothing; the familiar everyday emotions, commonplace
daily acts, suffered exaggerated enlargement, or
reduction into insignificance, that threatened the stability
of his personality. Fortunately, as stated, they were of
brief duration; to examine them in detail were to touch
the painful absurdities of incipient mania almost; that a
lost collar stud could block his exasperated mind for hours,
filling an entire day with emotion, while a deep affection
of long standing could ebb towards complete collapse suddenly
without apparent cause...!</p>

<p>It was the unexpected suddenness of Turkey&rsquo;s spectacular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
defeat that closed the painful symptoms. The
Armistice saw them go. He knew a quick relief he was
unable to explain. The telegram that his brother was alive
and safe came <em>after</em> his recovery of mental balance. It was
a shock. But the phenomena had ceased before the shock.</p>

<p>It was in the light of his brother&rsquo;s story that he reviewed
the puzzling phenomena described. The story was
not more curious than many another, perhaps, yet the details
were queer enough. That a wounded Turk to whom
he gave water should have remembered gratitude was likely
enough, for all travellers know that these men are kindly
gentlemen at times; but that this Mohammedan peasant
should have been later a member of a prisoner&rsquo;s escort and
have provided the means of escape and concealment&mdash;weeks
in a dry watercourse and months in a hut outside
the town&mdash;seemed an incredible stroke of good fortune.
&ldquo;He brought me food and water three times a week. I
had no money to give him, so I gave him my Zeiss glasses.
I taught him a bit of English too. But he liked the glasses
best. He was never tired of playing with &rsquo;em&mdash;making big
and little, as he called it. He learned precious little English....&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My pair, weren&rsquo;t they?&rdquo; interrupted his brother. &ldquo;My
old climbing glasses.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your present to me when I went out, yes. So really
you helped me to save my life. I told the old Turk that.
I was always thinking about you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the Turk?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No doubt.... Through <em>my</em> mind, that is. At any
rate, he asked a lot of questions about you. I showed him
your photo. He died, poor chap&mdash;at least they told me
so. Probably they shot him.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>


<h2>XIII<br />
<br />
CONFESSION</h2>


<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> fog swirled slowly round him, driven by a heavy
movement of its own, for of course there was no wind.
It hung in poisonous thick coils and loops; it rose and
sank; no light penetrated it directly from street lamp or
motor-car, though here and there some big shop-window
shed a glimmering patch upon its ever-shifting curtain.</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly&rsquo;s eyes ached and smarted with the incessant
effort to see a foot beyond his face. The optic nerve grew
tired, and sight, accordingly, less accurate. He coughed
as he shuffled forward cautiously through the choking
gloom. Only the stifled rumble of crawling traffic persuaded
him he was in a crowded city at all&mdash;this, and the
vague outlines of groping figures, hugely magnified, emerging
suddenly and disappearing again, as they fumbled
along inch by inch towards uncertain destinations.</p>

<p>The figures, however were human beings; they were
real. That much he knew. He heard their muffled voices,
now close, now distant, strangely smothered always. He
also heard the tapping of innumerable sticks, feeling for
iron railings or the kerb. These phantom outlines represented
living people. He was not alone.</p>

<p>It was the dread of finding himself <em>quite</em> alone that
haunted him, for he was still unable to cross an open
space without assistance. He had the physical strength,
it was the mind that failed him. Midway the panic terror
might descend upon him, he would shake all over, his
will dissolve, he would shriek for help, run wildly&mdash;into
the traffic probably&mdash;or, as they called it in his North<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
Ontario home, &ldquo;throw a fit&rdquo; in the street before advancing
wheels. He was not yet entirely cured, although under
ordinary conditions he was safe enough, as Dr. Henry had
assured him.</p>

<p>When he left Regent&rsquo;s Park by Tube an hour ago the
air was clear, the November sun shone brightly, the pale
blue sky was cloudless, and the assumption that he could
manage the journey across London Town alone was justified.
The following day he was to leave for Brighton for
the week of final convalescence: this little preliminary test
of his powers on a bright November afternoon was all to
the good. Doctor Henry furnished minute instructions:
&ldquo;You change at Piccadilly Circus&mdash;without leaving the
underground station, mind&mdash;and get out at South Kensington.
You know the address of your V.A.D. friend. Have
your cup of tea with her, then come back the same way to
Regent&rsquo;s Park. Come back before dark&mdash;say six o&rsquo;clock
at latest. It&rsquo;s better.&rdquo; He had described exactly what
turns to take after leaving the station, so many to the
right, so many to the left; it was a little confusing, but the
distance was short. &ldquo;You can always ask. You can&rsquo;t possibly
go wrong.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The unexpected fog, however, now blurred these instructions
in a confused jumble in his mind. The failure
of outer sight reacted upon memory. The V.A.D. besides
had warned him her address was &ldquo;not easy to find the
first time. The house lies in a backwater. But with your
&lsquo;backwoods&rsquo; instincts you&rsquo;ll probably manage it better than
any Londoner!&rdquo; She, too, had not calculated upon the fog.</p>

<p>When O&rsquo;Reilly came up the stairs at South Kensington
Station, he emerged into such murky darkness that he
thought he was still underground. An impenetrable
world lay round him. Only a raw bite in the damp atmosphere
told him he stood beneath an open sky. For some
little time he stood and stared&mdash;a Canadian soldier, his
home among clear brilliant spaces, now face to face for the
first time in his life with that thing he had so often read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
about&mdash;a bad London fog. With keenest interest and surprise
he &ldquo;enjoyed&rdquo; the novel spectacle for perhaps ten
minutes, watching the people arrive and vanish, and wondering
why the station lights stopped dead the instant they
touched the street&mdash;then, with a sense of adventure&mdash;it cost
an effort&mdash;he left the covered building and plunged into
the opaque sea beyond.</p>

<p>Repeating to himself the directions he had received&mdash;first
to the right, second to the left, once more to the left,
and so forth&mdash;he checked each turn, assuring himself it
was impossible to go wrong. He made correct if slow
progress, until someone blundered into him with an abrupt
and startling question: &ldquo;Is this right, do you know, for
South Kensington Station?&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was the suddenness that startled him; one moment
there was no one, the next they were face to face, another,
and the stranger had vanished into the gloom with a
courteous word of grateful thanks. But the little shock
of interruption had put memory out of gear. Had he
already turned twice to the right, or had he not?
O&rsquo;Reilly realized sharply he had forgotten his memorized
instructions. He stood still, making strenuous efforts at
recovery, but each effort left him more uncertain than
before. Five minutes later he was lost as hopelessly as
any townsman who leaves his tent in the backwoods without
blazing the trees to ensure finding his way back again.
Even the sense of direction, so strong in him among his
native forests, was completely gone. There were no stars,
there was no wind, no smell, no sound of running water.
There was nothing anywhere to guide him, nothing but
occasional dim outlines, groping, shuffling, emerging and
disappearing in the eddying fog, but rarely coming within
actual speaking, much less touching, distance. He was lost
utterly; more, he was alone.</p>

<p>Yet not <em>quite</em> alone&mdash;the thing he dreaded most. There
were figures still in his immediate neighborhood. They
emerged, vanished, reappeared, dissolved. No, he was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
quite alone. He saw these thickenings of the fog, he
heard their voices, the tapping of their cautious sticks,
their shuffling feet as well. They were real. They moved,
it seemed, about him in a circle, never coming very close.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But they&rsquo;re real,&rdquo; he said to himself aloud, betraying
the weak point in his armour. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re human beings
right enough. I&rsquo;m positive of that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He had never argued with Dr. Henry&mdash;he wanted to
get well; he had obeyed implicitly, believing everything
the doctor told him&mdash;up to a point. But he had always
had his own idea about these &ldquo;figures,&rdquo; because, among
them, were often enough his own pals from the Somme,
Gallipoli, the Mespot horror, too. And he ought to know
his own pals when he saw them! At the same time he
knew quite well he had been &ldquo;shocked,&rdquo; his being dislocated;
half dissolved as it were, his system pushed into
some lopsided condition that meant inaccurate registration.
True. He grasped that perfectly. But, in that
shock and dislocation, had he not possibly picked up
another gear? Were there not gaps and broken edges,
pieces that no longer dovetailed, fitted as usual, interstices,
in a word? Yes, that was the word&mdash;interstices. Cracks,
so to speak, between his perception of the outside world
and his inner interpretation of these? Between memory
and recognition? Between the various states of consciousness
that usually dovetailed so neatly that the joints were
normally imperceptible?</p>

<p>His state, he well knew, was abnormal, but were his
symptoms on that account unreal? Could not these &ldquo;interstices&rdquo;
be used by&mdash;others? When he saw his &ldquo;figures,&rdquo;
he used to ask himself: &ldquo;Are not these the real ones, and
the others&mdash;the human beings&mdash;unreal?&rdquo;</p>

<p>This question now revived in him with a new intensity.
Were these figures in the fog real or unreal? The man
who had asked the way to the station, was he not, after
all, a shadow merely?</p>

<p>By the use of his cane and foot and what of sight was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
left to him he knew that he was on an island. A lamppost
stood up solid and straight beside him, shedding its
faint patch of glimmering light. Yet there were railings,
however, that puzzled him, for his stick hit the metal rods
distinctly in a series. And there should be no railings
round an island. Yet he had most certainly crossed a
dreadful open space to get where he was. His confusion
and bewilderment increased with dangerous rapidity.
Panic was not far away.</p>

<p>He was no longer on an omnibus route. A rare taxi
crawled past occasionally, a whitish patch at the window
indicating an anxious human face; now and again came
a van or cart, the driver holding a lantern as he led the
stumbling horse. These comforted him, rare though they
were. But it was the figures that drew his attention most.
He was quite sure they were real. They were human
beings like himself.</p>

<p>For all that, he decided he might as well be positive
on the point. He tried one accordingly&mdash;a big man who
rose suddenly before him out of the very earth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Can you give me the trail to Morley Place?&rdquo; he
asked.</p>

<p>But his question was drowned by the other&rsquo;s simultaneous
inquiry in a voice much louder than his own.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I say, is this right for the Tube station, d&rsquo;you know?
I&rsquo;m utterly lost. I want South Ken.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And by the time O&rsquo;Reilly had pointed the direction
whence he himself had just come, the man was gone
again, obliterated, swallowed up, not so much as his footsteps
audible, almost as if&mdash;it seemed again&mdash;he never had
been there at all.</p>

<p>This left an acute unpleasantness in him, a sense of
bewilderment greater than before. He waited five minutes,
not daring to move a step, then tried another figure,
a woman this time who, luckily, knew the immediate
neighbourhood intimately. She gave him elaborate instructions
in the kindest possible way, then vanished with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
incredible swiftness and ease into the sea of gloom beyond.
The instantaneous way she vanished was disheartening,
upsetting; it was so uncannily abrupt and sudden.
Yet she comforted him. Morley Place, according to her
version, was not two hundred yards from where he stood.
He felt his way forward, step by step, using his cane, crossing
a giddy open space kicking the kerb with each boot
alternately, coughing and choking all the time as he did so.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They were real, I guess, anyway,&rdquo; he said aloud.
&ldquo;They were both real enough all right. And it may lift a
bit soon!&rdquo; He was making a great effort to hold himself
in hand. He was already fighting, that is. He realized
this perfectly. The only point was&mdash;the reality of the
figures. &ldquo;It may lift now any minute,&rdquo; he repeated
louder. In spite of the cold, his skin was sweating profusely.</p>

<p>But, of course, it did not lift. The figures, too, became
fewer. No carts were audible. He had followed the
woman&rsquo;s directions carefully, but now found himself in
some by-way, evidently, where pedestrians at the best of
times were rare. There was dull silence all about him.
His foot lost the kerb, his cane swept the empty air,
striking nothing solid, and panic rose upon him with its
shuddering, icy grip. He was alone, he knew himself
alone, worse still&mdash;he was in another open space.</p>

<p>It took him fifteen minutes to cross that open space,
most of the way upon his hands and knees, oblivious of
the icy slime that stained his trousers, froze his fingers,
intent only upon feeling solid support against his back
and spine again. It was an endless period. The moment
of collapse was close, the shriek already rising in his throat,
the shaking of the whole body uncontrollable, when&mdash;his
outstretched fingers struck a friendly kerb, and he saw
a glimmering patch of diffused radiance overhead. With a
great, quick effort he stood upright, and an instant later
his stick rattled along an area railing. He leaned against
it, breathless, panting, his heart beating painfully while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
the street lamp gave him the further comfort of its feeble
gleam, the actual flame, however, invisible. He looked this
way and that; the pavement was deserted. He was engulfed
in the dark silence of the fog.</p>

<p>But Morley Place, he knew, must be very close by
now. He thought of the friendly little V.A.D. he had
known in France, of a warm bright fire, a cup of tea and
a cigarette. One more effort, he reflected, and all these
would be his. He pluckily groped his way forward again,
crawling slowly by the area railings. If things got really
bad again, he would ring a bell and ask for help, much
as he shrank from the idea. Provided he had no more
open spaces to cross, provided he saw no more figures
emerging and vanishing like creatures born of the fog and
dwelling within it as within their native element&mdash;it was
the figures he now dreaded more than anything else, more
even than the loneliness&mdash;provided the panic sense&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>A faint darkening of the fog beneath the next lamp
caught his eye and made him start. He stopped. It was
not a figure this time, it was the shadow of the pole
grotesquely magnified. No, it moved. It moved towards
him. A flame of fire followed by ice flowed through him.
It was a figure&mdash;close against his face. It was a woman.</p>

<p>The doctor&rsquo;s advice came suddenly back to him, the
counsel that had cured him of a hundred phantoms:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do not ignore them. Treat them as real. Speak and
go with them. You will soon prove their unreality then.
And they will leave you....&rdquo;</p>

<p>He made a brave, tremendous effort. He was shaking.
One hand clutched the damp and icy area railing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lost your way like myself, haven&rsquo;t you, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; he
said in a voice that trembled. &ldquo;Do you know where we
are at all? Morley Place <em>I</em>&rsquo;m looking for&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>He stopped dead. The woman moved nearer and for
the first time he saw her face clearly. Its ghastly pallor,
the bright, frightened eyes that stared with a kind of
dazed bewilderment into his own, the beauty above all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
arrested his speech midway. The woman was young, her
tall figure wrapped in a dark fur coat.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Can I help you?&rdquo; he asked impulsively, forgetting his
own terror for the moment. He was more than startled.
Her air of distress and pain stirred a peculiar anguish in
him. For a moment she made no answer, thrusting her
white face closer as if examining him, so close, indeed,
that he controlled with difficulty his instinct to shrink back
a little.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where am I?&rdquo; she asked at length, searching his eyes
intently. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m lost&mdash;I&rsquo;ve lost myself. I can&rsquo;t find my
way back.&rdquo; Her voice was low, a curious wailing in it
that touched his pity oddly. He felt his own distress
merging in one that was greater.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Same here,&rdquo; he replied more confidently. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m terrified
of being alone, too. I&rsquo;ve had shell-shock, you know.
Let&rsquo;s go together. We&rsquo;ll find a way together&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who are you!&rdquo; the woman murmured, still staring
at him with her big bright eyes, their distress, however,
no whit lessened. She gazed at him as though aware suddenly
of his presence.</p>

<p>He told her briefly. &ldquo;And I&rsquo;m going to tea with a
V.A.D. friend in Morley Place. What&rsquo;s your address? Do
you know the name of the street?&rdquo;</p>

<p>She appeared not to hear him, or not to understand
exactly; it was as if she was not listening again.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I came out so suddenly, so unexpectedly,&rdquo; he heard
the low voice with pain in every syllable; &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t find my
home again. Just when I was expecting him too&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
She looked about her with a distraught expression that
made O&rsquo;Reilly long to carry her in his arms to safety
then and there. &ldquo;He may be there now&mdash;waiting for
me at this very moment&mdash;and I can&rsquo;t get back.&rdquo; And
so sad was her voice that only by an effort did O&rsquo;Reilly
prevent himself putting out his hand to touch her. More
and more he forgot himself in his desire to help her. Her
beauty, the wonder of her strange bright eyes in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
pallid face, made an immense appeal. He became calmer.
This woman was real enough. He asked again the address,
the street and number, the distance she thought it was.
&ldquo;Have you any idea of the direction, ma&rsquo;am, any idea at
all? We&rsquo;ll go together and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>She suddenly cut him short. She turned her head as
if to listen, so that he saw her profile a moment, the outline
of the slender neck, a glimpse of jewels just below the fur.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Hark! I hear him calling! I remember...!&rdquo;
And she was gone from his side into the swirling fog.</p>

<p>Without an instant&rsquo;s hesitation O&rsquo;Reilly followed her,
not only because he wished to help, but because he dared
not be left alone. The presence of this strange, lost woman
comforted him; he must not lose sight of her, whatever
happened. He had to run, she went so rapidly, ever
just in front, moving with confidence and certainty, turning
right and left, crossing the street, but never stopping,
never hesitating, her companion always at her heels in
breathless haste, and with a growing terror that he might
lose her any minute. The way she found her direction
through the dense fog was marvellous enough, but
O&rsquo;Reilly&rsquo;s only thought was to keep her in sight, lest
his own panic redescend upon him with its inevitable collapse
in the dark and lonely street. It was a wild and
panting pursuit, and he kept her in view with difficulty,
a dim fleeting outline always a few yards ahead of him.
She did not once turn her head, she uttered no sound, no
cry; she hurried forward with unfaltering instinct. Nor
did the chase occur to him once as singular; she was his
safety, and that was all he realized.</p>

<p>One thing, however, he remembered afterwards, though
at the actual time he no more than registered the detail,
paying no attention to it&mdash;a definite perfume she left upon
the atmosphere, one, moreover, that he knew, although he
could not find its name as he ran. It was associated
vaguely, for him, with something unpleasant, something
disagreeable. He connected it with misery and pain. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
gave him a feeling of uneasiness. More than that he did
not notice at the moment, nor could he remember&mdash;he
certainly did not try&mdash;where he had known this particular
scent before.</p>

<p>Then suddenly the woman stopped, opened a gate and
passed into a small private garden&mdash;so suddenly that
O&rsquo;Reilly, close upon her heels, only just avoided tumbling
into her. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve found it?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;May I come in
a moment with you? Perhaps you&rsquo;ll let me telephone to
the doctor.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She turned instantly. Her face close against his own,
was livid.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Doctor!&rdquo; she repeated in an awful whisper. The word
meant terror to her. O&rsquo;Reilly stood amazed. For a second
or two neither of them moved. The woman seemed petrified.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dr. Henry, you know,&rdquo; he stammered, finding his
tongue again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in his care. He&rsquo;s in Harley Street.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Her face cleared as suddenly as it had darkened, though
the original expression of bewilderment and pain still
hung in her great eyes. But the terror left them, as
though she suddenly forgot some association that had revived
it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My home,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;My home is somewhere
here. I&rsquo;m near it. I must get back&mdash;in time&mdash;for him.
I must. He&rsquo;s coming to me.&rdquo; And with these extraordinary
words she turned, walked up the narrow path, and
stood upon the porch of a two-storey house before her
companion had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently
to move or utter a syllable in reply. The front door, he
saw, was ajar. It had been left open.</p>

<p>For five seconds, perhaps for ten, he hesitated; it was
the fear that the door would close and shut him out that
brought the decision to his will and muscles. He ran up
the steps and followed the woman into a dark hall where
she had already preceded him, and amid whose blackness
she now had finally vanished. He closed the door, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
knowing exactly why he did so, and knew at once by an
instinctive feeling that the house he now found himself in
with this unknown woman was empty and unoccupied. In
a house, however, he felt safe. It was the open streets
that were his danger. He stood waiting, listening a moment
before he spoke; and he heard the woman moving
down the passage from door to door, repeating to herself
in her low voice of unhappy wailing some words he could
not understand:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where is it? Oh, where is it? I must get back....&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly then found himself abruptly stricken with
dumbness, as though, with these strange words, a haunting
terror came up and breathed against him in the darkness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is she after all a figure?&rdquo; ran in letters of fire across
his numbed brain. &ldquo;Is she unreal&mdash;or real?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Seeking relief in action of some kind, he put out a
hand automatically, feeling along the wall for an electric
switch, and though he found it by some miraculous chance,
no answering glow responded to the click.</p>

<p>And the woman&rsquo;s voice from the darkness: &ldquo;Ah! Ah!
At last I&rsquo;ve found it. I&rsquo;m home again&mdash;at last...!&rdquo; He
heard a door open and close upstairs. He was on the
ground-floor now&mdash;alone. Complete silence followed.</p>

<p>In the conflict of various emotions&mdash;fear for himself
lest his panic should return, fear for the woman who had
led him into this empty house and now deserted him upon
some mysterious errand of her own that made him think
of madness&mdash;in this conflict that held him a moment spell-bound,
there was a yet bigger ingredient demanding
instant explanation, but an explanation that he could not
find. Was the woman real or was she unreal? Was she
a human being or a &ldquo;figure&rdquo;? The horror of doubt obsessed
him with an acute uneasiness that betrayed itself
in a return of that unwelcome inner trembling he knew
was dangerous.</p>

<p>What saved him from a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">crise</i> that must have had most
dangerous results for his mind and nervous system generally,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
seems to have been the outstanding fact that he
felt more for the woman than for himself. His sympathy
and pity had been deeply moved; her voice, her beauty,
her anguish and bewilderment, all uncommon, inexplicable,
mysterious, formed together a claim that drove self
into the background. Added to this was the detail that
she had left him, gone to another floor without a word,
and now, behind a closed door in a room upstairs, found
herself face to face at last with the unknown object of
her frantic search&mdash;with &ldquo;it,&rdquo; whatever &ldquo;it&rdquo; might be. Real
or unreal, figure or human being, the overmastering impulse
of his being was that he must go to her.</p>

<p>It was this clear impulse that gave him decision and
energy to do what he then did. He struck a match, he
found a stump of candle, he made his way by means
of this flickering light along the passage and up the
carpetless stairs. He moved cautiously, stealthily,
though not knowing why he did so. The house, he now
saw, was indeed untenanted; dust-sheets covered the piled-up
furniture; he glimpsed through doors ajar, pictures
were screened upon the walls, brackets draped to look like
hooded heads. He went on slowly, steadily, moving on
tiptoe as though conscious of being watched, noting the
well of darkness in the hall below, the grotesque shadows
that his movements cast on walls and ceiling. The silence
was unpleasant, yet, remembering that the woman was
&ldquo;expecting&rdquo; someone, he did not wish it broken. He
reached the landing and stood still. Closed doors on both
sides of a corridor met his sight, as he shaded the candle
to examine the scene. Behind which of these doors, he
asked himself, was the woman, figure or human being,
now alone with &ldquo;it&rdquo;?</p>

<p>There was nothing to guide him, but an instinct that
he must not delay sent him forward again upon his search.
He tried a door on the right&mdash;an empty room, with the
furniture hidden by dust-sheets, and the mattress rolled
up on the bed. He tried a second door, leaving the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
one open behind him, and it was, similarly, an empty bedroom.
Coming out into the corridor again he stood a
moment waiting, then called aloud in a low voice that yet
woke echoes unpleasantly in the hall below: &ldquo;Where are
you? I want to help&mdash;which room are you in?&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was no answer; he was almost glad he heard
no sound, for he knew quite well that he was waiting really
for another sound&mdash;the steps of him who was &ldquo;expected.&rdquo;
And the idea of meeting with this unknown third sent
a shudder through him, as though related to an interview
he dreaded with his whole heart, and must at all costs
avoid. Waiting another moment or two, he noted that his
candle-stump was burning low, then crossed the landing
with a feeling, at once of hesitation and determination,
towards a door opposite to him. He opened it; he did not
halt on the threshold. Holding the candle at arm&rsquo;s length,
he went boldly in.</p>

<p>And instantly his nostrils told him he was right at last,
for a whiff of the strange perfume, though this time much
stronger than before, greeted him, sending a new quiver
along his nerves. He knew now why it was associated with
unpleasantness, with pain, with misery, for he recognized
it&mdash;the odour of a hospital. In this room a powerful
anæsthetic had been used&mdash;and recently.</p>

<p>Simultaneously with smell, sight brought its message
too. On the large double bed behind the door on his right
lay, to his amazement, the woman in the dark fur coat.
He saw the jewels on the slender neck; but the eyes he
did not see, for they were closed&mdash;closed, too, he grasped at
once, in death. The body lay stretched at full length,
quite motionless. He approached. A dark thin streak
that came from the parted lips and passed downwards over
the chin, losing itself then in the fur collar, was a trickle
of blood. It was hardly dry. It glistened.</p>

<p>Strange it was perhaps that, while imaginary fears had
the power to paralyse him, mind and body, this sight of
something real had the effect of restoring confidence. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
sight of blood and death, amid conditions often ghastly
and even monstrous, was no new thing to him. He went
up quietly, and with steady hand he felt the woman&rsquo;s cheek,
the warmth of recent life still in its softness. The final cold
had not yet mastered this empty form whose beauty, in its
perfect stillness, had taken on the new strange sweetness
of an unearthly bloom. Pallid, silent, untenanted, it lay
before him, lit by the flicker of his guttering candle. He
lifted the fur coat to feel for the unbeating heart. A
couple of hours ago at most, he judged, this heart was
working busily, the breath came through those parted lips,
the eyes were shining in full beauty. His hand encountered
a hard knob&mdash;the head of a long steel hat-pin driven
through the heart up to its hilt.</p>

<p>He knew then which was the figure&mdash;which was the
real and which the unreal. He knew also what had been
meant by &ldquo;it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But before he could think or reflect what action he
must take, before he could straighten himself even from
his bent position over the body on the bed, there sounded
through the empty house below the loud clang of the front
door being closed. And instantly rushed over him that
other fear he had so long forgotten&mdash;fear for himself.
The panic of his own shaken nerves descended with irresistible
onslaught. He turned, extinguishing the candle
in the violent trembling of his hand, and tore headlong
from the room.</p>

<p>The following ten minutes seemed a nightmare in
which he was not master of himself and knew not exactly
what he did. All he realized was that steps already
sounded on the stairs, coming quickly nearer. The flicker
of an electric torch played on the banisters, whose shadows
ran swiftly sideways along the wall as the hand that held
the light ascended. He thought in a frenzied second of
police, of his presence in the house, of the murdered
woman. It was a sinister combination. Whatever happened,
he must escape without being so much as even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
seen. His heart raced madly. He darted across the landing
into the room opposite, whose door he had luckily left
open. And by some incredible chance, apparently, he was
neither seen nor heard by the man who, a moment later,
reached the landing, entered the room where the body of
the woman lay, and closed the door carefully behind him.</p>

<p>Shaking, scarcely daring to breathe lest his breath be
audible, O&rsquo;Reilly, in the grip of his own personal terror,
remnant of his uncured shock of war, had no thought of
what duty might demand or not demand of him. He
thought only of himself. He realized one clear issue&mdash;that
he must get out of the house without being heard or
seen. Who the new-comer was he did not know, beyond an
uncanny assurance that it was <em>not</em> him whom the woman
had &ldquo;expected,&rdquo; but the murderer himself, and that it was
the murderer, in his turn, who was expecting this third
person. In that room with death at his elbow, a death
he had himself brought about but an hour or two ago, the
murderer now hid in waiting for his second victim. And
the door was closed.</p>

<p>Yet any minute it might open again, cutting off retreat.</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly crept out, stole across the landing, reached
the head of the stairs, and began, with the utmost caution,
the perilous descent. Each time the bare boards creaked
beneath his weight, no matter how stealthily this weight
was adjusted, his heart missed a beat. He tested each step
before he pressed upon it, distributing as much of his
weight as he dared upon the banisters. It was a little
more than half-way down that, to his horror, his foot
caught in a projecting carpet tack; he slipped on the polished
wood, and only saved himself from falling headlong
by a wild clutch at the railing, making an uproar that
seemed to him like the explosion of a hand-grenade in
the forgotten trenches. His nerves gave way then, and
panic seized him. In the silence that followed the resounding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
echoes he heard the bedroom door opening on
the floor above.</p>

<p>Concealment was now useless. It was impossible, too.
He took the last flight of stairs in a series of leaps, four
steps at a time, reached the hall, flew across it, and opened
the front door, just as his pursuer, electric torch in hand,
covered half the stairs behind him. Slamming the door,
he plunged headlong into the welcome, all-obscuring fog
outside.</p>

<p>The fog had now no terrors for him, he welcomed its
concealing mantle; nor did it matter in which direction
he ran so long as he put distance between him and the
house of death. The pursuer had, of course, not followed
him into the street. He crossed open spaces without a
tremor. He ran in a circle nevertheless, though without
being aware he did so. No people were about, no single
groping shadow passed him; no boom of traffic reached
his ears, when he paused for breath at length against an
area railing. Then for the first time he made the discovery
that he had no hat. He remembered now. In examining
the body, partly out of respect, partly perhaps unconsciously,
he had taken it off and laid it&mdash;on the very bed.</p>

<p>It was there, a tell-tale bit of damning evidence, in the
house of death. And a series of probable consequences
flashed through his mind like lightning. It was a new
hat fortunately; more fortunate still, he had not yet written
name or initials in it; but the maker&rsquo;s mark was there
for all to read, and the police would go immediately to
the shop where he had bought it only two days before.
Would the shop-people remember his appearance? Would
his visit, the date, the conversation be recalled? He
thought it was unlikely; he resembled dozens of men; he
had no outstanding peculiarity. He tried to think, but
his mind was confused and troubled, his heart was beating
dreadfully, he felt desperately ill. He sought vainly for
some story to account for his being out in the fog and far
from home without a hat. No single idea presented itself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
He clung to the icy railings, hardly able to keep upright,
collapse very near&mdash;when suddenly a figure emerged from
the fog, paused a moment to stare at him, put out a hand
and caught him, and then spoke:</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re ill, my dear sir,&rdquo; said a man&rsquo;s kindly voice.
&ldquo;Can I be of any assistance? Come, let me help you.&rdquo; He
had seen at once that it was not a case of drunkenness.
&ldquo;Come, take my arm, won&rsquo;t you? I&rsquo;m a physician.
Luckily, too, you are just outside my very house. Come
in.&rdquo; And he half dragged, half pushed O&rsquo;Reilly, now bordering
on collapse, up the steps and opened the door with
his latch-key.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Felt ill suddenly&mdash;lost in the fog ... terrified, but
be all right soon, thanks awfully&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; the Canadian stammered
his gratitude, but already feeling better. He sank
into a chair in the hall, while the other put down a paper
parcel he had been carrying, and led him presently into a
comfortable room; a fire burned brightly; the electric
lamps were pleasantly shaded; a decanter of whisky and a
siphon stood on a small table beside a big arm-chair; and
before O&rsquo;Reilly could find another word to say the other
had poured him out a glass and bade him sip it slowly,
without troubling to talk till he felt better.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That will revive you. Better drink it slowly. You
should never have been out a night like this. If you&rsquo;ve
far to go, better let me put you up&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very kind, very kind, indeed,&rdquo; mumbled O&rsquo;Reilly, recovering
rapidly in the comfort of a presence he already
liked and felt even drawn to.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No trouble at all,&rdquo; returned the doctor. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been
at the front, you know. I can see what your trouble is&mdash;shell-shock,
I&rsquo;ll be bound.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Canadian, much impressed by the other&rsquo;s quick
diagnosis, noted also his tact and kindness. He had made
no reference to the absence of a hat, for instance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Quite true,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m with Dr. Henry, in Harley
Street,&rdquo; and he added a few words about his case. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
whisky worked its effect, he revived more and more, feeling
better every minute. The other handed him a cigarette;
they began to talk about his symptoms and recovery;
confidence returned in a measure, though he still felt badly
frightened. The doctor&rsquo;s manner and personality did
much to help, for there was strength and gentleness in the
face, though the features showed unusual determination,
softened occasionally by a sudden hint as of suffering in
the bright, compelling eyes. It was the face, thought
O&rsquo;Reilly, of a man who had seen much and probably been
through hell, but of a man who was simple, good, sincere.
Yet not a man to trifle with; behind his gentleness lay
something very stern. This effect of character and personality
woke the other&rsquo;s respect in addition to his gratitude.
His sympathy was stirred.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You encourage me to make another guess,&rdquo; the man
was saying, after a successful reading of the impromptu
patient&rsquo;s state, &ldquo;that you have had, namely, a severe shock
quite recently, and&rdquo;&mdash;he hesitated for the merest fraction
of a second&mdash;&ldquo;that it would be a relief to you,&rdquo; he went
on, the skilful suggestion in the voice unnoticed by his
companion, &ldquo;it would be wise as well, if you could unburden
yourself to&mdash;someone&mdash;who would understand.&rdquo;
He looked at O&rsquo;Reilly with a kindly and very pleasant
smile. &ldquo;Am I not right, perhaps?&rdquo; he asked in his gentle
tone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Someone who would understand,&rdquo; repeated the
Canadian. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s my trouble exactly. You&rsquo;ve hit it.
It&rsquo;s all so incredible.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The other smiled. &ldquo;The more incredible,&rdquo; he suggested,
&ldquo;the greater your need for expression. Suppression,
as you may know, is dangerous in cases like this.
You think you have hidden it, but it bides its time and
comes up later, causing a lot of trouble. Confession, you
know&rdquo;&mdash;he emphasized the word&mdash;&ldquo;confession is good for
the soul!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re dead right,&rdquo; agreed the other.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;Now if you can, bring yourself to tell it to someone
who will listen and believe&mdash;to myself, for instance. I
am a doctor, familiar with such things. I shall regard
all you say as a professional confidence, of course; and,
as we are strangers, my belief or disbelief is of no particular
consequence. I may tell you in advance of your story,
however&mdash;I think I can promise it&mdash;that I shall believe all
you have to say.&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly told his story without more ado, for the suggestion
of the skilled physician had found easy soil to
work in. During the recital his host&rsquo;s eyes never once
left his own. He moved no single muscle of his body. His
interest seemed intense.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A bit tall, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; said the Canadian, when his
tale was finished. &ldquo;And the question is&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he continued
with a threat of volubility which the other checked instantly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Strange, yes, but incredible, no,&rdquo; the doctor interrupted.
&ldquo;I see no reason to disbelieve a single detail of
what you have just told me. Things equally remarkable,
equally incredible, happen in all large towns, as I know
from personal experience. I could give you instances.&rdquo;
He paused a moment, but his companion, staring into his
eyes with interest and curiosity, made no comment.
&ldquo;Some years ago, in fact,&rdquo; continued the other, &ldquo;I knew
of a very similar case&mdash;strangely similar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Really! I should be immensely interested&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So similar that it seems almost a coincidence. <em>You</em>
may find it hard, in your turn, to credit it.&rdquo; He paused
again, while O&rsquo;Reilly sat forward in his chair to listen.
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; pursued the doctor slowly, &ldquo;I think everyone connected
with it is now dead. There is no reason why I
should not tell it, for one confidence deserves another, you
know. It happened during the Boer War&mdash;as long ago
as that,&rdquo; he added with emphasis. &ldquo;It is really a very
commonplace story in one way, though very dreadful in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
another, but a man who has served at the front will understand
and&mdash;I&rsquo;m sure&mdash;will sympathize.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure of that,&rdquo; offered the other readily.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A colleague of mine, now dead, as I mentioned&mdash;a
surgeon, with a big practice, married a young and charming
girl. They lived happily together for several years.
His wealth made her very comfortable. His consulting-room,
I must tell you, was some distance from his house&mdash;just
as this might be&mdash;so that she was never bothered
with any of his cases. Then came the war. Like many
others, though much over age, he volunteered. He gave
up his lucrative practice and went to South Africa. His
income, of course, stopped; the big house was closed; his
wife found her life of enjoyment considerably curtailed.
This she considered a great hardship, it seems. She felt
a bitter grievance against him. Devoid of imagination,
without any power of sacrifice, a selfish type, she was
yet a beautiful, attractive woman&mdash;and young. The inevitable
lover came upon the scene to console her. They
planned to run away together. He was rich. Japan they
thought would suit them. Only, by some ill luck, the
husband got wind of it and arrived in London just in the
nick of time.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well rid of her,&rdquo; put in O&rsquo;Reilly, &ldquo;<em>I</em> think.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The doctor waited a moment. He sipped his glass.
Then his eyes fixed upon his companion&rsquo;s face somewhat
sternly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well rid of her, yes,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;only he determined
to make that riddance final. He decided to kill
her&mdash;and her lover. You see, he loved her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly made no comment. In his own country this
method with a faithless woman was not unknown. His
interest was very concentrated. But he was thinking, too,
as he listened, thinking hard.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He planned the time and place with care,&rdquo; resumed
the other in a lower voice, as though he might possibly
be overheard. &ldquo;They met, he knew, in the big house, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
closed, the house where he and his young wife had passed
such happy years during their prosperity. The plan failed,
however, in an important detail&mdash;the woman came at the
appointed hour, but without her lover. She found death
waiting for her&mdash;it was a painless death. Then her lover,
who was to arrive half an hour later, did not come at all.
The door had been left open for him purposely. The
house was dark, its rooms shut up, deserted; there was
no caretaker even. It was a foggy night, just like this.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the other?&rdquo; asked O&rsquo;Reilly in a failing voice.
&ldquo;The lover&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A man did come in,&rdquo; the doctor went on calmly, &ldquo;but
it was not the lover. It was a stranger.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A stranger?&rdquo; the other whispered. &ldquo;And the surgeon&mdash;where
was he all this time?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Waiting outside to see him enter&mdash;concealed in the
fog. He saw the man go in. Five minutes later he
followed, meaning to complete his vengeance, his act of
justice, whatever you like to call it. But the man who
had come in was a stranger&mdash;he came in by chance&mdash;just
as you might have done&mdash;to shelter from the fog&mdash;or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly, though with a great effort, rose abruptly to
his feet. He had an appalling feeling that the man facing
him was mad. He had a keen desire to get outside, fog
or no fog, to leave this room, to escape from the calm
accents of this insistent voice. The effect of the whisky
was still in his blood. He felt no lack of confidence. But
words came to him with difficulty.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I think I&rsquo;d better be pushing off now, doctor,&rdquo; he
said clumsily. &ldquo;But I feel I must thank you very much
for all your kindness and help.&rdquo; He turned and looked
hard into the keen eyes facing him. &ldquo;Your friend,&rdquo; he
asked in a whisper, &ldquo;the surgeon&mdash;I hope&mdash;I mean, was
he ever caught?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; was the grave reply, the doctor standing up in
front of him, &ldquo;he was never caught.&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Reilly waited a moment before he made another remark.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said at length, but in a louder tone
than before, &ldquo;I think&mdash;I&rsquo;m glad.&rdquo; He went to the door
without shaking hands.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have no hat,&rdquo; mentioned the voice behind him.
&ldquo;If you&rsquo;ll wait a moment I&rsquo;ll get you one of mine. You
need not trouble to return it.&rdquo; And the doctor passed him,
going into the hall. There was a sound of tearing paper,
O&rsquo;Reilly left the house a moment later with a hat upon his
head, but it was not till he reached the Tube station half
an hour afterwards that he realized it was his own.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p>


<h2>XIV<br />
<br />
THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">The</span> curving strip of lane, fading into invisibility east
and west, had always symbolized life to her. In some
minds life pictures itself a straight line, uphill, downhill,
flat, as the case may be; in hers it had been, since childhood,
this sweep of country lane that ran past her cottage
door. In thick white summer dust, she invariably visualized
it, blue and yellow flowers along its untidy banks of
green. It flowed, it glided, sometimes it rushed. Without
a sound it ran along past the nut trees and the branches
where honeysuckle and wild roses shone. With every year
now its silent speed increased.</p>

<p>From either end she imagined, as a child, that she
looked over into outer space&mdash;from the eastern end into the
infinity before birth, from the western into the infinity
that follows death. It was to her of real importance.</p>

<p>From the veranda the entire stretch was visible, not
more than five hundred yards at most; from the platform
in her mind, whence she viewed existence, she saw her
own life, similarly, as a white curve of flowering lane,
arising she knew not whence, gliding whither she could not
tell. At eighteen she had paraphrased the quatrain with
a smile upon her red lips, her chin tilted, her strong grey
eyes rather wistful with yearning&mdash;</p>

<div class="centered"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Into this little lane, and why not knowing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And out again&mdash;like dust along the waste,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></div></div></div>

<p>At thirty she now repeated it, the smile still there,
but the lips not quite so red, the chin a trifle firmer, the
grey eyes stronger, clearer, but charged with a more wistful
and a deeper yearning.</p>

<p>It was her turn of mind, imaginative, introspective,
querulous perhaps, that made the bit of running lane significant.
Food with the butcher&rsquo;s and baker&rsquo;s carts came
to her from its eastern, its arriving end, as she called it;
news with the postman, adventure with rare callers. Youth,
hope, excitement, all these came from the sunrise. Thence
came likewise spring and summer, flowers, butterflies, the
swallows. The fairies, in her childhood, had come that
way too, their silver feet and gossamer wings brightening
the summer dawns; and it was but a year ago that Dick
Messenger, his car stirring a cloud of thick white dust, had
also come into her life from the space beyond the sunrise.</p>

<p>She sat thinking about him now&mdash;how he had suddenly
appeared out of nothing that warm June morning,
asked her permission about some engineering business on
the neighbouring big estate over the hill, given her a dog-rose
and a bit of fern-leaf, and eventually gone away with
her promise when he left. Out of the eastern end he
appeared; into the western end he vanished.</p>

<p>For there was this departing end as well, where the
lane curved out of sight into the space behind the yellow
sunset. In this direction went all that left her life. Her
parents, each in turn, had taken that way to the churchyard.
Spring, summer, the fading butterflies, the restless
swallows, all left her round that western curve. Later the
fairies followed them, her dreams one by one, the vanishing
years as well&mdash;and now her youth, swifter, ever swifter,
into the region where the sun dipped nightly among pale
rising stars, leaving her brief strip of life colder, more
and more unlit.</p>

<p>Just beyond this end she imagined shadows.</p>

<p>She saw Dick&rsquo;s car whirling towards her, whirling
away again, making for distant Mexico, where his treasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
lay. In the interval he had found that treasure and realized
it. He was now coming back again. He had landed
in England yesterday.</p>

<p>Seated in her deck-chair on the veranda, she watched
the sun sink to the level of the hazel trees. The last
swallows already flashed their dark wings against the fading
gold. Over that western end to-morrow or the next
day, amid a cloud of whirling white dust, would emerge,
again out of nothingness, the noisy car that brought Dick
Messenger back to her, back from the Mexican expedition
that ensured his great new riches, back into her heart and
life. In the other direction she would depart a week or so
later, her life in his keeping, and his in hers ... and the
feet of their children, in due course, would run up and
down the mysterious lane in search of flowers, butterflies,
excitement, in search of life.</p>

<p>She wondered ... and as the light faded her wondering
grew deeper. Questions that had lain dormant for
twelve months became audible suddenly. Would Dick be
satisfied with this humble cottage which meant so much
to her that she felt she could never, never leave it? Would
not his money, his new position, demand palaces elsewhere?
He was ambitious. Could his ambitions set an
altar of sacrifice to his love? And she&mdash;could she, on the
other hand, walk happy and satisfied along the western
curve, leaving her lane finally behind her, lost, untravelled,
forgotten? Could she face this sacrifice for him? Was
he, in a word, <em>the</em> man whose appearance out of the sunrise
she had been watching and waiting for all these hurrying,
swift years?</p>

<p>She wondered. Now that the decisive moment was so
near, unhappy doubts assailed her. Her wondering grew
deeper, spread, enveloped, penetrated her being like a
gathering darkness. And the sun sank lower, dusk crept
along the hedgerows, the flowers closed their little burning
eyes. Shadows passed hand in hand along the familiar
bend that was so short, so soon travelled over and left behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
that a mistake must ruin all its sweetest joy. To
wander down it with a companion to whom its flowers, its
butterflies, its shadows brought no full message, must turn
it chill, dark, lonely, colourless.... Her thoughts slipped
on thus into a soft inner reverie born of that scented
twilight hour of honeysuckle and wild roses, born too of
her deep self-questioning, of wonder, of yearning unsatisfied.</p>

<p>The lane, meanwhile, produced its customary few
figures, moving homewards through the dusk. She knew
them well, these familiar figures of the countryside, had
known them from childhood onwards&mdash;labourers, hedgers,
ditchers and the like, with whom now, even in her reverie,
she exchanged the usual friendly greetings across the
wicket-gate. This time, however, she gave but her mind
to them, her heart absorbed with its own personal and immediate
problem.</p>

<p>Melancey had come and gone; old Averill, carrying his
hedger&rsquo;s sickle-knife, had followed; and she was vaguely
looking for Hezekiah Purdy, bent with years and rheumatism,
his tea-pail always rattling, his shuffling feet making
a sorry dust, when the figure she did not quite recognize
came into view, emerging unexpectedly from the sunrise
end. Was it Purdy? Yes&mdash;no&mdash;yet, if not, who was it?
Of course it must be Purdy. Yet while the others, being
homeward bound, came naturally from west to east, with
this new figure it was otherwise, so that he was half-way
down the curve before she fully realized him. Out of the
eastern end the man drew nearer, a stranger therefore;
out of the unknown regions where the sun rose, and where
no shadows were, he moved towards her down the deserted
lane, perhaps a trespasser, an intruder possibly, but certainly
an unfamiliar figure.</p>

<p>Without particular attention or interest, she watched
him drift nearer down her little semi-private lane of
dream, passing leisurely from east to west, the mere fact
that he was there establishing an intimacy that remained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
at first unsuspected. It was her eye that watched him,
not her mind. What was he doing here, where going,
whither come, she wondered vaguely, the lane both his
background and his starting-point? A little by-way, after
all, this haunted lane. The real world, she knew, swept
down the big high-road beyond, unconscious of the humble
folk its unimportant tributary served. Suddenly the burden
of the years assailed her. Had she, then, missed life
by living here?</p>

<p>Then, with a little shock, her heart contracted as she
became aware of two eyes fixed upon her in the dusk.
The stranger had already reached the wicket-gate and now
stood leaning against it, staring at her over its spiked
wooden top. It was certainly not old Purdy. The blood
rushed back into her heart again as she returned the gaze.
He was watching her with a curious intentness, with an
odd sense of authority almost, with something that persuaded
her instantly of a definite purpose in his being
there. He was waiting for her&mdash;expecting her to come
down and speak with him, as she had spoken with the
others. Of this, her little habit, he made use, she felt.
Shyly, half-nervously, she left her deck-chair and went
slowly down the short gravel path between the flowers,
noticing meanwhile that his clothes were ragged, his hair
unkempt, his face worn and ravaged as by want and suffering,
yet that his eyes were curiously young. His eyes,
indeed, were full brown smiling eyes, and it was the surprise
of his youth that impressed her chiefly. That he
could be tramp or trespasser left her. She felt no fear.</p>

<p>She wished him &ldquo;Good evening&rdquo; in her calm, quiet
voice, adding with sympathy, &ldquo;And who are you, I wonder?
You want to ask me something?&rdquo; It flashed across
her that his shabby clothing was somehow a disguise. Over
his shoulder hung a faded sack. &ldquo;I can do something for
you?&rdquo; she pursued inquiringly, as was her kindly custom.
&ldquo;If you are hungry, thirsty, or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was the expression of vigour leaping into the deep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
eyes that stopped her. &ldquo;If you need clothes,&rdquo; she had
been going to add. She was not frightened, but suddenly
she paused, gripped by a wonder she could not understand.</p>

<p>And his first words justified her wonder. &ldquo;<em>I</em> have
something for you,&rdquo; he said, his voice faint, a kind of stillness
in it as though it came through distance. Also,
though this she did not notice, it was an educated voice,
and it was the absence of surprise that made this detail
too natural to claim attention. She had expected it.
&ldquo;Something to give you. I have brought it for you,&rdquo; the
man concluded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, aware, again without comprehension,
that her courage and her patience were both summoned
to support her. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she repeated more faintly,
as though this was all natural, inevitable, expected. She
saw that the sack was now lifted from his shoulder and
that his hand plunged into it, as it hung apparently loose
and empty against the gate. His eyes, however, never for
one instant left her own. Alarm, she was able to remind
herself, she did not feel. She only recognized that this
ragged figure laid something upon her spirit she could not
fathom, yet was compelled to face.</p>

<p>His next words startled her. She drew, if unconsciously,
upon her courage:</p>

<p>&ldquo;A dream.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The voice was deep, yet still with the faintness as of
distance in it. His hand, she saw, was moving slowly
from the empty sack. A strange attraction, mingled with
pity, with yearning too, stirred deeply in her. The face,
it seemed, turned soft, the eyes glowed with some inner
fire of feeling. Her heart now beat unevenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Something&mdash;to&mdash;sell to me,&rdquo; she faltered, aware that
his glowing eyes upon her made her tremble. The same
instant she was ashamed of the words, knowing they were
uttered by a portion of her that resisted, and this was
not the language he deserved.</p>

<p>He smiled, and she knew her resistance a vain make-believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
he pierced too easily, though he let it pass in
silence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There is, I mean, a price&mdash;for every dream,&rdquo; she
tried to save herself, conscious delightfully that her heart
was smiling in return.</p>

<p>The dusk enveloped them, the corncrakes were calling
from the fields, the scent of honeysuckle and wild
roses lay round her in a warm wave of air, yet at the same
time she felt as if her naked soul stood side by side with
this figure in the infinitude of space beyond the sunrise
end. The golden stars hung calm and motionless above
them. &ldquo;That price&rdquo;&mdash;his answer fell like a summons she
had actually expected&mdash;&ldquo;you pay to another, not to me.&rdquo;
The voice grew fainter, farther away, dropping through
empty space behind her. &ldquo;All dreams are but a single
dream. You pay that price to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>Her interruption slipped spontaneously from her lips,
its inevitable truth a prophecy:</p>

<p>&ldquo;To myself!&rdquo;</p>

<p>He smiled again, but this time he did not answer.
His hand, instead, now moved across the gate towards
her.</p>

<p>And before she quite realized what had happened, she
was holding a little object he had passed across to her. She
had taken it, obeying, it seemed, an inner compulsion
and authority which were inevitable, fore-ordained. Lowering
her face she examined it in the dusk&mdash;a small green
leaf of fern&mdash;fingered it with tender caution as it lay in
her palm, gazed for some seconds closely at the tiny
thing.... When she looked up again the stranger,
the seller of dreams, as she now imagined him, had moved
some yards away from the gate, and was moving still, a
leisurely quiet tread that stirred no dust, a shadowy outline
soft with dusk and starlight, moving towards the
sunrise end, whence he had first appeared.</p>

<p>Her heart gave a sudden leap, as once again the burden
of the years assailed her. Her words seemed driven out:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;Who are you? Before you go&mdash;your name! What is
your name?&rdquo;</p>

<p>His voice, now faint with distance as he melted from
sight against the dark fringe of hazel trees, reached her
but indistinctly, though its meaning was somehow clear:</p>

<p>&ldquo;The dream,&rdquo; she heard like a breath of wind against
her ear, &ldquo;shall bring its own name with it. I wait....&rdquo;
Both sound and figure trailed off into the unknown space
beyond the eastern end, and, leaning against the wicket-gate
as usual, the white dust settling about his heavy boots,
the tea-pail but just ceased from rattling, was&mdash;old Purdy.</p>

<p>Unless the mind can fix the reality of an event in the
actual instant of its happening, judgment soon dwindles
into a confusion between memory and argument. Five
minutes later, when old Purdy had gone his way again,
she found herself already wondering, reflecting, questioning.
Yearning had perhaps conjured with emotion to
fashion both voice and figure out of imagination, out of
this perfumed dusk, out of the troubled heart&rsquo;s desire.
Confusion in time had further helped to metamorphose old
Purdy into some legendary shape that had stolen upon
her mood of reverie from the shadows of her beloved
lane.... Yet the dream she had accepted from a
stranger hand, a little fern leaf, remained at any rate to
shape a delightful certainty her brain might criticize while
her heart believed. The fern leaf assuredly was real. A
fairy gift! Those who eat of this fern-seed, she remembered
as she sank into sleep that night, shall see the fairies! And,
indeed, a few hours later she walked in dream along the
familiar curve between the hedges, her own childhood taking
her by the hand as she played with the flowers, the
butterflies, the glad swallows beckoning while they flashed.
Without the smallest sense of surprise or unexpectedness,
too, she met at the eastern end&mdash;two figures. They stood,
as she with her childhood stood, hand in hand, the seller
of dreams and her lover, waiting since time began, she
realized, waiting with some great unuttered question on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
their lips. Neither addressed her, neither spoke a word.
Dick looked at her, ambition, hard and restless, shining
in his eyes; in the eyes of the other&mdash;dark, gentle, piercing,
but extraordinarily young for all the ragged hair about
the face the shabby clothes, the ravaged and unkempt appearance&mdash;a
brightness as of the coming dawn.</p>

<p>A choice, she understood, was offered to her; there was
a decision she must make. She realized, as though some
great wind blew it into her from outer space, another, a
new standard to which her judgment must inevitably conform,
or admit the purpose of her life evaded finally. The
same moment she knew what her decision was. No hesitation
touched her. Calm, yet trembling, her courage and
her patience faced the decision and accepted it. The hands
then instantly fell apart, unclasped. One figure turned
and vanished down the lane towards the departing end, but
with the other, now hand in hand, she rose floating, gliding
without effort, a strange bliss in her heart, to meet the
sunrise.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He has awakened ... so he cannot stay,&rdquo; she heard,
like a breath of wind that whispered into her ear. &ldquo;I, who
bring you this dream&mdash;I wait.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She did not wake at once when the dream was ended,
but slept on long beyond her accustomed hour, missing
thereby Melancey, Averill, old Purdy as they passed the
wicket-gate in the early hours. She woke, however, with
a new clear knowledge of herself, of her mind and heart,
to all of which in simple truth to her own soul she must
conform. The fern-seed she placed in a locket attached to
a fine gold chain about her neck. During the long, lonely,
expectant yet unsatisfied years that followed she wore it
day and night.</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>She had the curious feeling that she remained young.
Others grew older, but not she. She watched her contemporaries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
slowly give the signs, while she herself held
stationary. Even those younger than herself went past
her, growing older in the ordinary way, whereas her heart,
her mind, even her appearance, she felt certain, hardly
aged at all. In a room full of people she felt pity often
as she read the signs in their faces knowing her own unchanged.
Their eyes were burning out, but hers burned
on. It was neither vanity nor delusion, but an inner conviction
she could not alter.</p>

<p>The age she held to was the year she had received the
fern-seed from old Purdy, or rather, from an imaginary
figure her reverie had set momentarily in old Purdy&rsquo;s
place. That figure of her reverie, the dream that followed,
the subsequent confession to Dick Messenger, meeting his
own half-way&mdash;these marked the year when she stopped
growing older. To that year she seemed chained, gazing
into the sunrise end&mdash;waiting, ever waiting.</p>

<p>Whether in her absent-minded reverie she had actually
plucked the bit of fern herself, or whether, after all, old
Purdy had handed it to her, was not a point that troubled
her. It was in her locket about her neck still, day and
night. The seller of dreams was an established imaginative
reality in her life. Her heart assured her she would
meet him again one day. She waited. It was very curious,
it was rather pathetic. Men came and went, she saw her
chances pass; her answer was invariably &ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The break came suddenly, and with devastating effect.
As she was dressing carefully for the party, full of excited
anticipation like some young girl still, she saw
looking out upon her from the long mirror a face of plain
middle-age. A blackness rose about her. It seemed the
mirror shattered. The long, long dream, at any rate, fell
in a thousand broken pieces at her feet. It was perhaps
the ball dress, perhaps the flowers in her hair; it may have
been the low-cut gown that betrayed the neck and throat,
or the one brilliant jewel that proved her eyes now dimmed
beside it&mdash;but most probably it was the tell-tale hands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
whose ageing no artifice ever can conceal. The middle-aged
woman, at any rate, rushed from the glass and claimed her.</p>

<p>It was a long time, too, before the signs of tears had
been carefully obliterated again, and the battle with herself&mdash;to
go or not to go&mdash;was decided by clear courage.
She would not send a hurried excuse of illness, but would
take the place where she now belonged. She saw herself,
a fading figure, more than half-way now towards the sunset
end, within sight even of the shadowed emptiness that lay
beyond the sun&rsquo;s dipping edge. She had lingered over-long,
expecting a dream to confirm a dream; she had
been oblivious of the truth that the lane went rushing just
the same. It was now too late. The speed increased. She
had waited, waited for nothing. The seller of dreams was
a myth. No man could need her as she now was.</p>

<p>Yet the chief ingredient in her decision was, oddly
enough, itself a sign of youth. A party, a ball, is ever
an adventure. Fate, with her destined eyes aglow, may
be bidden too, waiting among the throng, waiting for that
very one who hesitates whether to go or not to go. Who
knows what the evening may bring forth? It was this
anticipation, faintly beckoning, its voice the merest echo
of her shadowy youth, that tipped the scales between an
evening of sleepless regrets at home and hours of neglected
loneliness, watching the young fulfil the happy night.
This and her courage weighed the balance down against the
afflicting weariness of her sudden disillusion.</p>

<p>Therefore she went, her aunt, in whose house she was
a visitor, accompanying her. They arrived late, walking
under the awning alone into the great mansion. Music,
flowers, lovely dresses, and bright happy faces filled the air
about them. The dancing feet, the flashing eyes, the swing
of the music, the throng of graceful figures expressed one
word&mdash;pleasure. Pleasure, of course, meant youth. Beneath
the calm summer stars youth realized itself prodigally,
reckless of years to follow. Under the same calm
stars, some fifty miles away in Kent, her stretch of deserted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
lane flowed peacefully, never pausing, passing relentlessly
out into unknown space beyond the edge of the
world. A girl and a middle-aged woman bravely watched
both scenes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dreadfully overcrowded,&rdquo; remarked her prosaic aunt.
&ldquo;When I was a young thing there was more taste&mdash;always
room to dance, at any rate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is a rabble rather,&rdquo; replied the middle-aged woman,
while the girl added, &ldquo;but I enjoy it.&rdquo; She had enjoyed
one duty-dance with an elderly man to whom her aunt had
introduced her. She now sat watching the rabble whirl
and laugh. Her friend, behind unabashed lorgnettes,
made occasional comments.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s Mabel. Look at her frock, will you&mdash;the
naked back. The way he holds her, too!&rdquo;</p>

<p>She looked at Mabel Messenger, exactly her own age,
wife of the successful engineer, yet bearing herself almost
like a girl.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>He&rsquo;s</em> away in Mexico, as usual,&rdquo; went on her aunt,
&ldquo;with somebody else, also as usual.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t envy her,&rdquo; mentioned the middle-aged woman,
while the girl added, &ldquo;but she did well for herself, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a mistake to wait too long,&rdquo; was a suggestion
she did not comment on.</p>

<p>The host&rsquo;s brother came up and carried off her aunt.
She was left alone. An old gentleman dropped into the
vacated chair. Only in the centre of the brilliantly lit
room was there dancing now; people stood and talked in
animated throngs, every seat along the walls, every chair
and sofa in alcove corners occupied. The landing outside
the great flung doors was packed; some, going on elsewhere,
were already leaving, but others arriving late still
poured up the staircase. Her loneliness remained unnoticed;
with many other women, similarly stationed behind
the whirling, moving dancers, she sat looking on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>
an artificial smile of enjoyment upon her face, but the
eyes empty and unlit.</p>

<p>Two pictures she watched simultaneously&mdash;the gay
ballroom and the lane that ran east and west.</p>

<p>Midnight was past and supper over, though she had
not noticed it. Her aunt had disappeared finally, it
seemed. The two pictures filled her mind, absorbed her.
What she was feeling was not clear, for there was confusion
in her between the two scenes somewhere&mdash;as though
the brilliant ballroom lay set against the dark background
of the lane beneath the quiet stars. The contrast struck
her. How calm and lovely the night lane seemed against
this feverish gaiety, this heat, this artificial perfume, these
exaggerated clothes. Like a small, rapid cinema-picture
the dazzling ballroom passed along the dark throat of the
deserted lane. A patch of light, alive with whirling animalculæ,
it shone a moment against the velvet background
of the midnight country-side. It grew smaller and smaller.
It vanished over the edge of the departing end. It was
gone.</p>

<p>Night and the stars enveloped her, and her eyes became
accustomed to the change, so that she saw the sandy strip
of lane, the hazel bushes, the dim outline of the cottage.
Her naked soul, it seemed again, stood facing an infinitude.
Yet the scent of roses, of dew-soaked grass came to her. A
blackbird was whistling in the hedge. The eastern end
showed itself now more plainly. The tops of the trees
defined themselves. There came a glimmer in the sky, an
early swallow flashed past against a streak of pale sweet
gold. Old Purdy, his tea-pail faintly rattling, a stir of
thick white dust about his feet, came slowly round the
curve. It was the sunrise.</p>

<p>A deep, passionate thrill ran through her body from
head to feet. There was a clap beside her&mdash;in the air it
seemed&mdash;as though the wings of the early swallow had
flashed past her very ear, or the approaching sunrise called
aloud. She turned her head&mdash;along the brightening lane,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
but also across the gay ballroom. Old Purdy, straightening
up his bent shoulders, was gazing over the wicket-gate
into her eyes.</p>

<p>Something quivered. A shimmer ran fluttering before
her sight. She trembled. Over the crowd of intervening
heads, as over the spiked top of the little gate, a man was
gazing at her.</p>

<p>Old Purdy, however, did not fade, nor did his outline
wholly pass. There was this confusion between two pictures.
Yet this man who gazed at her was in the London
ballroom. He was so tall and straight. The same moment
her aunt&rsquo;s face appeared below his shoulder, only just visible,
and he turned his head, but did not turn his eyes, to
listen to her. Both looked her way; they moved, threading
their way towards her. It meant an introduction coming.
He had asked for it.</p>

<p>She did not catch his name, so quickly, yet so easily
and naturally the little formalities were managed, and she
was dancing. The same sweet, dim confusion was about
her. His touch, his voice, his eyes combined extraordinarily
in a sense of complete possession to which she yielded
utterly. The two pictures, moreover, still held their place.
Behind the glaring lights ran the pale sweet gold of a
country dawn; woven like a silver thread among the strings
she heard the blackbirds whistling; in the stale, heated air
lay the subtle freshness of a summer sunrise. Their dancing
feet bore them along in a flowing motion that curved
from east to west.</p>

<p>They danced without speaking; one rhythm took them;
like a single person they glided over the smooth, perfect
floor, and, more and more to her, it was as if the floor
flowed with them, bearing them along. Such dancing she
had never known. The strange sweetness of the confusion
that half-entranced her increased&mdash;almost as though she
lay upon her partner&rsquo;s arms and that he bore her through
the air. Both the sense of weight and the touch of her feet
on solid ground were gone delightfully. The London room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
grew hazy, too; the other figures faded; the ceiling, half
transparent, let through a filtering glimmer of the dawn.
Her thoughts&mdash;surely he shared them with her&mdash;went out
floating beneath this brightening sky. There was a sound
of wakening birds, a smell of flowers.</p>

<p>They had danced perhaps five minutes when both
stopped abruptly as with one accord.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Shall we sit it out&mdash;if you&rsquo;ve no objection?&rdquo; he suggested
in the very instant that the same thought occurred
to her. &ldquo;The conservatory, among the flowers,&rdquo; he added,
leading her to the corner among scented blooms and plants,
exactly as she herself desired. There were leaves and ferns
about them in the warm air. The light was dim. A streak
of gold in the sky showed through the glass. But for one
other couple they were alone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have something to say to you,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;You
must have thought it curious&mdash;I&rsquo;ve been staring at you so.
The whole evening I&rsquo;ve been watching you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;hadn&rsquo;t noticed,&rdquo; she said truthfully, her voice, as
it were, not quite her own. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not been dancing&mdash;only
once, that is.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But her heart was dancing as she said it. For the first
time she became aware of her partner more distinctly&mdash;of
his deep, resonant voice, his soldierly tall figure, his deferential,
almost protective manner. She turned suddenly
and looked into his face. The clear, rather penetrating
eyes reminded her of someone she had known.</p>

<p>At the same instant he used her thought, turning it in
his own direction. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t remember, for the life of me,&rdquo;
he said quietly, &ldquo;where I have seen you before. Your face
is familiar to me, oddly familiar&mdash;years ago&mdash;in my first
youth somewhere.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was as though he broke something to her gently&mdash;something
he was sure of and knew positively, that yet
might shock and startle her.</p>

<p>The blood rushed from her heart as she quickly turned
her gaze away. The wave of deep feeling that rose with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
a sensation of glowing warmth troubled her voice. &ldquo;I find
in you, too, a faint resemblance to&mdash;someone I have met,&rdquo;
she murmured. Without meaning it she let slip the added
words, &ldquo;when I was a girl.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She felt him start, but he saved the situation, making
it ordinary again by obtaining her permission to smoke,
then slowly lighting his cigarette before he spoke.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You must forgive me,&rdquo; he put in with a smile, &ldquo;but
your name, when you were kind enough to let me be introduced,
escaped me. I did not catch it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She told him her surname, but he asked in his persuasive
yet somehow masterful way for the Christian name
as well. He turned round instantly as she gave it, staring
hard at her with meaning, with an examining intentness,
with open curiosity. There was a question on his lips, but
she interrupted, delaying it by a question of her own.
Without looking at him she knew and feared his question.
Her voice just concealed a trembling that was in her
throat.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My aunt,&rdquo; she agreed lightly, &ldquo;is incorrigible. Do
you know I didn&rsquo;t catch yours either? Oh&mdash;I meant your
surname,&rdquo; she added, confusion gaining upon her when he
mentioned his first name only.</p>

<p>He became suddenly more earnest, his voice deepened,
his whole manner took on the guise of deliberate intention
backed by some profound emotion that he could no longer
hide. The music, which had momentarily ceased, began
again, and a couple, who had been sitting out diagonally
across from them, rose and went out. They were now quite
alone. The sky was brighter.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I must tell you,&rdquo; he went on in a way that compelled
her to look up and meet his intent gaze. &ldquo;You really must
allow me. I feel sure somehow you&rsquo;ll understand. At any
rate,&rdquo; he added like a boy, &ldquo;you won&rsquo;t laugh.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She believes she gave the permission and assurance.
Memory fails her a little here, for as she returned his gaze,
it seemed a curious change came stealing over him, yet at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
first so imperceptibly, so vaguely, that she could not say
when it began, nor how it happened.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;please&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; The change defined
itself. She stopped dead.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know now where I&rsquo;ve seen you before. I remember.&rdquo;
His voice vibrated like a wind in big trees. It enveloped
her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she repeated in a whisper, for the hammering
of her heart made both a louder tone or further words
impossible. She knew not what he was going to say, yet
at the same time she knew with accuracy. Her eyes gazed
helplessly into his. The change absorbed her. Within his
outline she watched another outline grow. Behind the immaculate
evening clothes a ragged, unkempt figure rose.
A worn, ravaged face with young burning eyes peered
through his own. &ldquo;Please, please,&rdquo; she whispered again
very faintly. He took her hand in his.</p>

<p>His voice came from very far away, yet drawing nearer,
and the scene about them faded, vanished. The lane that
curved east and west now stretched behind him, and she
sat gazing towards the sunrise end, as years ago when the
girl passed into the woman first.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I knew&mdash;a friend of yours&mdash;Dick Messenger,&rdquo; he was
saying in this distant voice that yet was close beside her,
&ldquo;knew him at school, at Cambridge, and later in Mexico.
We worked in the same mines together, only he was contractor
and I was&mdash;in difficulties. That made no difference.
He&mdash;he told me about a girl&mdash;of his love and admiration,
an admiration that remained, but a love that had
already faded.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She saw only the ragged outline within the well-groomed
figure of the man who spoke. The young eyes
that gazed so piercingly into hers belonged to him, the
seller of her dream of years before. It was to this ragged
stranger in her lane she made her answer:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I, too, now remember,&rdquo; she said softly. &ldquo;Please go
on.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;He gave me his confidence, asking me where his
duty lay, and I told him that the real love comes once
only; it knows no doubt, no fading. I told him this&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We both discovered it in time,&rdquo; she said to herself,
so low it was scarcely audible, yet not resisting as he laid
his other hand upon the one he already held.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I also told him there was only one true dream,&rdquo; the
voice continued, the inner face drawing nearer to the outer
that contained it. &ldquo;I asked him, and he told me&mdash;everything.
I knew all about this girl. Her picture, too, he
showed me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The voice broke off. The flood of love and pity, of sympathy
and understanding that rose in her like a power
long suppressed, threatened tears, yet happy, yearning
tears like those of a girl, which only the quick, strong
pressure of his hands prevented.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The&mdash;little painting&mdash;yes, I know it,&rdquo; she faltered.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It saved me,&rdquo; he said simply. &ldquo;It changed my life.
From that moment I began&mdash;living decently again&mdash;living
for an ideal.&rdquo; Without knowing that she did so, the pressure
of her hand upon his own came instantly. &ldquo;He&mdash;he
gave it to me,&rdquo; the voice went on, &ldquo;to keep. He said he
could neither keep it himself nor destroy it. It was the
day before he sailed. I remember it as yesterday. I said
I must give him something in return, or it would cut
friendship. But I had nothing in the world to give. We
were in the hills. I picked a leaf of fern instead. &lsquo;Fern-seed,&rsquo;
I told him, &lsquo;it will make you see the fairies and find
your true dream.&rsquo; I remember his laugh to this day&mdash;a sad,
uneasy laugh. &lsquo;I shall give it to her,&rsquo; he told me, &lsquo;when
I give her my difficult explanation.&rsquo; But I said, &lsquo;Give it
with my love, and tell her that I wait.&rsquo; He looked at me
with surprise, incredulous. Then he said slowly, &lsquo;Why
not? If&mdash;if only you hadn&rsquo;t let yourself go to pieces like
this!&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>An immensity of clear emotion she could not understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
passed over her in a wave. Involuntarily she moved
closer against him. With her eyes unflinchingly upon his
own, she whispered: &ldquo;You were hungry, thirsty, you had
no clothes.... You waited!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re reading my thoughts, as I knew one day you
would.&rdquo; It seemed as if their minds, their bodies too, were
one, as he said the words. &ldquo;You, too&mdash;you waited.&rdquo; His
voice was low.</p>

<p>There came a glow between them as of hidden fire;
their faces shone; there was a brightening as of dawn
upon their skins, within their eyes, lighting their very hair.
Out of this happy sky his voice floated to her with the
blackbird&rsquo;s song:</p>

<p>&ldquo;And that night I dreamed of you. I dreamed I met
you in an English country lane.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We did,&rdquo; she murmured, as though it were quite natural.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I dreamed I gave you the fern leaf&mdash;across a wicket-gate&mdash;and
in front of a little house that was our home.
In my dream&mdash;I handed to you&mdash;a dream&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You did.&rdquo; And as she whispered it the two figures
merged into one before her very eyes. &ldquo;See,&rdquo; she added
softly, &ldquo;I have it still. It is in my locket at this moment,
for I have worn it day and night through all these years
of waiting.&rdquo; She began fumbling at her chain.</p>

<p>He smiled. &ldquo;Such things,&rdquo; he said gently, &ldquo;are beyond
me rather. I have found you. That&rsquo;s all that matters.
That&rdquo;&mdash;he smiled again&mdash;&ldquo;is real at any rate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A vision,&rdquo; she murmured, half to herself and half to
him, &ldquo;I can understand. A dream, though wonderful, is
a dream. But the little fern you gave me,&rdquo; drawing the
fine gold chain from her bosom, &ldquo;the actual leaf I have
worn all these years in my locket!&rdquo;</p>

<p>He smiled as she held the locket out to him, her fingers
feeling for the little spring. He shook his head, but so
slightly she did not notice it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p>

<p>&ldquo;I will prove it to you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I must. Look!&rdquo;
she cried, as with trembling hand she pressed the hidden
catch. &ldquo;There! There!&rdquo;</p>

<p>With heads close together they bent over. The tiny
lid flew open. And as he took her for one quick instant
in his arms the sun flashed his first golden shaft upon
them, covering them with light. But her exclamation of
incredulous surprise he smothered with a kiss. For inside
the little locket there lay&mdash;nothing. It was quite empty.</p>
<hr class="l1" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p>


<h2>XV<br />
<br />
&ldquo;VENGEANCE IS MINE&rdquo;</h2>


<h3>1</h3>

<p class="cap"><span class="upper">An</span> active, vigorous man in Holy orders, yet compelled
by heart trouble to resign a living in Kent
before full middle age, he had found suitable work with
the Red Cross in France; and it rather pleased a strain of
innocent vanity in him that Rouen, whence he derived
his Norman blood, should be the scene of his activities.</p>

<p>He was a gentle-minded soul, a man deeply read and
thoughtful, but goodness perhaps his out-standing quality,
believing no evil of others. He had been slow, for instance,
at first to credit the German atrocities, until the evidence
had compelled him to face the appalling facts. With acceptance,
then, he had experienced a revulsion which other
gentle minds have probably also experienced&mdash;a burning
desire, namely, that the perpetrators should be fitly punished.</p>

<p>This primitive instinct of revenge&mdash;he called it a lust&mdash;he
sternly repressed; it involved a descent to lower levels
of conduct irreconcilable with the progress of the race he
so passionately believed in. Revenge pertained to savage
days. But, though he hid away the instinct in his heart,
afraid of its clamour and persistency, it revived from
time to time, as fresh horrors made it bleed anew. It
remained alive, unsatisfied; while, with its analysis, his
mind strove unconsciously. That an intellectual nation
should deliberately include frightfulness as a chief item
in its creed perplexed him horribly; it seemed to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
conscious spiritual evil openly affirmed. Some genuine
worship of Odin, Wotan, Moloch lay still embedded in
the German outlook, and beneath the veneer of their pretentious
culture. He often wondered, too, what effect the
recognition of these horrors must have upon gentle minds
in other men, and especially upon imaginative minds.
How did they deal with the fact that this appalling thing
existed in human nature in the twentieth century? Its
survival, indeed, caused his belief in civilization as a whole
to waver. Was progress, his pet ideal and cherished
faith, after all a mockery? Had human nature not advanced...?</p>

<p>His work in the great hospitals and convalescent camps
beyond the town was tiring; he found little time for recreation,
much less for rest; a light dinner and bed by ten
o&rsquo;clock was the usual way of spending his evenings. He
had no social intercourse, for everyone else was as busy as
himself. The enforced solitude, not quite wholesome, was
unavoidable. He found no outlet for his thoughts. First-hand
acquaintance with suffering, physical and mental, was
no new thing to him, but this close familiarity, day by day,
with maimed and broken humanity preyed considerably on
his mind, while the fortitude and cheerfulness shown by
the victims deepened the impression of respectful, yearning
wonder made upon him. They were so young, so fine and
careless, these lads whom the German lust for power had
robbed of limbs, and eyes, of mind, of life itself. The sense
of horror grew in him with cumulative but unrelieved
effect.</p>

<p>With the lengthening of the days in February, and
especially when March saw the welcome change to summer
time, the natural desire for open air asserted itself. Instead
of retiring early to his dingy bedroom, he would stroll out
after dinner through the ancient streets. When the air
was not too chilly, he would prolong these outings, starting
at sunset and coming home beneath the bright mysterious
stars. He knew at length every turn and winding of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
old-world alleys, every gable, every tower and spire, from
the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vieux Marché</i>, where Joan of Arc was burnt, to the
busy quays, thronged now with soldiers from half a dozen
countries. He wandered on past grey gateways of crumbling
stone that marked the former banks of the old tidal
river. An English army, five centuries ago, had camped
here among reeds and swamps, besieging the Norman capital,
where now they brought in supplies of men and material
upon modern docks, a mighty invasion of a very different
kind. Imaginative reflection was his constant mood.</p>

<p>But it was the haunted streets that touched him most,
stirring some chord his ancestry had planted in him. The
forest of spires thronged the air with strange stone flowers,
silvered by moonlight as though white fire streamed from
branch and petal; the old church towers soared; the cathedral
touched the stars. After dark the modern note, paramount
in the daylight, seemed hushed; with sunset it
underwent a definite night-change. Although the darkened
streets kept alive in him the menace of fire and death, the
crowding soldiers, dipped to the face in shadow, seemed
somehow negligible; the leaning roofs and gables hid them
in a purple sea of mist that blurred their modern garb,
steel weapons, and the like. Shadows themselves, they entered
the being of the town; their feet moved silently; there
was a hush and murmur; the brooding buildings absorbed
them easily.</p>

<p>Ancient and modern, that is, unable successfully to
mingle, let fall grotesque, incongruous shadows on his
thoughts. The spirit of mediæval days stole over him,
exercising its inevitable sway upon a temperament already
predisposed to welcome it. Witchcraft and wonder, pagan
superstition and speculation, combined with an ancestral
tendency to weave a spell, half of acceptance, half of
shrinking, about his imaginative soul in which poetry and
logic seemed otherwise fairly balanced. Too weary for
critical judgment to discern clear outlines, his mind, during
these magical twilight walks, became the playground of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
opposing forces, some power of dreaming, it seems, too
easily in the ascendant. The soul of ancient Rouen, stealing
beside his footsteps in the dusk, put forth a shadowy
hand and touched him.</p>

<p>This shadowy spell he denied as far as in him lay,
though the resistance offered by reason to instinct lacked
true driving power. The dice were loaded otherwise in
such a soul. His own blood harked back unconsciously to
the days when men were tortured, broken on the wheel,
walled up alive, and burnt for small offences. This
shadowy hand stirred faint ancestral memories in him,
part instinct, part desire. The next step, by which he saw
a similar attitude flowering full blown in the German
frightfulness, was too easily made to be rejected. The
German horrors made him believe that this ignorant
cruelty of olden days threatened the world now in a modern,
organized shape that proved its survival in the human
heart. Shuddering, he fought against the natural desire
for adequate punishment, but forgot that repressed emotions
sooner or later must assert themselves. Essentially
irrepressible, they may force an outlet in distorted fashion.
He hardly recognized, perhaps, their actual claim, yet it
was audible occasionally. For, owing to his loneliness, the
natural outlet, in talk and intercourse, was denied.</p>

<p>Then, with the softer winds, he yearned for country
air. The sweet spring days had come; morning and evening
were divine; above the town the orchards were in
bloom. Birds blew their tiny bugles on the hills. The
midday sun began to burn.</p>

<p>It was the time of the final violence, when the German
hordes flung like driven cattle against the Western line
where free men fought for liberty. Fate hovered dreadfully
in the balance that spring of 1918; Amiens was
threatened, and if Amiens fell, Rouen must be evacuated.
The town, already full, became now over-full. On his
way home one evening he passed the station, crowded
with homeless new arrivals. &ldquo;Got the wind up, it seems,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
in Amiens!&rdquo; cried a cheery voice, as an officer he knew
went by him hurriedly. And as he heard it the mood of
the spring became of a sudden uppermost. He reached
a decision. The German horror came abruptly closer. This
further overcrowding of the narrow streets was more than
he could face.</p>

<p>It was a small, personal decision merely, but he <em>must</em>
get out among woods and fields, among flowers and wholesome,
growing things, taste simple, innocent life again.
The following evening he would pack his haversack with
food and tramp the four miles to the great <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Forêt Verte</i>&mdash;delicious
name!&mdash;and spend the night with trees and stars,
breathing his full of sweetness, calm and peace. He was too
accustomed to the thunder of the guns to be disturbed by
it. The song of a thrush, the whistle of a blackbird, would
easily drown that. He made his plan accordingly.</p>

<p>The next two nights, however, a warm soft rain was
falling; only on the third evening could he put his little
plan into execution. Anticipatory enjoyment, meanwhile,
lightened his heart; he did his daily work more competently,
the spell of the ancient city weakened somewhat.
The shadowy hand withdrew.</p>


<h3>2</h3>

<p>Meanwhile, a curious adventure intervened.</p>

<p>His good and simple heart, disciplined these many
years in the way a man should walk, received upon its imaginative
side, a stimulus that, in his case, amounted to a
shock. That a strange and comely woman should make
eyes at him disturbed his equilibrium considerably; that
he should enjoy the attack, though without at first responding
openly&mdash;even without full comprehension of its
meaning&mdash;disturbed it even more. It was, moreover, no
ordinary attack.</p>

<p>He saw her first the night after his decision when, in
a mood of disappointment due to the rain, he came down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
to his lonely dinner. The room, he saw, was crowded with
new arrivals, from Amiens, doubtless, where they had &ldquo;the
wind up.&rdquo; The wealthier civilians had fled for safety to
Rouen. These interested and, in a measure, stimulated
him. He looked at them sympathetically, wondering what
dear home-life they had so hurriedly relinquished at the
near thunder of the enemy guns, and, in so doing, he
noticed, sitting alone at a small table just in front of his
own&mdash;yet with her back to him&mdash;a woman.</p>

<p>She drew his attention instantly. The first glance
told him that she was young and well-to-do; the second,
that she was unusual. What precisely made her unusual
he could not say, although he at once began to study her
intently. Dignity, atmosphere, personality, he perceived
beyond all question. She sat there with an air. The becoming
little hat with its challenging feather slightly
tilted, the set of the shoulders, the neat waist and slender
outline; possibly, too, the hair about the neck, and the faint
perfume that was wafted towards him as the serving girl
swept past, combined in the persuasion. Yet he felt it as
more than a persuasion. She attracted him with a subtle
vehemence he had never felt before. The instant he set
eyes upon her his blood ran faster. The thought rose passionately
in him, almost the words that phrased it: &ldquo;I
wish I knew her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This sudden flash of response his whole being certainly
gave&mdash;to the back of an unknown woman. It was both vehement
and instinctive. He lay stress upon its instinctive
character; he was aware of it before reason told him why.
That it was &ldquo;in response&rdquo; he also noted, for although he
had not seen her face and she assuredly had made no sign,
he felt that attraction which involves also invitation. So
vehement, moreover, was this response in him that he felt
shy and ashamed the same instant, for it almost seemed he
had expressed his thought in audible words. He flushed,
and the flush ran through his body; he was conscious of
heated blood as in a youth of twenty-five, and when a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
past forty knows this touch of fever he may also know,
though he may not recognize it, that the danger signal
which means possible abandon has been lit. Moreover, as
though to prove his instinct justified, it was at this very
instant that the woman turned and stared at him deliberately.
She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers.
He knew a moment&rsquo;s keen distress, a sharpest possible discomfort,
that after all he <em>had</em> expressed his desire audibly.
Yet, though he blushed, he did not lower his eyes. The embarrassment
passed instantly, replaced by a thrill of
strangest pleasure and satisfaction. He knew a tinge of
inexplicable dismay as well. He felt for a second helpless
before what seemed a challenge in her eyes. The eyes were
too compelling. They mastered him.</p>

<p>In order to meet his gaze she had to make a full turn
in her chair, for her table was placed directly in front of
his own. She did so without concealment. It was no mere
attempt to see what lay behind by making a half-turn and
pretending to look elsewhere; no corner of the eye business;
but a full, straight, direct, significant stare. She
looked into his soul as though she called him, he looked
into hers as though he answered. Sitting there like a
statue, motionless, without a bow, without a smile, he returned
her intense regard unflinchingly and yet unwillingly.
He made no sign. He shivered again.... It was perhaps
ten seconds before she turned away with an air as if she
had delivered her message and received his answer, but in
those ten seconds a series of singular ideas crowded his
mind, leaving an impression that ten years could never
efface. The face and eyes produced a kind of intoxication
in him. There was almost recognition, as though she said:
&ldquo;Ah, there you are! I was waiting; you&rsquo;ll have to come, of
course. You must!&rdquo; And just before she turned away she
smiled.</p>

<p>He felt confused and helpless.</p>

<p>The face he described as unusual; familiar, too, as with
the atmosphere of some long forgotten dream, and if beauty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
perhaps was absent, character and individuality were supreme.
Implacable resolution was stamped upon the features,
which yet were sweet and womanly, stirring an emotion
in him that he could not name and certainly did not
recognize. The eyes, slanting a little upwards, were full
of fire, the mouth voluptuous but very firm, the chin and
jaw most delicately modelled, yet with a masculine strength
that told of inflexible resolve. The resolution, as a whole,
was the most relentless he had ever seen upon a human
countenance. It dominated him. &ldquo;How vain to resist the
will,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;that lies behind!&rdquo; He was conscious
of enslavement; she conveyed a message that he must obey,
admitting compliance with her unknown purpose.</p>

<p>That some extraordinary wordless exchange was registered
thus between them seemed very clear; and it was
just at this moment, as if to signify her satisfaction, that
she smiled. At his feeling of willing compliance with
some purpose in her mind, the smile appeared. It was
faint, so faint indeed that the eyes betrayed it rather than
the mouth and lips; but it was there; he saw it and he
thrilled again to this added touch of wonder and enchantment.
Yet, strangest of all, he maintains that with the
smile there fluttered over the resolute face a sudden arresting
tenderness, as though some wild flower lit a granite
surface with its melting loveliness. He was aware in the
clear strong eyes of unshed tears, of sympathy, of self-sacrifice
he called maternal, of clinging love. It was this
tenderness, as of a soft and gracious mother, and this implacable
resolution, as of a stern, relentless man, that left
upon his receptive soul the strange impression of sweetness
yet of domination.</p>

<p>The brief ten seconds were over. She turned away as
deliberately as she had turned to look. He found himself
trembling with confused emotions he could not disentangle,
could not even name; for, with the subtle intoxication of
compliance in his soul lay also a vigorous protest that included
refusal, even a violent refusal given with horror.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
This unknown woman, without actual speech or definite
gesture, had lit a flame in him that linked on far away and
out of sight with the magic of the ancient city&rsquo;s mediæval
spell. Both, he decided, were undesirable, both to be resisted.</p>

<p>He was quite decided about this. She pertained to forgotten
yet unburied things, her modern aspect a mere disguise,
a disguise that some deep unsatisfied instinct in him
pierced with ease.</p>

<p>He found himself equally decided, too, upon another
thing which, in spite of his momentary confusion, stood
out clearly: the magic of the city, the enchantment of the
woman, both attacked a constitutional weakness in his
blood, a line of least resistance. It wore no physical aspect,
breathed no hint of ordinary romance; the mere male and
female, moral or immoral touch was wholly absent; yet
passion lurked there, tumultuous if hidden, and a tract of
consciousness, long untravelled, was lit by sudden ominous
flares. His character, his temperament, his calling in life
as a former clergyman and now a Red Cross worker, being
what they were, he stood on the brink of an adventure not
dangerous alone but containing a challenge of fundamental
kind that involved his very soul.</p>

<p>No further thrill, however, awaited him immediately.
He left his table before she did, having intercepted no
slightest hint of desired acquaintanceship or intercourse.
He, naturally, made no advances; she, equally, made no
smallest sign. Her face remained hidden, he caught no
flash of eyes, no gesture, no hint of possible invitation.
He went upstairs to his dingy room, and in due course
fell asleep. The next day he saw her not, her place in
the dining-room was empty; but in the late evening of the
following day, as the soft spring sunshine found him prepared
for his postponed expedition, he met her suddenly
on the stairs. He was going down with haversack and in
walking kit to an early dinner, when he saw her coming
up; she was perhaps a dozen steps below him; they must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
meet. A wave of confused, embarrassed pleasure swept
him. He realized that this was no chance meeting. She
meant to speak to him.</p>

<p>Violent attraction and an equally violent repulsion
seized him. There was no escape, nor, had escape been
possible, would he have attempted it. He went down four
steps, she mounted four towards him; then he took one
and she took one. They met. For a moment they stood
level, while he shrank against the wall to let her pass. He
had the feeling that but for the support of that wall he
must have lost his balance and fallen into her, for the
sunlight from the landing window caught her face and lit
it, and she was younger, he saw, than he had thought, and
far more comely. Her atmosphere enveloped him, the
sense of attraction and repulsion became intense. She
moved past him with the slightest possible bow of recognition;
then, having passed, she turned.</p>

<p>She stood a little higher than himself, a step at most,
and she thus looked down at him. Her eyes blazed into
his. She smiled, and he was aware again of the domination
and the sweetness. The perfume of her near presence
drowned him; his head swam. &ldquo;We count upon you,&rdquo;
she said in a low firm voice, as though giving a command;
&ldquo;I know ... we may. We do.&rdquo; And, before he knew
what he was saying, trembling a little between deep pleasure
and a contrary impulse that sought to choke the utterance,
he heard his own voice answering. &ldquo;You can count
upon me....&rdquo; And she was already half-way up the
next flight of stairs ere he could move a muscle, or attempt
to thread a meaning into the singular exchange.</p>

<p>Yet meaning, he well knew, there was.</p>

<p>She was gone; her footsteps overhead had died away.
He stood there trembling like a boy of twenty, yet also
like a man of forty in whom fires, long dreaded, now blazed
sullenly. She had opened the furnace door, the draught
rushed through. He felt again the old unwelcome spell;
he saw the twisted streets &rsquo;mid leaning gables and shadowy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
towers of a day forgotten; he heard the ominous murmurs
of a crowd that thirsted for wheel and scaffold and fire;
and, aware of vengeance, sweet and terrible, aware, too,
that he welcomed it, his heart was troubled and afraid.</p>

<p>In a brief second the impression came and went; following
it swiftly, the sweetness of the woman swept him:
he forgot his shrinking in a rush of wild delicious pleasure.
The intoxication in him deepened. She had recognized
him! She had bowed and even smiled; she had spoken,
assuming familiarity, intimacy, including him in her secret
purposes! It was this sweet intimacy cleverly injected,
that overcame the repulsion he acknowledged, winning
complete obedience to the unknown meaning of her words.
This meaning, for the moment, lay in darkness; yet it
was a portion of his own self, he felt, that concealed it
of set purpose. He kept it hid, he looked deliberately another
way; for, if he faced it with full recognition, he knew
that he must resist it to the death. He allowed himself
to ask vague questions&mdash;then let her dominating spell confuse
the answers so that he did not hear them. The challenge
to his soul, that is, he evaded.</p>

<p>What is commonly called sex lay only slightly in his
troubled emotions; her purpose had nothing that kept
step with chance acquaintanceship. There lay meaning,
indeed, in her smile and voice, but these were no hand-maids
to a vulgar intrigue in a foreign hotel. Her will
breathed cleaner air; her purpose aimed at some graver,
mightier climax than the mere subjection of an elderly
victim like himself. That will, that purpose, he felt certain,
were implacable as death, the resolve in those bold
eyes was not a common one. For, in some strange way,
he divined the strong maternity in her; the maternal instinct
was deeply, even predominantly, involved; he felt
positive that a divine tenderness, deeply outraged, was a
chief ingredient too. In some way, then, she needed him,
yet not she alone, for the pronoun &ldquo;we&rdquo; was used, and
there were others with her; in some way, equally, a part<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
of him was already her and their accomplice, an unresisting
slave, a willing co-conspirator.</p>

<p>He knew one other thing, and it was this that he kept
concealed so carefully from himself. His recognition of
it was sub-conscious possibly, but for that very reason true:
her purpose was consistent with the satisfaction at last of
a deep instinct in him that clamoured to know gratification.
It was for these odd, mingled reasons that he stood trembling
when she left him on the stairs, and finally went
down to his hurried meal with a heart that knew wonder,
anticipation, and delight, but also dread.</p>


<h3>3</h3>

<p>The table in front of him remained unoccupied; his
dinner finished, he went out hastily.</p>

<p>As he passed through the crowded streets, his chief desire
was to be quickly free of the old muffled buildings and
airless alleys with their clinging atmosphere of other days.
He longed for the sweet taste of the heights, the smells of
the forest whither he was bound. This <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Forêt Verte</i>, he
knew, rolled for leagues towards the north, empty of houses
as of human beings; it was the home of deer and birds
and rabbits, of wild boar too. There would be spring
flowers among the brushwood, anemones, celandine, oxslip,
daffodils. The vapours of the town oppressed him, the
warm and heavy moisture stifled; he wanted space and
the sight of clean simple things that would stimulate his
mind with lighter thoughts.</p>

<p>He soon passed the Rampe, skirted the ugly villas of
modern Bihorel and, rising now with every step, entered
the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Route Neuve</i>. He went unduly fast; he was already
above the Cathedral spire; below him the Seine meandered
round the chalky hills, laden with war-barges, and across a
dip, still pink in the afterglow, rose the blunt Down of
Bonsecours with its anti-aircraft batteries. Poetry and
violent fact crashed everywhere; he longed to top the hill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
and leave these unhappy reminders of death behind him.
In front the sweet woods already beckoned through the twilight.
He hastened. Yet while he deliberately fixed his
imagination on promised peace and beauty, an undercurrent
ran sullenly in his mind, busy with quite other
thoughts. The unknown woman and her singular words,
the following mystery of the ancient city, the soft beating
wonder of the two together, these worked their incalculable
magic persistently about him. Repression merely added
to their power. His mind was a prey to some shadowy,
remote anxiety that, intangible, invisible, yet knocked with
ghostly fingers upon some door of ancient memory....
He watched the moon rise above the eastern ridge, in the
west the afterglow of sunset still hung red. But these did
not hold his attention as they normally must have done.
Attention seemed elsewhere. The undercurrent bore him
down a siding, into a backwater, as it were, that clamoured
for discharge.</p>

<p>He thought suddenly, then, of weather, what he called
&ldquo;German weather&rdquo;&mdash;that combination of natural conditions
which so oddly favoured the enemy always. It had
often occurred to him as strange; on sea and land, mist,
rain and wind, the fog and drying sun worked ever on
<em>their</em> side. The coincidence was odd, to say the least. And
now this glimpse of rising moon and sunset sky reminded
him unpleasantly of the subject. Legends of pagan
weather-gods passed through his mind like hurrying
shadows. These shadows multiplied, changed form, vanished
and returned. They came and went with incoherence,
a straggling stream, rushing from one point to
another, man&oelig;uvring for position, but all unled, unguided
by his will. The physical exercise filled his brain with
blood, and thought danced undirected, picture upon picture
driving by, so that soon he slipped from German weather
and pagan gods to the witchcraft of past centuries, of its
alleged association with the natural powers of the elements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
and thus, eventually, to his cherished beliefs that humanity
had advanced.</p>

<p>Such remnants of primitive days were grotesque superstition,
of course. But had humanity advanced? Had
the individual progressed after all? Civilization, was it
not the merest artificial growth? And the old perplexity
rushed through his mind again&mdash;the German barbarity and
blood-lust, the savagery, the undoubted sadic impulses, the
frightfulness taught with cool calculation by their highest
minds, approved by their professors, endorsed by their
clergy, applauded by their women even&mdash;all the unwelcome,
undesired thoughts came flocking back upon him,
escorted by the trooping shadows. They lay, these questions,
still unsolved within him; it was the undercurrent,
flowing more swiftly now, that bore them to the surface.
It had acquired momentum; it was leading somewhere.</p>

<p>They were a thoughtful, intellectual race, these Germans;
their music, literature, philosophy, their science&mdash;how
reconcile the opposing qualities? He had read that
their herd-instinct was unusually developed, though betraying
the characteristics of a low wild savage type&mdash;the
lupine. It might be true. Fear and danger wakened this
collective instinct into terrific activity, making them blind
and humourless; they fought best, like wolves, in contact;
they howled and whined and boasted loudly all together to
inspire terror; their Hymn of Hate was but an elaboration
of the wolf&rsquo;s fierce bark, giving them herd-courage; and
a savage discipline was necessary to their lupine type.</p>

<p>These reflections thronged his mind as the blood
coursed in his veins with the rapid climbing; yet one and
all, the beauty of the evening, the magic of the hidden
town, the thoughts of German horror, German weather,
German gods, all these, even the odd detail that they revived
a pagan practice by hammering nails into effigies
and idols&mdash;all led finally to one blazing centre that nothing
could dislodge nor anything conceal; a woman&rsquo;s voice and
eyes. To these he knew quite well, was due the undesired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
intensification of the very mood, the very emotions, the
very thoughts he had come out on purpose to escape.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is the night of the vernal equinox,&rdquo; occurred to him
suddenly, sharp as a whispered voice beside him. He had
no notion whence the idea was born. It had no particular
meaning, so far as he remembered.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It had <em>then</em> ...&rdquo; said the voice imperiously, rising,
it seemed, directly out of the under-current in his soul.</p>

<p>It startled him. He increased his pace. He walked
very quickly, whistling softly as he went.</p>

<p>The dusk had fallen when at length he topped the
long, slow hill, and left the last of the atrocious straggling
villas well behind him. The ancient city lay far below
in murky haze and smoke, but tinged now with the silver
of the growing moon.</p>


<h3>4</h3>

<p>He stood now on the open plateau. He was on the
heights at last.</p>

<p>The night air met him freshly in the face, so that he
forgot the fatigue of the long climb uphill, taken too fast
somewhat for his years. He drew a deep draught into
his lungs and stepped out briskly.</p>

<p>Far in the upper sky light flaky clouds raced through
the reddened air, but the wind kept to these higher strata,
and the world about him lay very still. Few lights showed
in the farms and cottages, for this was the direct route of
the Gothas, and nothing that could help the German hawks
to find the river was visible.</p>

<p>His mind cleared pleasantly; this keen sweet air held
no mystery; he put his best foot foremost, whistling still,
but a little more loudly than before. Among the orchards
he saw the daisies glimmer. Also, he heard the guns, a
thudding concussion in the direction of the coveted
Amiens, where, some sixty miles as the crow flies, they
roared their terror into the calm evening skies. He cursed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
the sound, in the town below it was not audible. Thought
jumped then to the men who fired them, and so to the
prisoners who worked on the roads outside the hospitals
and camps he visited daily. He passed them every morning
and night, and the N.C.O. invariably saluted his Red
Cross uniform, a salute he returned, when he could not
avoid it, with embarrassment.</p>

<p>One man in particular stood out clearly in this memory;
he had exchanged glances with him, noted the expression
of his face, the number of his gang printed on coat
and trousers&mdash;&ldquo;82.&rdquo; The fellow had somehow managed
to establish a relationship; he would look up and smile or
frown; if the news, from his point of view, was good, he
smiled; if it was bad, he scowled; once, insolently enough&mdash;when
the Germans had taken Albert, Péronne, Bapaume&mdash;he
grinned.</p>

<p>Something about the sullen, close-cropped face, typically
Prussian, made the other shudder. It was the visage
of an animal, neither evil nor malignant, even good-natured
sometimes when it smiled, yet of an animal that could be
fierce with the lust of happiness, ferocious with delight.
The sullen savagery of a human wolf lay in it somewhere.
He pictured its owner impervious to shame, to normal human
instinct as civilized people know these. Doubtless he
read his own feelings into it. He could imagine the man
doing anything and everything, regarding chivalry and
sporting instinct as proof of fear or weakness. He could
picture this member of the wolf-pack killing a woman or
a child, mutilating, cutting off little hands even, with the
conscientious conviction that it was right and sensible to
destroy <em>any</em> individual of an enemy tribe. It was, to him,
an atrocious and inhuman face.</p>

<p>It now cropped up with unpleasant vividness, as he
listened to the distant guns and thought of Amiens with
its back against the wall, its inhabitants flying&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>Ah! Amiens...! He again saw the woman staring
into his obedient eyes across the narrow space between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
the tables. He smelt the delicious perfume of her dress
and person on the stairs. He heard her commanding voice,
her very words: &ldquo;We count on you.... I know we
can ... we do.&rdquo; And her background was of twisted
streets, dark alley-ways and leaning gables....</p>

<p>He hurried, whistling loudly an air that he invented
suddenly, using his stick like a golf club at every loose
stone his feet encountered, making as much noise as possible.
He told himself he was a parson and a Red Cross
worker. He looked up and saw that the stars were out.
The pace made him warm, and he shifted his haversack
to the other shoulder. The moon, he observed, now cast
his shadow for a long distance on the sandy road.</p>

<p>After another mile, while the air grew sharper and
twilight surrendered finally to the moon, the road began to
curve and dip, the cottages lay farther out in the dim
fields, the farms and barns occurred at longer intervals. A
dog barked now and again; he saw cows lying down for
the night beneath shadowy fruit-trees. And then the scent
in the air changed slightly, and a darkening of the near
horizon warned him that the forest had come close.</p>

<p>This was an event. Its influence breathed already a
new perfume; the shadows from its myriad trees stole out
and touched him. Ten minutes later he reached its actual
frontier cutting across the plateau like a line of sentries
at attention. He slowed down a little. Here, within sight
and touch of his long-desired objective, he hesitated. It
stretched, he knew from the map, for many leagues to the
north, uninhabited, lonely, the home of peace and silence;
there were flowers there, and cool sweet spaces where the
moonlight fell. Yet here, within scent and touch of it,
he slowed down a moment to draw breath. A forest on the
map is one thing; visible before the eyes when night has
fallen, it is another. It is real.</p>

<p>The wind, not noticeable hitherto, now murmured towards
him from the serried trees that seemed to manufacture
darkness out of nothing. This murmur hummed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
about him. It enveloped him. Piercing it, another sound
that was not the guns just reached him, but so distant that
he hardly noticed it. He looked back. Dusk suddenly
merged in night. He stopped.</p>

<p>&ldquo;How practical the French are,&rdquo; he said to himself&mdash;aloud&mdash;as
he looked at the road running straight as a ruled
line into the heart of the trees. &ldquo;They waste no energy,
no space, no time. Admirable!&rdquo;</p>

<p>It pierced the forest like a lance, tapering to a faint
point in the misty distance. The trees ate its undeviating
straightness as though they would smother it from sight, as
though its rigid outline marred their mystery. He admired
the practical makers of the road, yet sided, too, with
the poetry of the trees. He stood there staring, waiting,
dawdling.... About him, save for this murmur of the
wind, was silence. Nothing living stirred. The world lay
extraordinarily still. That other distant sound had died
away.</p>

<p>He lit his pipe, glad that the match blew out and the
damp tobacco needed several matches before the pipe drew
properly. His puttees hurt him a little, he stooped to
loosen them. His haversack swung round in front as he
straightened up again, he shifted it laboriously to the
other shoulder. A tiny stone in his right boot caused
irritation. Its removal took a considerable time, for he
had to sit down, and a log was not at once forthcoming.
Moreover, the laces gave him trouble, and his fingers had
grown thick with heat and the knots were difficult to
tie....</p>

<p>&ldquo;There!&rdquo; He said it aloud, standing up again. &ldquo;Now
at last, I&rsquo;m ready!&rdquo; Then added a mild imprecation, for
his pipe had gone out while he stooped over the recalcitrant
boot, and it had to be lighted once again. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he gasped
finally with a sigh as, facing the forest for the third time,
he shuffled his tunic straight, altered his haversack once
more, changed his stick from the right hand to the left&mdash;and
faced the foolish truth without further pretence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p>

<p>He mopped his forehead carefully, as though at the
same time trying to mop away from his mind a faint
anxiety, a very faint uneasiness, that gathered there. Was
someone standing near him? Had somebody come close?
He listened intently. It was the blood singing in his ears,
of course, that curious distant noise. For, truth to tell,
the loneliness bit just below the surface of what he found
enjoyable. It seemed to him that somebody was coming,
someone he could not see, so that he looked back over his
shoulder once again, glanced quickly right and left, then
peered down the long opening cut through the woods in
front&mdash;when there came suddenly a roar and a blaze of
dazzling light from behind, so instantaneously that he
barely had time to obey the instinct of self-preservation
and step aside. He actually leapt. Pressed against the
hedge, he saw a motor-car rush past him like a whirlwind,
flooding the sandy road with fire; a second followed it;
and, to his complete amazement, then, a third.</p>

<p>They were powerful, private cars, so-called. This struck
him instantly. Two other things he noticed, as they dived
down the throat of the long white road&mdash;they showed no
tail-lights. This made him wonder. And, secondly, the
drivers, clearly seen, were women. They were not even in
uniform&mdash;which made him wonder even more. The occupants,
too, were women. He caught the outline of toque
and feather&mdash;or was it flowers?&mdash;against the closed windows
in the moonlight as the procession rushed past him.</p>

<p>He felt bewildered and astonished. Private motors
were rare, and military regulations exceedingly strict; the
danger of spies dressed in French uniform was constant;
cars armed with machine guns, he knew, patrolled the
countryside in all directions. Shaken and alarmed, he
thought of favoured persons fleeing stealthily by night,
of treachery, disguise and swift surprise; he thought of
various things as he stood peering down the road for ten
minutes after all sight and sound of the cars had died
away. But no solution of the mystery occurred to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
Down the white throat the motors vanished. His pipe had
gone out; he lit it, and puffed furiously.</p>

<p>His thoughts, at any rate, took temporarily a new direction
now. The road was not as lonely as he had imagined.
A natural reaction set in at once, and this proof of practical,
modern life banished the shadows from his mind
effectually. He started off once more, oblivious of his former
hesitation. He even felt a trifle shamed and foolish,
pretending that the vanished mood had not existed. The
tobacco had been damp. His boot had really hurt
him.</p>

<p>Yet bewilderment and surprise stayed with him. The
swiftness of the incident was disconcerting; the cars arrived
and vanished with such extraordinary rapidity; their
noisy irruption into this peaceful spot seemed incongruous;
they roared, blazed, rushed and disappeared; silence resumed
its former sway.</p>

<p>But the silence persisted, whereas the noise was gone.</p>

<p>This touch of the incongruous remained with him as
he now went ever deeper into the heart of the quiet forest.
This odd incongruity of dreams remained.</p>


<h3>5</h3>

<p>The keen air stole from the woods, cooling his body
and his mind; anemones gleamed faintly among the brushwood,
lit by the pallid moonlight. There were beauty,
calm and silence, the slow breathing of the earth beneath
the comforting sweet stars. War, in this haunt of ancient
peace, seemed an incredible anachronism. His thoughts
turned to gentle happy hopes of a day when the lion and
the lamb would yet lie down together, and a little child
would lead them without fear. His soul dwelt with peaceful
longings and calm desires.</p>

<p>He walked on steadily, until the inflexible straightness
of the endless road began to afflict him, and he longed for
a turning to the right or left. He looked eagerly about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
him for a woodland path. Time mattered little; he could
wait for the sunrise and walk home &ldquo;beneath the young
grey dawn&rdquo;; he had food and matches, he could light a
fire, and sleep&mdash;&mdash; No!&mdash;after all, he would not light a
fire, perhaps; he might be accused of signalling to hostile
aircraft, or a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">garde forestière</i> might catch him. He would
not bother with a fire. The night was warm, he could enjoy
himself and pass the time quite happily without artificial
heat; probably he would need no sleep at all....
And just then he noticed an opening on his right, where a
seductive pathway led in among the trees. The moon, now
higher in the sky, lit this woodland trail enticingly; it
seemed the very opening he had looked for, and with a
thrill of pleasure he at once turned down it, leaving the
ugly road behind him with relief.</p>

<p>The sound of his footsteps hushed instantly on the
leaves and moss; the silence became noticeable; an unusual
stillness followed; it seemed that something in his mind
was also hushed. His feet moved stealthily, as though
anxious to conceal his presence from surprise. His steps
dragged purposely; their rustling through the thick dead
leaves, perhaps, was pleasant to him. He was not sure.</p>

<p>The path opened presently into a clearing where the
moonlight made a pool of silver, the surrounding brushwood
fell away; and in the centre a gigantic outline rose.
It was, he saw, a beech tree that dwarfed the surrounding
forest by its grandeur. Its bulk loomed very splendid
against the sky, a faint rustle just audible in its myriad
tiny leaves. Dipped in the moonlight, it had such majesty
of proportion, such symmetry, that he stopped in admiration.
It was, he saw, a multiple tree, five stems springing
with attempted spirals out of an enormous trunk; it was
immense; it had a presence, the space framed it to perfection.
The clearing, evidently, was a favourite resting
place for summer picknickers, a playground, probably, for
city children on holiday afternoons; woodcutters, too, had
been here recently, for he noticed piled brushwood ready<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
to be carted. It indicated admirably, he felt, the limits of
his night expedition. Here he would rest awhile, eat
his late supper, sleep perhaps round a small&mdash;&mdash; No!
again&mdash;a fire he need <em>not</em> make; a spark might easily set
the woods ablaze, it was against both forest and military
regulations. This idea of a fire, otherwise so natural, was
distasteful, even repugnant, to him. He wondered a little
why it recurred. He noticed this time, moreover, something
unpleasant connected with the suggestion of a fire,
something that made him shrink; almost a ghostly dread
lay hidden in it.</p>

<p>This startled him. A dozen excellent reasons, supplied
by his brain, warned him that a fire was unwise; but the
true reason, supplied by another part of him, concealed
itself with care, as though afraid that reason might detect
its nature and fix the label on. Disliking this reminder
of his earlier mood, he moved forward into the clearing,
swinging his stick aggressively and whistling. He approached
the tree, where a dozen thick roots dipped into
the earth. Admiring, looking up and down, he paced
slowly round its prodigious girth, then stood absolutely
still. His heart stopped abruptly, his blood became congealed.
He saw something that filled him with a sudden
emptiness of terror. On this western side the shadow lay
very black; it was between the thick limbs, half stem, half
root, where the dark hollows gave easy hiding-places, that
he was positive he detected movement. A portion of the
trunk had moved.</p>

<p>He stood stock still and stared&mdash;not three feet from the
trunk&mdash;when there came a second movement. Concealed
in the shadows there crouched a living form. The movement
defined itself immediately. Half reclining, half
standing, a living being pressed itself close against the
tree, yet fitting so neatly into the wide scooped hollows,
that it was scarcely distinguishable from its ebony background.
But for the chance movement he must have
passed it undetected. Equally, his outstretched fingers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
might have touched it. The blood rushed from his heart,
as he saw this second movement.</p>

<p>Detaching itself from the obscure background, the
figure rose and stood before him. It swayed a little, then
stepped out into the patch of moonlight on his left. Three
feet lay between them. The figure then bent over. A
pallid face with burning eyes thrust forward and peered
straight into his own.</p>

<p>The human being was a woman. The same instant he
recognized the eyes that had stared him out of countenance
in the dining-room two nights ago. He was petrified.
She stared him out of countenance now.</p>

<p>And, as she did so, the under-current he had tried to
ignore so long swept to the surface in a tumultuous flood,
obliterating his normal self. Something elaborately built
up in his soul by years of artificial training collapsed like
a house of cards, and he knew himself undone.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They&rsquo;ve got me...!&rdquo; flashed dreadfully through
his mind. It was, again, like a message delivered in a
dream where the significance of acts performed and language
uttered, concealed at the moment, is revealed much
later only.</p>

<p>&ldquo;After all&mdash;they&rsquo;ve got me...!&rdquo;</p>


<h3>6</h3>

<p>The dialogue that followed seemed strange to him only
when looking back upon it. The element of surprise again
was negligible if not wholly absent, but the incongruity
of dreams, almost of nightmare, became more marked.
Though the affair was unlikely, it was far from incredible.
So completely were this man and woman involved in some
purpose common to them both that their talk, their meeting,
their instinctive sympathy at the time seemed natural.
The same stream bore them irresistibly towards the same
far sea. Only, as yet, this common purpose remained concealed.
Nor could he define the violent emotions that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
troubled him. Their exact description was in him, but
so deep that he could not draw it up. Moonlight lay upon
his thought, merging clear outlines.</p>

<p>Divided against himself, the cleavage left no authoritative
self in control; his desire to take an immediate decision
resulted in a confused struggle, where shame and
pleasure, attraction and revulsion mingled painfully. Incongruous
details tumbled helter-skelter about his mind:
for no obvious reason, he remembered again his Red Cross
uniform, his former holy calling, his nationality too; he
was a servant of mercy, a teacher of the love of God; he
was an English gentleman. Against which rose other details,
as in opposition, holding just beyond the reach of
words, yet rising, he recognized well enough, from the
bed-rock of the human animal, whereon a few centuries
have imposed the thin crust of refinement men call civilization.
He was aware of joy and loathing.</p>

<p>In the first few seconds he knew the clash of a dreadful
fundamental struggle, while the spell of this woman&rsquo;s
strange enchantment poured over him, seeking the reconciliation
he himself could not achieve. Yet the reconciliation
<em>she</em> sought meant victory or defeat; no compromise
lay in it. Something imperious emanating from her already
dominated the warring elements towards a coherent
whole. He stood before her, quivering with emotions he
dared not name. Her great womanhood he recognized,
acknowledging obedience to her undisclosed intentions.
And this idea of coming surrender terrified him. Whence
came, too, that queenly touch about her that made him
feel he should have sunk upon his knees?</p>

<p>The conflict resulted in a curious compromise. He
raised his hand; he saluted; he found very ordinary words.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You passed me only a short time ago,&rdquo; he stammered,
&ldquo;in the motors. There were others with you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Knowing that you would find us and come after. We
count on your presence and your willing help.&rdquo; Her voice
was firm as with unalterable conviction. It was persuasive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
too. He nodded, as though acquiescence seemed the only
course.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We need your sympathy; we must have your power
too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He bowed again. &ldquo;My power!&rdquo; Something exulted
in him. But he murmured only. It was natural, he felt;
he gave consent without a question.</p>

<p>Strange words he both understood and did not understand.
Her voice, low and silvery, was that of a gentle,
cultured woman, but command rang through it with a
clang of metal, terrible behind the sweetness. She moved
a little closer, standing erect before him in the moonlight,
her figure borrowing something of the great tree&rsquo;s majesty
behind her. It was incongruous, this gentle and yet sinister
air she wore. Whence came, in this calm peaceful
spot, the suggestion of a wild and savage background to
her? Why were there tumult and oppression in his heart,
pain, horror, tenderness and mercy, mixed beyond disentanglement?
Why did he think already, but helplessly,
of escape, yet at the same time burn to stay? Whence
came again, too, a certain queenly touch he felt in her?</p>

<p>&ldquo;The gods have brought you,&rdquo; broke across his turmoil
in a half whisper whose breath almost touched his face.
&ldquo;You belong to us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The deeps rose in him. Seduced by the sweetness and
the power, the warring divisions in his being drew together.
His under-self more and more obtained the mastery
she willed. Then something in the French she used
flickered across his mind with a faint reminder of normal
things again.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Belgian&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he began, and then stopped short, as
her instant rejoinder broke in upon his halting speech and
petrified him. In her voice sang that triumphant tenderness
that only the feminine powers of the Universe may
compass: it seemed the sky sang with her, the mating
birds, wild flowers, the south wind and the running
streams. All these, even the silver birches, lent their fluid,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
feminine undertones to the two pregnant words with which
she interrupted him and completed his own unfinished sentence:</p>

<p>&ldquo;&mdash;&mdash; and mother.&rdquo;</p>

<p>With the dreadful calm of an absolute assurance, she
stood and watched him.</p>

<p>His understanding already showed signs of clearing.
She stretched her hands out with a passionate appeal, a
yearning gesture, the eloquence of which should explain
all that remained unspoken. He saw their grace and symmetry,
exquisite in the moonlight, then watched them fold
together in an attitude of prayer. Beautiful mother hands
they were; hands made to smooth the pillows of the world,
to comfort, bless, caress, hands that little children everywhere
must lean upon and love-perfect symbol of protective,
self-forgetful motherhood.</p>

<p>This tenderness he noted; he noted next&mdash;the strength.
In the folded hands he divined the expression of another
great world-power, fulfilling the implacable resolution of
the mouth and eyes. He was aware of relentless purpose,
more&mdash;of merciless revenge, as by a protective motherhood
outraged beyond endurance. Moreover, the gesture held
appeal; these hands, so close that their actual perfume
reached him, sought his own in help. The power in himself
as man, as male, as father&mdash;this was required of him
in the fulfillment of the unknown purpose to which this
woman summoned him. His understanding cleared still
more.</p>

<p>The couple faced one another, staring fixedly beneath
the giant beech that overarched them. In the dark of his
eyes, he knew, lay growing terror. He shivered, and the
shiver passed down his spine, making his whole body
tremble. There stirred in him an excitement he loathed,
yet welcomed, as the primitive male in him, answering the
summons, reared up with instinctive, dreadful glee to shatter
the bars that civilization had so confidently set upon
its freedom. A primal emotion of his under-being, ancient<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
lust that had too long gone hungry and unfed, leaped
towards some possible satisfaction. It was incredible; it
was, of course, a dream. But judgment wavered; increasing
terror ate his will away. Violence and sweetness, relief
and degradation, fought in his soul, as he trembled before
a power that now slowly mastered him. This glee and
loathing formed their ghastly partnership. He could have
strangled the woman where she stood. Equally, he could
have knelt and kissed her feet.</p>

<p>The vehemence of the conflict paralysed him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A mother&rsquo;s hands ...&rdquo; he murmured at length, the
words escaping like bubbles that rose to the surface of a
seething cauldron and then burst.</p>

<p>And the woman smiled as though she read his mind
and saw his little trembling. The smile crept down from
the eyes towards the mouth; he saw her lips part slightly;
he saw her teeth.</p>

<p>But her reply once more transfixed him. Two syllables
she uttered in a voice of iron:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Louvain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>The sound acted upon him like a Word of Power in
some Eastern fairy tale. It knit the present to a past that
he now recognized could never die. Humanity had <em>not</em>
advanced. The hidden source of his secret joy began to
glow. For this woman focused in him passions that life
had hitherto denied, pretending they were atrophied, and
the primitive male, the naked savage rose up, with glee in
its lustful eyes and blood upon its lips. Acquired civilization,
a pitiful mockery, split through its thin veneer and
fled.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Belgian ... Louvain ... Mother ...&rdquo; he whispered,
yet astonished at the volume of sound that now left
his mouth. His voice had a sudden fullness. It seemed
a cave-man roared the words.</p>

<p>She touched his hand, and he knew a sudden intensification
of life within him; immense energy poured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
through his veins; a mediæval spirit used his eyes; great
pagan instincts strained and urged against his heart,
against his very muscles. He longed for action.</p>

<p>And he cried aloud: &ldquo;I am with you, with you to the
end!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Her spell had vivified beyond all possible resistance
that primitive consciousness which is ever the bed-rock of
the human animal.</p>

<p>A racial memory, inset against the forest scenery,
flashed suddenly through the depths laid bare. Below a
sinking moon dark figures flew in streaming lines and
groups; tormented cries went down the wind; he saw torn,
blasted trees that swayed and rocked; there was a leaping
fire, a gleaming knife, an altar. He saw a sacrifice.</p>

<p>It flashed away and vanished. In its place the woman
stood, with shining eyes fixed on his face, one arm outstretched,
one hand upon his flesh. She shifted slightly, and
her cloak swung open. He saw clinging skins wound closely
about her figure; leaves, flowers and trailing green hung
from her shoulders, fluttering down the lines of her triumphant
physical beauty. There was a perfume of wild
roses, incense, ivy bloom, whose subtle intoxication drowned
his senses. He saw a sparkling girdle round the waist, a
knife thrust through it tight against the hip. And his
secret joy, the glee, the pleasure of some unlawful and
unholy lust leaped through his blood towards the abandonment
of satisfaction.</p>

<p>The moon revealed a glimpse, no more. An instant
he saw her thus, half savage and half sweet, symbol of
primitive justice entering the present through the door
of vanished centuries.</p>

<p>The cloak swung back again, the outstretched hand
withdrew, but from a world he knew had altered.</p>

<p>To-day sank out of sight. The moon shone pale with
terror and delight on Yesterday.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p>


<h3>7</h3>

<p>Across this altered world a faint new sound now
reached his ears, as though a human wail of anguished
terror trembled and changed into the cry of some captured
helpless animal. He thought of a wolf apart from the
comfort of its pack, savage yet abject. The despair of a
last appeal was in the sound. It floated past, it died away.
The woman moved closer suddenly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;All is prepared,&rdquo; she said, in the same low, silvery
voice; &ldquo;we must not tarry. The equinox is come, the tide
of power flows. The sacrifice is here; we hold him fast.
We only awaited you.&rdquo; Her shining eyes were raised to
his. &ldquo;Your soul is with us now?&rdquo; she whispered.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My soul is with you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And midnight,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;is at hand. We use,
of course, their methods. Henceforth the gods&mdash;their old-world
gods&mdash;shall work on our side. They demand a
sacrifice, and justice has provided one.&rdquo;</p>

<p>His understanding cleared still more then; the last veil
of confusion was drawing from his mind. The old, old
names went thundering through his consciousness&mdash;Odin,
Wotan, Moloch&mdash;accessible ever to invocation and worship
of the rightful kind. It seemed as natural as though he
read in his pulpit the prayer for rain, or gave out the
hymn for those at sea. That was merely an empty form,
whereas this was real. Sea, storm and earthquake, all
natural activities, lay under the direction of those elemental
powers called the gods. Names changed, the principle
remained.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Their weather shall be ours,&rdquo; he cried, with sudden
passion, as a memory of unhallowed usages he had thought
erased from life burned in him; while, stranger still, resentment
stirred&mdash;revolt&mdash;against the system, against the
very deity he had worshipped hitherto. For these had
never once interfered to help the cause of right; their
feebleness was now laid bare before his eyes. And a two-fold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
lust rose in him. &ldquo;Vengeance is ours!&rdquo; he cried in
a louder voice, through which this sudden loathing of the
cross poured hatred. &ldquo;Vengeance and justice! Now bind
the victim! Bring on the sacrifice!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He is already bound.&rdquo; And as the woman moved
a little, the curious erection behind her caught his eye&mdash;the
piled brushwood he had imagined was the work of
woodmen, picnickers, or playing children. He realized its
true meaning.</p>

<p>It now delighted and appalled him. Awe deepened in
him, a wind of ice passed over him. Civilization made one
more fluttering effort. He gasped, he shivered; he tried
to speak. But no words came. A thin cry, as of a frightened
child, escaped him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is the only way,&rdquo; the woman whispered softly. &ldquo;We
steal from them the power of their own deities.&rdquo; Her head
flung back with a marvellous gesture of grace and power;
she stood before him a figure of perfect womanhood, gentle
and tender, yet at the same time alive and cruel with the
passions of an ignorant and savage past. Her folded hands
were clasped, her face turned heavenwards. &ldquo;I am a
mother,&rdquo; she added, with amazing passion, her eyes glistening
in the moonlight with unshed tears. &ldquo;We all&rdquo;&mdash;she
glanced towards the forest, her voice rising to a wild and
poignant cry&mdash;&ldquo;all, all of us are mothers!&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was then the final clearing of his understanding
happened, and he realized his own part in what would
follow. Yet before the realization he felt himself not
merely ineffective, but powerless. The struggling forces
in him were so evenly matched that paralysis of the will
resulted. His dry lips contrived merely a few words of
confused and feeble protest.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Me!&rdquo; he faltered. &ldquo;My help&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Justice,&rdquo; she answered; and though softly uttered, it
was as though the mediæval towers clanged their bells.
That secret, ghastly joy again rose in him; admiration,
wonder, desire followed instantly. A fugitive memory of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
Joan of Arc flashed by, as with armoured wings, upon the
moonlight. Some power similarly heroic, some purpose
similarly inflexible, emanated from this woman, the savour
of whose physical enchantment, whose very breath, rose to
his brain like incense. Again he shuddered. The spasm
of secret pleasure shocked him. He sighed. He felt alert,
yet stunned.</p>

<p>Her words went down the wind between them:</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are so weak, you English,&rdquo; he heard her terrible
whisper, &ldquo;so nobly forgiving, so fine, yet so forgetful. You
refuse the weapon <em>they</em> place within your hands.&rdquo; Her
face thrust closer, the great eyes blazed upon him. &ldquo;If we
would save the children&rdquo;&mdash;the voice rose and fell like wind&mdash;&ldquo;we
must worship where they worship, we must sacrifice
to their savage deities....&rdquo;</p>

<p>The stream of her words flowed over him with this
nightmare magic that seemed natural, without surprise.
He listened, he trembled, and again he sighed. Yet in
his blood there was sudden roaring.</p>

<p>&ldquo;... Louvain ... the hands of little children ...
we have the proof,&rdquo; he heard, oddly intermingled with
another set of words that clamoured vainly in his brain
for utterance; &ldquo;the diary in his own handwriting, his
gloating pleasure ... the little, innocent hands....&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Justice is mine!&rdquo; rang through some fading region
of his now fainting soul, but found no audible utterance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;... Mist, rain and wind ... the gods of German
Weather.... We all ... are mothers....&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will repay,&rdquo; came forth in actual words, yet so low
he hardly heard the sound. But the woman heard.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>We!&rdquo;</em> she cried fiercely, &ldquo;<em>we</em> will repay!&rdquo;...</p>

<p>&ldquo;God!&rdquo; The voice seemed torn from his throat. &ldquo;Oh
God&mdash;<em>my</em> God!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<em>Our</em> gods,&rdquo; she said steadily in that tone of iron, &ldquo;are
near. The sacrifice is ready. And <em>you</em>&mdash;servant of mercy,
priest of a younger deity, and English&mdash;you bring the
power that makes it effectual. The circuit is complete.&rdquo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>

<p>It was perhaps the tears in her appealing eyes, perhaps
it was her words, her voice, the wonder of her presence;
all combined possibly in the spell that finally then struck
down his will as with a single blow that paralysed his last
resistance. The monstrous, half-legendary spirit of a
primitive day recaptured him completely; he yielded to
the spell of this tender, cruel woman, mother and avenging
angel, whom horror and suffering had flung back upon
the practices of uncivilized centuries. A common desire,
a common lust and purpose, degraded both of them. They
understood one another. Dropping back into a gulf of
savage worship that set up idols in the place of God, they
prayed to Odin and his awful crew....</p>

<p>It was again the touch of her hand that galvanized
him. She raised him; he had been kneeling in slavish
wonder and admiration at her feet. He leaped to do the
bidding, however terrible, of this woman who was priestess,
queen indeed, of a long-forgotten orgy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Vengeance at last!&rdquo; he cried, in an exultant voice that
no longer frightened him. &ldquo;Now light the fire! Bring
on the sacrifice!&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a rustling among the nearer branches, the
forest stirred; the leaves of last year brushed against advancing
feet. Yet before he could turn to see, before even
the last words had wholly left his lips, the woman, whose
hand still touched his fingers, suddenly tossed her cloak
aside, and flinging her bare arms about his neck, drew
him with impetuous passion towards her face and kissed
him, as with delighted fury of exultant passion, full upon
the mouth. Her body, in its clinging skins, pressed close
against his own; her heat poured into him. She held him
fiercely, savagely, and her burning kiss consumed his modern
soul away with the fire of a primal day.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The gods have given you to us,&rdquo; she cried, releasing
him. &ldquo;Your soul is ours!&rdquo;</p>

<p>She turned&mdash;they turned together&mdash;to look for one
upon whose last hour the moon now shed her horrid silver.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span></p>


<h3>8</h3>

<p>This silvery moonlight fell upon the scene.</p>

<p>Incongruously he remembered the flowers that soon
would know the cuckoo&rsquo;s call; the soft mysterious stars
shone down; the woods lay silent underneath the sky.</p>

<p>An amazing fantasy of dream shot here and there.
&ldquo;I am a man, an Englishman, a padre!&rdquo; ran twisting
through his mind, as though <em>she</em> whispered them to emphasize
the ghastly contrast of reality. A memory of his own
Kentish village with its Sunday school fled past, his dream
of the Lion and the Lamb close after it. He saw children
playing on the green.... He saw their happy little
hands....</p>

<p>Justice, punishment, revenge&mdash;he could not disentangle
them. No longer did he wish to. The tide of violence was
at his lips, quenching an ancient thirst. He drank. It
seemed he could drink forever. These tender pictures
only sweetened horror. That kiss had burned his modern
soul away.</p>

<p>The woman waved her hand; there swept from the
underbrush a score of figures dressed like herself in skins,
with leaves and flowers entwined among their flying hair.
He was surrounded in a moment. Upon each face he noted
the same tenderness and terrible resolve that their commander
wore. They pressed about him, dancing with enchanting
grace, yet with full-blooded abandon, across the
chequered light and shadow. It was the brimming energy
of their movements that swept him off his feet, waking the
desire for fierce rhythmical expression. His own muscles
leaped and ached; for this energy, it seemed, poured into
him from the tossing arms and legs, the shimmering bodies
whence hair and skins flung loose, setting the very air
awhirl. It flowed over into inanimate objects even, so that
the trees waved their branches although no wind stirred&mdash;hair,
skins and hands, rushing leaves and flying fingers
touched his face, his neck, his arms and shoulders, catching<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
him away into this orgy of an ancient, sacrificial ritual.
Faces with shining eyes peered into his, then sped away;
grew in a cloud upon the moonlight; sank back in
shadow; reappeared, touched him, whispered, vanished.
Silvery limbs gleamed everywhere. Chanting rose in a
wave, to fall away again into forest rustlings; there were
smiles that flashed, then fainted into moonlight, red lips
and gleaming teeth that shone, then faded out. The secret
glade, picked from the heart of the forest by the moon,
became a torrent of tumultuous life, a whirlpool of passionate
emotions Time had not killed.</p>

<p>But it was the eyes that mastered him, for in their
yearning, mating so incongruously with the savage grace&mdash;in
the eyes shone ever tears. He was aware of gentle
women, of womanhood, of accumulated feminine power
that nothing could withstand, but of feminine power in
majesty, its essential protective tenderness roused, as by
tribal instinct, into a collective fury of implacable revenge.
He was, above all, aware of motherhood&mdash;of mothers. And
the man, the male, the father in him rose like a storm to
meet it.</p>

<p>From the torrent of voices certain sentences emerged;
sometimes chanted, sometimes driven into his whirling
mind as though big whispers thrust them down his ears.
&ldquo;You are with us to the end,&rdquo; he caught. &ldquo;We have the
proof. And punishment is ours!&rdquo;</p>

<p>It merged in wind, others took its place:</p>

<p>&ldquo;We hold him fast. The old gods wait and listen.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The body of rushing whispers flowed like a storm-wind
past.</p>

<p>A lovely face, fluttering close against his own, paused
an instant, and starry eyes gazed into his with a passion
of gratitude, dimming a moment their stern fury with a
mother&rsquo;s tenderness: &ldquo;For the little ones ... it is necessary,
it is the only way.... Our own children....&rdquo;
The face went out in a gust of blackness, as the chorus rose
with a new note of awe and reverence, and a score of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
throats uttered in unison a single cry: &ldquo;The raven! The
White Horses! His signs! Great Odin hears!&rdquo;</p>

<p>He saw the great dark bird flap slowly across the clearing,
and melt against the shadow of the giant beech; he
heard its hoarse, croaking note; the crowds of heads bowed
low before its passage. The White Horses he did not see;
only a sound as of considerable masses of air regularly
displaced was audible far overhead. But the veiled light,
as though great thunder-clouds had risen, he saw distinctly.
The sky above the clearing where he stood, panting and
dishevelled, was blocked by a mass that owned unusual outline.
These clouds now topped the forest, hiding the moon
and stars. The flowers went out like nightlights blown.
The wind rose slowly, then with sudden violence. There
was a roaring in the tree-tops. The branches tossed and
shook.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The White Horses!&rdquo; cried the voices, in a frenzy of
adoration. &ldquo;He is here!&rdquo;</p>

<p>It came swiftly, this collective mass; it was both apt
and terrible. There was an immense footstep. It was
there.</p>

<p>Then panic seized him, he felt an answering tumult in
himself, the Past surged through him like a sea at flood.
Some inner sight, peering across the wreckage of To-day,
perceived an outline that in its size dwarfed mountains, a
pair of monstrous shoulders, a face that rolled through a
full quarter of the heavens. Above the ruin of civilization,
now fulfilled in the microcosm of his own being, the menacing
shadow of a forgotten deity peered down upon the
earth, yet upon one detail of it chiefly&mdash;the human group
that had been wildly dancing, but that now chanted in
solemn conclave about a forest altar.</p>

<p>For some minutes a dead silence reigned; the pouring
winds left emptiness in which no leaf stirred; there was
a hush, a stillness that could be felt. The kneeling figures
stretched forth a level sea of arms towards the altar; from
the lowered heads the hair hung down in torrents, against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
which the naked flesh shone white; the skins upon the
rows of backs gleamed yellow. The obscurity deepened
overhead. It was the time of adoration. He knelt as well,
arms similarly outstretched, while the lust of vengeance
burned within him.</p>

<p>Then came, across the stillness, the stirring of big
wings, a rustling as the great bird settled in the higher
branches of the beech. The ominous note broke through
the silence; and with one accord the shining backs were
straightened. The company rose, swayed, parting into
groups and lines. Two score voices resumed the solemn
chant. The throng of pallid faces passed to and fro like
great fire-flies that shone and vanished. He, too, heard
his own voice in unison, while his feet, as with instinctive
knowledge, trod the same measure that the others trod.</p>

<p>Out of this tumult and clearly audible above the chorus
and the rustling feet rang out suddenly, in a sweetly
fluting tone, the leader&rsquo;s voice:</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Fire! But first the hands!&rdquo;</p>

<p>A rush of figures set instantly towards a thicket where
the underbrush stood densest. Skins, trailing flowers,
bare waving arms and tossing hair swept past on a burst
of perfume. It was as though the trees themselves sped
by. And the torrent of voices shook the very air in answer:</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Fire! But first&mdash;the hands!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Across this roaring volume pierced then, once again,
that wailing sound which seemed both human and non-human&mdash;the
anguished cry as of some lonely wolf in
metamorphosis, apart from the collective safety of the pack,
abjectly terrified, feeling the teeth of the final trap, and
knowing the helpless feet within the steel. There was
a crash of rending boughs and tearing branches. There
was a tumult in the thicket, though of brief duration&mdash;then
silence.</p>

<p>He stood watching, listening, overmastered by a diabolical
sensation of expectancy he knew to be atrocious.
Turning in the direction of the cry, his straining eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
seemed filled with blood; in his temples the pulses throbbed
and hammered audibly. The next second he stiffened into
a stone-like rigidity, as a figure, struggling violently yet
half collapsed, was borne hurriedly past by a score of eager
arms that swept it towards the beech tree, and then proceeded
to fasten it in an upright position against the trunk.
It was a man bound tight with thongs, adorned with
leaves and flowers and trailing green. The face was hidden,
for the head sagged forward on the breast, but he saw
the arms forced flat against the giant trunk, held helpless
beyond all possible escape; he saw the knife, poised and
aimed by slender, graceful fingers above the victim&rsquo;s wrists
laid bare; he saw the&mdash;hands.</p>

<p>&ldquo;An eye for an eye,&rdquo; he heard, &ldquo;a tooth for a tooth!&rdquo;
It rose in awful chorus. Yet this time, although the words
roared close about him, they seemed farther away, as if
wind brought them through the crowding trees from far
off.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Light the fire! Prepare the sacrifice!&rdquo; came on a
following wind; and, while strange distance held the voices
as before, a new faint sound now audible was very close.
There was a crackling. Some ten feet beyond the tree a
column of thick smoke rose in the air; he was aware of
heat not meant for modern purposes; of yellow light that
was not the light of stars.</p>

<p>The figure writhed, and the face swung suddenly sideways.
Glaring with panic hopelessness past the judge and
past the hanging knife, the eyes found his own. There
was a pause of perhaps five seconds, but in these five seconds
centuries rolled by. The priest of To-day looked
down into the well of time. For five hundred years he
gazed into those twin eyeballs, glazed with the abject terror
of a last appeal. They recognized one another.</p>

<p>The centuries dragged appallingly. The drama of civilization,
in a sluggish stream, went slowly by, halting,
meandering, losing itself, then reappearing. Sharpest
pains, as of a thousand knives, accompanied its dreadful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
endless lethargy. Its million hesitations made him suffer
a million deaths of agony. Terror, despair and anger, all
futile and without effect upon its progress, destroyed a
thousand times his soul, which yet some hope&mdash;a towering,
indestructible hope&mdash;a thousand times renewed. This despair
and hope alternately broke his being, ever to fashion
it anew. His torture seemed not of this world. Yet hope
survived. The sluggish stream moved onward, forward....</p>

<p>There came an instant of sharpest, dislocating torture.
The yellow light grew slightly brighter. He saw the eyelids
flicker.</p>

<p>It was at this moment he realized abruptly that he
stood alone, apart from the others, unnoticed apparently,
perhaps forgotten; his feet held steady; his voice no longer
sang. And at this discovery a quivering shock ran through
his being, as though the will were suddenly loosened into
a new activity, yet an activity that halted between two terrifying
alternatives.</p>

<p>It was as though the flicker of those eyelids loosed a
spring.</p>

<p>Two instincts, clashing in his being, fought furiously
for the mastery. One, ancient as this sacrifice, savage as
the legendary figure brooding in the heavens above him,
battled fiercely with another, acquired more recently in
human evolution, that had not yet crystallized into permanence.
He saw a child, playing in a Kentish orchard
with toys and flowers the little innocent hands made living
... he saw a lowly manger, figures kneeling round it, and
one star shining overhead in piercing and prophetic beauty.</p>

<p>Thought was impossible; he saw these symbols only, as
the two contrary instincts, alternately hidden and revealed,
fought for permanent possession of his soul. Each strove
to dominate him; it seemed that violent blows were struck
that wounded physically; he was bruised, he ached, he
gasped for breath; his body swayed, held upright only, it
seemed, by the awful appeal in the fixed and staring eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span></p>

<p>The challenge had come at last to final action; the
conqueror, he well knew, would remain an integral portion
of his character, his soul.</p>

<p>It was the old, old battle, waged eternally in every
human heart, in every tribe, in every race, in every period,
the essential principle indeed, behind the great world-war.
In the stress and confusion of the fight, as the eyes of
the victim, savage in victory, abject in defeat&mdash;the appealing
eyes of that animal face against the tree stared with
their awful blaze into his own, this flashed clearly over
him. It was the battle between might and right, between
love and hate, forgiveness and vengeance, Christ and the
Devil. He heard the menacing thunder of &ldquo;an eye for
an eye, a tooth for a tooth,&rdquo; then above its angry volume
rose suddenly another small silvery voice that pierced with
sweetness:&mdash;&ldquo;Vengeance is mine, I will repay ...&rdquo; sang
through him as with unimaginable hope.</p>

<p>Something became incandescent in him then. He
realized a singular merging of powers in absolute opposition
to each other. It was as though they harmonized.
Yet it was through this small, silvery voice the apparent
magic came. The words, of course, were his own in memory,
but they rose from his modern soul, now reawakening....
He started painfully. He noted again that he stood
apart, alone, perhaps forgotten of the others. The woman,
leading a dancing throng about the blazing brushwood, was
far from him. Her mind, too sure of his compliance, had
momentarily left him. The chain was weakened. The
circuit knew a break.</p>

<p>But this sudden realization was not of spontaneous
origin. His heart had not produced it of its own accord.
The unholy tumult of the orgy held him too slavishly in
its awful sway for the tiny point of his modern soul to
have pierced it thus unaided. The light flashed to him
from an outside, natural source of simple loveliness&mdash;the
singing of a bird. From the distance, faint and exquisite,
there had reached him the silvery notes of a happy thrush,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
awake in the night, and telling its joy over and over again
to itself. The innocent beauty of its song came through
the forest and fell into his soul....</p>

<p>The eyes, he became aware, had shifted, focusing now
upon an object nearer to them. The knife was moving.
There was a convulsive wriggle of the body, the head
dropped loosely forward, no cry was audible. But, at the
same moment, the inner battle ceased and an unexpected
climax came. Did the soul of the bully faint with
fear? Did the spirit leave him at the actual touch
of earthly vengeance? The watcher never knew. In that
appalling moment when the knife was about to begin the
mission that the fire would complete, the roar of inner
battle ended abruptly, and that small silvery voice drew
the words of invincible power from his reawakening soul.
&ldquo;Ye do it also unto me ...&rdquo; pealed o&rsquo;er the forest.</p>

<p>He reeled. He acted instantaneously. Yet before he
had dashed the knife from the hand of the executioner,
scattered the pile of blazing wood, plunged through the
astonished worshippers with a violence of strength that
amazed even himself; before he had torn the thongs apart
and loosened the fainting victim from the tree; before
he had uttered a single word or cry, though it seemed to
him he roared with a voice of thousands&mdash;he witnessed a
sight that came surely from the Heaven of his earliest
childhood days, from that Heaven whose God is love and
whose forgiveness was taught him at his mother&rsquo;s knee.</p>

<p>With superhuman rapidity it passed before him and
was gone. Yet it was no earthly figure that emerged from
the forest, ran with this incredible swiftness past the
startled throng, and reached the tree. He saw the shape;
the same instant it was there; wrapped in light, as though
a flame from the sacrificial fire flashed past him over the
ground. It was of an incandescent brightness, yet brightest
of all were the little outstretched hands. These were
of purest gold, of a brilliance incredibly shining.</p>

<p>It was no earthly child that stretched forth these arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>
of generous forgiveness and took the bewildered prisoner
by the hand just as the knife descended and touched the
helpless wrists. The thongs were already loosened, and the
victim, fallen to his knees, looked wildly this way and that
for a way of possible escape, when the shining hands were
laid upon his own. The murderer rose. Another instant
and the throng must have been upon him, tearing him
limb from limb. But the radiant little face looked down
into his own; she raised him to his feet; with superhuman
swiftness she led him through the infuriated concourse as
though he had become invisible, guiding him safely past
the furies into the cover of the trees. Close before his eyes,
this happened; he saw the waft of golden brilliance, he
heard the final gulp of it, as wind took the dazzling of its
fiery appearance into space. They were gone....</p>


<h3>9</h3>

<p>He stood watching the disappearing motor-cars, wondering
uneasily who the occupants were and what their
business, whither and why did they hurry so swiftly
through the night? He was still trying to light his pipe,
but the damp tobacco would not burn.</p>

<p>The air stole out of the forest, cooling his body and
his mind; he saw the anemones gleam; there was only
peace and calm about him, the earth lay waiting for the
sweet, mysterious stars. The moon was higher; he looked
up; a late bird sang. Three strips of cloud, spaced far
apart, were the footsteps of the South Wind, as she flew
to bring more birds from Africa. His thoughts turned to
gentle, happy hopes of a day when the lion and the lamb
should lie down together, and a little child should lead
them. War, in this haunt of ancient peace, seemed an
incredible anachronism.</p>

<p>He did not go farther; he did not enter the forest; he
turned back along the quiet road he had come, ate his food
on a farmer&rsquo;s gate, and over a pipe sat dreaming of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
sure belief that humanity had advanced. He went home
to his hotel soon after midnight. He slept well, and next
day walked back the four miles from the hospitals, instead
of using the car. Another hospital searcher walked with
him. They discussed the news.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The weather&rsquo;s better anyhow,&rdquo; said his companion.
&ldquo;In our favour at last!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s something,&rdquo; he agreed, as they passed a gang
of prisoners and crossed the road to avoid saluting.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Been another escape, I hear,&rdquo; the other mentioned.
&ldquo;He won&rsquo;t get far. How on earth do they manage it?
The M.O. had a yarn that he was helped by a motor-car.
I wonder what they&rsquo;ll do to him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, nothing much. Bread and water and extra work,
I suppose?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The other laughed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure,&rdquo; he said lightly.
&ldquo;Humanity hasn&rsquo;t advanced very much in that kind of
thing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A fugitive memory flashed for an instant through the
other&rsquo;s brain as he listened. He had an odd feeling for
a second that he had heard this conversation before somewhere.
A ghostly sense of familiarity brushed his mind,
then vanished. At dinner that night the table in front of
him was unoccupied. He did not, however, notice that it
was unoccupied.</p>


<p class="center r6">THE END</p>

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